“Christopher!” he mother exclaimed, walking over to him and placing her fingers on his lips. “Ladies, pray ignore my disrespectful son.”
Vane casually slipped his arm around his mother’s waist and gave her a brief hug before he released her. “I suspect you have warned your new disciples about me already.”
“Disciples?” She shook her head. “Sometimes I think your nurse dropped you on your head.”
Vane grinned, completely besotted with his mother. It was one of the reasons why she had gotten away with her matchmaking mischief. “No, my dear mother, I believe it was Susan and she was wielding a broomstick at the time.”
Susan huffed. “I chased him with a broomstick once. Once. And he behaves as if I beat him every morning,” she said to Isabel, who was edging away from their merry group.
“You have the wrong man. Perhaps you are confusing me with your husband,” he said cheerfully, earning a baleful glare from his older sibling. “So tell me, sister, are the rumors true? Have you swapped out your broomstick for a bed warmer?”
Before Isabel could think of a clever excuse to leave, Vane touched his mother on the arm and changed the subject. “Mother, it is unlike you to be forgetful when it comes to introducing me to beautiful young ladies. Who are your companions? I do not believe we have been introduced.”
His mother’s eyes boggled with amazement. “You are asking to be introduced?”
Now it was his mother who was being rude. “I can be civilized.”
He noted that Isabel visibly sagged with relief. The poor girl must have been holding her breath, wondering if he was planning to mention that he’d already had the pleasure of holding her in his arms.
Delia appeared to be the adept liar in the Thorne family. She offered him a guileless smile. “Lady Netherley, this is your son?”
Clever girl, Vane mentally applauded. If he had not been present in the dressmaker’s shop, he might have believed her demure guise.
“Oh, I am forgetting myself this evening. Yes … yes, he is. Miss Thorne and Miss Delia, may I present to both of you my son, Christopher Courtland, Earl of Vanewright. Christopher, I would like you to meet Miss Isabel Thorne and her sister, Miss Delia Thorne.”
Isabel and Delia curtsied. “Lord Vanewright,” both sisters politely murmured.
Vane formally bowed, which caused his sister’s right eyebrow to rise a solid inch. He shot her a quelling glance. Both Susan and their mother seemed surprised that he could behave himself.
“Miss Thorne … Miss Delia, I am honored to meet you both.” And his remark was sincere. With Isabel and Delia in attendance, this evening would prove entertaining. “How long have you two been acquainted with my mother?”
“Not long at all,” his mother said, crossing in front of him to stand next to Isabel, as if she needed protecting. “However, with Lady Benyon occupied with her duties as hostess, I could not resist taking it upon myself to look after these young ladies. Can you believe this is their first visit to London?”
A noncommittal sound rumbled in his throat as his eyes narrowed. He suspected there was more to the tale than his mother was telling, but he did not challenge her. Besides, it would be much more amusing to charm the information out of Delia or intimidate Isabel into confessing. As he silently pondered which course would be the most entertaining, his mother accidentally gave him the opening he needed.
“Christopher, I was originally planning to appeal to one of your unmarried friends. However, now that you are here, perhaps you could invite Miss Thorne to partner you in a dance.”
He showed plenty of teeth as his gaze clashed with Isabel’s startled brown eyes. “My pleasure,” he purred.
“Oh, that is not necessary,” Isabel said to the marchioness, giving him an apologetic look. “Delia is a much better dancer than I.”
“I would be honored, my lord,” Delia said, moving close enough that her poppy-colored skirt brushed against the leg of his trousers.
Vane took an intimidating step toward Isabel. “You are too generous, but I will risk my toes.” He extended his bent arm, encouraging her to accept his invitation.
Isabel moistened her lips. “Lord Vanewright, I must—”
“Accept,” he finished. When she stared at him blankly, he explained, “You are the elder, Miss Thorne. It would be a breach of etiquette if I danced with your sister first.”
“And when have you ever cared about etiquette?” Susan asked, sounding amused.
Vane bit back a nasty retort. Isabel was already skittish and would probably refuse to leave his mother’s side. Instead, he tried a more diplomatic approach. “Never. I was only thinking of Miss Thorne and her sister. Why cause unnecessary speculation? Do you not agree, Lady Netherley?” he asked, using her title so she understood that he was annoyed.
“Christopher is correct, Miss Thorne,” his mother said, all but taking the poor girl by the hand and slapping it on his arm. “Do not fret, I will watch over your sister during your absence to make certain no scoundrel absconds with her.”
As Vane led his reluctant companion away, he could have sworn he heard her mumble.
“But who will protect me?”
* * *
To the casual onlooker, Lord Vanewright appeared courteous and almost protective of the lady he escorted. Only Isabel was aware that the hand he had placed over her own was to prevent her from fleeing.
When she was satisfied that they could no longer be observed by Lady Netherley, Isabel said, “Do not be offended, but I do not wish to dance.”
She might have omitted with you, but the young earl grimaced as if she had been so rude to speak the words aloud. His hand tightened over hers.
“Strangely, Miss Thorne, neither do I,” Lord Vanewright said grimly. “Let us find someplace quiet for this intimate conversation.”
He seemed to know everyone, Isabel silently marveled as he greeted ladies and gentlemen while guiding her away from the guests who had congregated to admire the dancing. He did not take the time to introduce her, and she knew it was deliberate on his part. The only reason he had asked her to dance was that etiquette demanded it. Once he returned her to Delia and his family, the earl would be free to dance with her sister.
“A little farther,” Lord Vanewright said in a clipped tone, nudging her down a narrow passageway. With no one about, she wondered if he was using one of the servants’ corridors. He opened a door and stuck his head through the narrow gap. “This will do.” The earl pushed the door open and waited for her to enter.
It was a narrow anteroom decorated with olive-flocked paper. Across the room four white doors provided a pleasant contrast with the dour color. The number of doors suggested that this room connected to a larger drawing room. Lord Vanewright took her by the arm and led her to one of the benches lining the room. Spectacular gilt pier glass mirrors had been mounted between the doors, and the panels of glass and crystal glittered like diamonds.
Isabel sat down, and could not resist stroking the thick tapestry covering. Lord Vanewright made no move to join her on the bench. He simply watched her as she admired her surroundings.
Feeling foolish, she slowly raised her gaze to meet his. His eyes were not as kind as his mother’s, but Isabel grudgingly conceded that his stare was compelling. His thoughts were unfathomable, but she felt the strength of his gaze. This was a gentleman who was used to getting his way.
“Forgive me, Lord Vanewright,” she said, hoping her humility would assuage his wounded pride. “I have a bad habit of uttering opinions without fully explaining myself. I pray you did not take my refusal to dance as an insult.” Her hand made a sweeping gesture at her legs. “Although I have not admitted it, my ankle still pains me and I fear my clumsiness will embarrass both of us.”
His hard expression relaxed into mild concern as his gaze dropped to her feet. “Why did you not mention this sooner?” He drew her gaze to the firm line of his jaw as he rubbed it. “Confound it, you did not even protest when I practically drag
ged you out of the ballroom.”
Lord Vanewright was torn between annoyance and embarrassment, which surprised Isabel. She doubted the earl felt a need to apologize for his actions very often.
“I thought it would be obvious. You and I have unfinished business to discuss.” Ignoring the slight twinge of pain in her ankle, Isabel stood. She was taller than most ladies. Generally, she viewed her height as a physical flaw; she seemed to tower over many of her male acquaintances. She could not say the same for Lord Vanewright. Four inches taller, with a lean muscular build, he made her feel almost delicate.
The earl seemed to study her from head to toe as he took an intimidating step toward her. “Indeed we do, Miss Thorne.”
“The dress,” they both said in unison.
Instead of finding it amusing, they glared at each other. Then they started speaking at once.
“The dress was a gift. Never have I encountered—”
“Did you even read my note? I told you that my sister and I could not accept such a gift! Imagine my shock when I saw—”
“Are you always so stubborn? You make it impossible for someone to show his gratitude! And you insult me further by giving the damn dress to your sister,” Lord Vanewright all but snarled.
It was this declaration rather than the earl’s ire that silenced Isabel’s angry tirade.
“What do you mean, give?” she demanded, resisting the urge to poke the obnoxious gentleman in the chest. Ladies could not go about poking thickheaded earls, even when they deserved it. “Delia told me that you insisted that she keep the dress, even after I explained why—”
“The evening dress was meant to be yours.”
That brought her up short. “I beg your pardon?” she said faintly.
Lord Vanewright sighed. Perhaps he was troubled by the notion that she was standing on her bruised ankle. It would explain why he took her by the elbow and encouraged her to sit on the bench she had abandoned earlier. He sat down next to her, taking up the remaining space on the bench.
“Despite your protestations that afternoon at the dressmaker’s shop, I knew you desired the dress. I was in the position to grant you a boon for rescuing my snuffbox, so I purchased it. For you.”
Not for Delia. “My sister told me—” Isabel bit her lower lip, realizing she was on the verge of sharing confidences with a gentleman she did not truly know. “Never mind. Delia looks magnificent in the dress. I could not have done it justice.”
Lord Vanewright had pivoted so that his knees were a hairbreadth from touching her skirt. “Do you truly believe that rubbish or is that what your sister told you so you would not demand she hand over the dress?”
“I did not even know that you had delivered it until we arrived—” Isabel glanced away, annoyed that her tongue seemed to have a will of its own this evening.
“An admirable stratagem,” the earl said as understanding warmed his eyes. “She was wagering that you would not cause a fuss once you arrived at Lady Benyon’s town house.”
“Delia was aware of my concerns,” she said simply.
“Your concerns. Ah, yes, you must be referring to my dastardly deed of purchasing the dress that has caused you nothing but strife.”
Isabel tilted her head and stared at him. “Are you teasing me, Lord Vanewright?”
“Yes, I believe I am,” he said, sounding completely unrepentant. “However, I may relent if you will favor me by calling me by my nickname. Everyone calls me Vane.”
Isabel laughed. “I am not surprised.” Her hand fluttered to her mouth as his eyes narrowed. “Not surprised, my lord, because you are so handsome,” she blurted out, and then winced. She was babbling.
“We should return to the ballroom.” Isabel stood, but he snatched up her hand before she could flee.
“So you think I’m handsome?” he murmured, clearly pleased with her declaration.
“No—Yes! Of course any lady would consider you handsome.” Inspiration struck. “My sister was the first to comment on your masculine beauty. Oh, and your strength. She marveled about how effortlessly you carried me into our house,” she said, relieved that she could speak of Delia in a favorable light to the earl.
After all, Lady Netherley was expecting Isabel to do her part to nudge Delia and Lord Vanewright toward matrimony.
“How very kind of her,” he said, rising since Isabel was not being subtle about her desire to leave the anteroom. “And what of you, Miss Thorne? Did you praise me as well?”
Isabel was entering dangerous territory. To deny that she found him appealing would be nothing short of a lie. It would also be insulting. If she had any hope of convincing him that Delia should be his countess, then they needed to be friends.
“I admired your eyes and your hands,” she confessed. Though she had never had such a conversation with her sister, her admission was the truth. “Delia was right when she praised your strength, and yet you were so gentle when you tended to my ankle. I did thank you for that, did I not?”
“Thank me again, Miss Thorne.”
Before she could guess his intentions, he lowered his head and kissed her. The kiss was light, almost chaste. Nonetheless, the brief caress made her head swim and her knees quake.
That wonderful mouth, a mere inch from her lips, curved into a triumphant smile. “Perhaps we have discovered something else you like?” He moved closer to kiss her again.
“No.”
He stilled but did not move away. “No? Are you certain?”
No.
Isabel did not dare reveal how conflicted she felt. She almost wanted him to kiss her again to prove that she was moved more by curiosity than desire. “I am not in the habit of kissing strangers.”
“Kiss me again, and I promise to allay that particular worry.”
He licked his lips in anticipation, and the sliver of space between them closed.
“I am betrothed.” When he paused, the truth triumphed over her blatant lie. “Well, almost betrothed. I believe. There is a man visiting the village we live in. He is a natural philosopher like my father and he has been helping me go through my father’s papers and journals. We have been spending a lot of time together, and, well, I am optimistic.”
This was more half-truth than truth, but she refused to quibble. And Lord Vanewright appeared to be only partially convinced.
Isabel allowed herself to exhale when the earl straightened.
“Almost betrothed, you say? I did not realize. Forgive me.”
Whether or not he was mocking her, Isabel was too relieved to care. “It was my fault. I should have spoken up sooner.”
Lord Vanewright slapped his palm to his forehead and grimaced. “Small wonder you were so upset about the dress, eh? Your gent would not have taken kindly if he learned another man was buying his almost betrothed gifts.”
“I suspected as much. You are mocking me!” Isabel shook her head at her own stupidity, and headed for the door to the anteroom.
“Miss Thorne. Isabel. Wait!” He circled around her before she had reached the door and blocked her way.
“Permit me to pass.”
Lord Vanewright held up his hands to surrender. “I confess, I was teasing you. I’ve just never encountered a lady in your precarious quandary before.”
Even though she had no intention of ever marrying Mr. Ruddel, let alone seeing the man again, the earl’s remarks stung just the same. “If that was an apology, I would consider it mediocre at best.”
“Point taken.” He leaned against the door and crossed his arms. “And very judgmental of you, I might add. Nevertheless, I am offering you my sincerest apologies and friendship if you will accept.”
“Why?”
For a few seconds, he appeared perplexed by the question. “Why? Because you are probably the only unmarried lady in town who isn’t obsessed with the notion of marriage. Worse still, marriage specifically to me. That makes you unique and rarer than a large pink diamond. No, Miss Thorne, I insist that we become friends. You alone w
ill make this season bearable.”
Chapter Eleven
Three nights after Lady Benyon’s ball, Vane was enjoying a casual evening with his friends and their wives. Everyone had gathered at the Sinclair town house because Sin turned out to be an excellent host. Three years had passed since Sin had married Juliana, and last September his wife had delivered the Sinclair heir, Henry Alexius Braverton, the new Earl of Crossington. Now seven months old, young Henry had his mother’s green eyes and Sin’s dark hair. Judging from the manner in which Juliana, Regan, and Sophia were fussing over the lad, he also possessed his father’s uncanny charm. Perhaps he was the first of the next generation of the Lords of Vice.
“Henry has your looks, Sin,” Vane said, watching the baby giggle as Regan teased him with a small piece of ribbon.
“Aye, he is a handsome devil,” Sin said, his voice laced with pride and affection. “And he has his father’s lusty appetite. Is that not so, lybbestre?”
The golden-haired marchioness blushed at her husband’s teasing, her eyes promising retribution. “Let us pray he does not inherit his father’s penchant for mischief.”
Sly, knowing glances were exchanged among Vane, Sin, Hunter, Saint, Dare, and Reign. While Juliana, Sophia, and Regan were well aware that the Lords of Vice had earned their notorious reputations, some tales were not to be retold; otherwise, these husbands would never be welcomed in their wives’ beds.
Keeping himself apart from the domestic scene, Frost was seated in one of the japanned beechwood armchairs. With his fingers casually curled around the bold ornament scrolls of the armrests, and reclining against the chair’s regal high back, the earl looked like a king awaiting the evening’s amusements. Vane’s estimation was probably not far from the truth—Sin was not the only one who excelled at mischief.
“Regan, you seem to have bewitched young Henry,” Frost said to his sister.
Regan beamed at the baby before she spared her brother a glance. “Babies love everyone. Including you, dear brother.” To Henry, she cooed, “Is that not right, little man?”
Sunrise with a Notorious Lord Page 7
