by Anna Bradley
Isla sighed. No, likely not. She was quite sure roguishness required wicked intent.
He was certainly a scoundrel, though. An excessively polite scoundrel, yes—she didn’t deny that. He’d been kind to her when she ruined his elegant chess set with her clumsiness. He’d hardly even glanced at his broken queen. Indeed, he’d seemed far more concerned with reassuring her than he had with anything else.
Isla squirmed in her chair. Very well. He wasn’t a scoundrel, either.
A villain, then? Surely there’d been something villainous in his behavior last night? Yes, yes, of course. He’d…well, hadn’t he…there’d been that moment when he…he…
Dash it, she couldn’t think of a single thing.
The trouble with Hugh Courtney was he wasn’t a villain or anything close to one. He didn’t wager, he didn’t drink to excess, and she’d never heard any disturbing gossip about him frequenting King Street’s gaming hells and brothels. He didn’t chase opera singers or actresses, and he didn’t rescue an innocent maiden from a treacherous wood only to steal her virtue a day later.
You’re no innocent maiden, and you have no virtue to steal.
Not that it had made the least bit of difference to Hugh. He’d rescued her anyway.
The truth was, Hugh Courtney was the very picture of a perfect gentleman. Whatever else that game of chess had been, it wasn’t a seduction. There’d be something unsettling about it, yes, but she simply couldn’t make herself believe he’d attempt to seduce a lady he’d taken under his protection. He wasn’t that sort of man.
No, he was the heroic sort.
Bothersome, tedious things, heroes. They should stay between the pages of books where they belonged instead of gallivanting about in real life, confusing everyone.
Well, she wouldn’t give Hugh Courtney another thought. She’d spend the day reading and surely by tomorrow she’d be back at Huntington Lodge, and none of this would matter anymore.
Isla snatched up her book and spread it open in her lap, determined to banish Hugh Courtney from her mind.
Do I err in deeming such inhabit many a spot?
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
Ah, yes. This was much better. Even the peerless Lord Pierce lost his luster in comparison to Lord Byron.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods—
Oh, dear. She adored Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, but she hadn’t found the pathless woods at all pleasurable the other night. Indeed, she’d had quite enough of them. She’d just as soon skip this part. Isla flipped back to the start of the poem and tried to lose herself in the first canto, but after a few more fruitless pages she laid the book aside again with a sigh.
There was no question Hugh had displayed a rare sort of bravery when he’d risked himself for her sake. Heroism was certainly seductive, but she’d also do well to remember Hugh was far from perfect. There was no question his address was stiff and his insistence on propriety unusually rigid. He wasn’t a cold or cruel man, but even so, it shouldn’t have shocked her when her alleged scandal in Lady Entwhistle’s library had led him to instantly sever all connection with her.
Miss Ramsey, please don’t ever contact me again.
It had been three weeks since he’d sent her that note, but even now her eyes burned with heartbroken, humiliated tears when she recalled that single line scrawled across the paper. That note had torn a hole in her heart, but perhaps it had been a fitting punishment for her blindness. She should have seen at once he wasn’t the sort of man who’d allow her to explain herself, or offer a second chance.
Even a second chance wouldn’t be enough….
But these weren’t the sorts of things a lady learned about a gentleman during a waltz or an elegant midnight supper, were they? Any lady could fall in love during the season only to discover once it was too late that her husband wasn’t at all the man she’d thought he was. Romance, it seemed, made promises a marriage couldn’t keep. It was the reason so many husbands took mistresses, and wives lovers.
What a terribly depressing thought. She was becoming maudlin—a sure sign she’d had enough Byron for one day.
Isla rose from her chair and wandered over to the bookshelves. A light, amusing novel would be much better. Northanger Abbey might do. She’d quite enjoyed the bit Hyacinth had read to her the other day, but surely it wasn’t wise to indulge in romantic fancies while she was trapped at Hazelwood with Hugh Courtney?
Not that she was afraid of him, of course.
No, you’re afraid of yourself.
Oh, what nonsense. Isla gave a defiant toss of her head, pulled the book from the shelf, and laid it on the table next to Byron. Now she’d have to read the blasted thing, just to prove to herself she could.
Perhaps she’d start with something else, though. She traced a finger over the spines of the books on the shelf in front of her, pausing when she saw Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho on the shelf two rows above. Ruined abbeys, terrified maidens, and headless corpses? Oh my, yes. Udolpho was much more terrifyingly gothic than Northanger Abbey, and a good fright sounded divine. Much better than a sulk over some romantic nonsense.
She reached for the book, but she couldn’t quite grab it, so she rose to her tiptoes, biting her lip as she stretched her arm up for it.
“Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage? Not what I would have expected.”
Isla whirled around to find Hugh standing beside the chair she’d just vacated. How had he sneaked in so silently? Didn’t Hazelwood have any creaky floorboards?
He was studying the spine of one of the books she’d laid aside. He held it up, a mocking smile curling his lips. “And Northanger Abbey. How interesting. I wouldn’t have taken you for such a romantic, Miss Ramsey.”
“Oh, I daresay I’m not. Too cynical, you know. But what did you expect I’d read, Lord Pierce? Fairy tales, perhaps?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned back to the bookshelf with a shrug and resumed her struggle for the Radcliffe.
She heard his footsteps behind her, drawing closer, and then he was there, so close she could feel his warm breath drifting over the back of her neck.
Too close…
He reached one long arm over her head and pulled the Radcliffe down from the shelf. “Your book, Miss Ramsey.”
“Thank you, my—” Isla began, turning to take the book from him, but the words died in her throat when she found her face nearly buried in his broad chest. He’d rested his arm on the shelf above her head instead of lowering it, and he hadn’t backed away to give her space, as a proper gentleman should.
Isla shot him a nervous glance. For all of Hugh’s impeccable manners, he didn’t look much like a proper gentleman now.
His glittering dark eyes were fixed on her face with such focused intensity Isla felt like a squirming insect under a magnifying glass. Hugh Courtney was a large man—tall and broad—but she’d never before been as aware of his muscular bulk as she was right now. He seemed positively enormous, with his massive chest nearly pressed against hers and his long arm holding her captive against the book shelf.
What in the world was he doing? He was practically on top of her and looking down at her as if he were about to…
About to kiss her.
Some emotion rushed over her—panic, anticipation, or both at once—and she instinctively raised the book in her hands and clutched it against her chest. Dear God, she was growing dizzy. She’d always found the faint scent of cedar and musk that clung to him intoxicating, and now it was tickling her nose and making her head swim.
“Is…is there something you need, my lord?”
He blinked at her as if confused, then his eyes widened with alarm. “I, ah…I beg your pardon.” He dropped his arm and backed hastily away, color creeping into his cheeks.
“I was just settling in to read my book. The Mysteries of Udolpho. Ha
ve you read Mrs. Radcliffe, Lord Pierce?” Isla was aware she was babbling, but for some reason that wash of color in his face bothered her. Much to her surprise, she found she didn’t like that he should be embarrassed.
He glanced at the book she’d pressed to her breasts. “Mrs. Radcliffe? Aren’t you afraid it will give you nightmares?”
Oh, she anticipated strange dreams tonight, but that didn’t have anything to do with Mrs. Radcliffe’s story. “No. I’m quite good at distinguishing fiction from reality.”
His gaze moved over her face again, lingering on her lips. “Yes, I imagine you are, and yet I find myself concerned for you just the same, Miss Ramsey. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. Surely we can find something more soothing for you to do than read Mrs. Radcliffe.”
Oh, no. Was he going to suggest another game of chess?
Without warning, he plucked the book from her hand. He didn’t allow her time to protest but tucked it back into its place on the shelf, out of her reach.
Isla frowned up at him. She hadn’t the vaguest idea what he was about, but she didn’t like it. “Indeed? What do you suggest? Fordyce’s Sermons? I don’t see how that’s any better. I daresay Fordyce has turned more than one young lady’s dreams into nightmares.”
That startled a reluctant laugh out of him. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”
Isla stared at his curved lips, and something pleasant unfolded inside her chest. He really should laugh more. It suited him.
But his smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “No, not Fordyce. I thought you might be persuaded to set aside your reading entirely, in favor of a tour of the house.”
“A tour of the house?” It was the last thing Isla had expected him to say. “You mean, from Mrs. Babcock?” He’d mentioned a house tour yesterday, but she’d never pursued the matter with the housekeeper.
“No, Miss Ramsey.” He was far too polite to roll his eyes, but Isla could tell by the twitch of his eyebrows he was tempted. “I’d be pleased to show you the house myself. Unless, of course, you have some reason to wish to avoid my company.”
Certainly, she had a reason. He did, as well. Indeed, she’d been under the impression they were trying to avoid each other’s company. Yet here he was again, seeking her out, when it would be far easier for them both if they each stayed in their separate corners of the house.
“You look nervous, Miss Ramsey. I certainly hope it’s not me making you anxious.”
Isla jabbed her hands onto her hips. Did he imagine she was afraid of him because she’d run away last night? Well, she wasn’t, and she wouldn’t allow him to think otherwise. “I’m not at all anxious, Lord Pierce. Why should I be?”
He shrugged. “I can’t imagine, but if you prefer to have Mrs. Babcock, I could fetch her for you. She’s down in the kitchens, stabbing at a frozen sack of flour with an ice pick. I’m certain she has plenty of spare time in her day to give you a house tour, however.”
An ice pick? Oh, for pity’s sake. “No, no. Please don’t disturb her.”
Isla cast one last longing look at Mrs. Radcliffe, then met Hugh’s cool, dark eyes. Well, heaven knew she’d spent enough time riding around the outside of Hazelwood. She might as well see the inside, as well. “You’re very kind, Lord Pierce. I’d be delighted to have you show me the house.”
* * * *
Isla would come to regret those words.
“The house was originally built by the first Marquess Pierce in 1510, with the galleried extension added in 1517. The original house was torn down and rebuilt, finished in 1784.”
Isla pressed a hand to her mouth to hide a yawn. He’d been droning on about the history of the house for the better part of half an hour now. He’d recited so many dates, her head was spinning with numbers.
She’d expected to hear a bit of history, of course. Hazelwood was a grand old place, and impeccably cared for, but—
“Hazelwood is one of the largest houses completed by the architect who is best known for his work on…”
She had no objection to a recitation of facts, but when he’d offered her the tour, she’d thought he’d at least tell a few anecdotes about his life here. Had he ever played in the woods when he was a boy or ridden his horse up and down the long drive that led to the front of the house? Had he ever sat in the window seats or hidden his boyhood treasures in the niches?
“Most of the house is built of flint, but the porch was made from a wide variety of material, including brick, local chalk rubble, and limestone from Normandy.”
Isla did her best to look fascinated. “Indeed? Normandy, was it? How extraordinary.”
She didn’t wish to insult him, but she couldn’t help thinking Mrs. Radcliffe’s headless corpses would have proved far more diverting than Hugh’s Normandy limestone.
“A landscape park was laid out around the new mansion according to the ruins of the original house. The property is mainly agricultural, aside from the woodland, of course, and there are formal gardens. There are two valleys running from southwest to northeast close to the north and south boundaries, and—”
“It sounds like an ideal property for rambling. Did you spend much time riding the grounds as a boy, my lord?” Isla asked, hoping to distract him from his rehearsed speech.
He only shrugged. “As much as any other boy, I suppose.”
“Oh,” Isla muttered, her shoulders sagging in defeat. She didn’t try to draw him out again, but followed along as he led her from room to room, reciting dry facts in such a detached, inflectionless voice it was difficult to believe this was his boyhood home. He spoke of the house almost as if he’d never lived here at all.
“The house is Elizabethan, in the neo-Palladian style,” he said, when they reached the main floor landing. “As you can see by the spiral cantilevered staircase—”
“Did you ever slide down it when you were a boy?”
He gave her a blank look. “Slide down what?”
“Why, the railing, of course!” She ran an experimental hand over the polished wood. “It’s a lovely long one, perfect for sliding. We had a long staircase in our house in Scotland. It wasn’t nearly as good for sliding as this one—too many turns in the railing—but children don’t mind that sort of thing, do they? We were forever sliding from the first-floor landing into the entryway below.” She laughed, remembering it. “I’m not sure Ciaran ever set foot on those stairs the entire time we lived there, come to think of it.”
He paused, his brows drawing together. “No, I never slid down it.”
“Oh,” Isla said, deflating again. “I suppose your parents wouldn’t allow it.”
“My father certainly wouldn’t have. I guess we never thought of it.” His brows pulled together, as if he couldn’t quite understand why it had never before occurred to him to slide down the railing.
“I see. Well, perhaps you would have done if you’d had elder brothers. Lachlan and Ciaran spent their entire childhoods sliding down, jumping on, and stepping in things they ought not to have. But it’s not too late, you know.” She gave him a teasing grin. “You could slide down it right now.”
He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I’m not going to slide down the railing, Miss Ramsey.”
“Why not? Are you too dignified for sliding, Lord Pierce?”
“No. I’m too old.”
Old? Was that how he saw himself? Without thinking, she reached forward and laid a hand on his arm. “You’re not old, my lord. Not at all. Just…a trifle serious, perhaps.”
He looked startled, but then he gave her a self-conscious smile. “Too serious. At least, some of the young ladies seem to think so. Too proper, too stiff. I’m sure you’ve heard them say as much, Miss Ramsey.”
“I’ve heard a few things here and there, from the sillier young ladies, yes. I wouldn’t pay that sort of comment any attention, though. I never minded yo
ur seriousness, my lord.” For some reason, it was essential to Isla that he know this.
“I never thought you…” He began, but he seemed not to know how to finish that sentence, and they both fell silent. For a moment Isla let herself slip back to the time before everything went wrong between them, when all she wanted to do was look at him, just as she was now.
But then Hugh cleared his throat, and the moment was gone.
“The painted glass windows date from the seventeenth century. As for the outside of the house, the entrance arch on the ground floor is flanked by Doric columns, and Ionic columns and niches flank the upper windows.”
Isla nodded. She was familiar enough with Hazelwood’s windows. She’d spent enough time staring up at them. “They’re very grand. It must be beautiful to see the light shine through them.”
No light peeked through those windows now. The sky was still gray and likely would remain so for days. Isla felt an unexpected pang that she wouldn’t be here to see it when the sun managed to break through the clouds and send its rays through the painted glass.
He hesitated. “My sister used to come here sometimes at sunset.”
Isla’s gaze swung from the windows to his face. “I didn’t realize you had a sister.”
That wasn’t surprising, really. She was aware both his parents had died some years ago, but she knew nothing else about his family. It was odd to have loved a man so much only to find she hardly knew him at all.
But there was no reason she should know him. He’d never formally courted her.
He didn’t reply right away. He turned his gaze up to the windows above them, but Isla didn’t think he was seeing them. He looked as if he were a thousand miles away. When he turned back to her, he seemed to have made up his mind about something.
“Would you care to see the portrait gallery, Miss Ramsey?”
They’d already toured the floor above, and he hadn’t taken her to the gallery—quite deliberately, she’d thought—but if he’d intended not to show it to her, he’d clearly changed his mind.
