Sunrise with a Notorious Lord

by Alexandra Hawkins

  The marchioness’s face creased as she fought back her tears. “Oh … oh, Christopher!” She brought his hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

  He gave her a stern look. “This does not mean that you are forgiven so quickly for your mischief,” he warned.

  “No, no … of course not.”

  The discord with his father remained, but he did not want to upset his mother further by mentioning it. Vane leaned closer so his mother could wrap her arms around him. He hugged her tightly to his chest when her sobs racked her body.

  “There, there,” he said, rubbing her back to comfort her. “Forget what I said. You are forgiven.” Vane kissed the top of her head. He would never have met Isabel if not for his mother. “Besides, I may need your help if things get sticky.”

  “Anything,” she said, drawing back and giving him a watery smile. “What do you need from me?”

  He returned her smile. “Advice. How do I convince Isabel that I am the perfect man for her?”

  * * *

  Three hours later, a tight-lipped and very frustrated Vane stormed into his empty town house. Apparently Isabel had not been languishing in her rented house, waiting for him to forgive her. Without a word to anyone, she had packed up her family and departed London.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Disembarking from the stagecoach with the kitten Vane had given her curled up against her chest, Isabel smiled as she spotted their housekeeper near the side of the cottage. Mrs. Dalman was carrying a wicker basket of wet linen against her ample hip. As soon as she noticed the stage, she dropped the basket and rushed toward them.

  It seemed as if nothing had changed in their absence.

  “Gracious, I was not expecting you for another day!” The housekeeper hugged Isabel, and then Delia. Mrs. Dalman scowled when their mother poked her head through the open door of the coach. “I don’t care if this gets me sacked, I must have my say, Mrs. Thorne. Shame on you for locking me in the cellar and running off to London. If not for Mrs. Willow, I might have been trapped in my dank prison for days.”

  “Fear not, Mrs. Dalman. I have been severely chastised by Isabel and half of London for my recklessness,” Sybil said, her exaggerated manner causing both Delia and Isabel to roll their eyes. The journey home had not been too taxing, since their mother had spent long stretches of the drive sleeping. Isabel had suspected her mother had gotten her hands on another bottle of laudanum at the coaching inn, but she had been too lost in her own thoughts to press the issue.

  Sybil slipped past her daughters, still irked that no amount of arguing had persuaded her daughters to remain in London. To the housekeeper, she said, “If you do not mind, Mrs. Dalman, I will be taking my tea upstairs.”

  “Make sure it is just tea,” Isabel murmured to the housekeeper.

  “Yes, Miss Thorne.” Mrs. Dalman picked up one of the thick canvas satchels and hurried after Sybil.

  Isabel nodded to the coachman and the postboy as they removed the family’s trunks from the coach. “I hope you are willing to grab one of the ends of that large trunk, because the days of having footmen waiting on us hand and foot have ended.”

  Delia giggled as she sat down on one end of the trunk. “I do not recall us ever having a single footman, dear sister.”

  “Well, you would have if you had married Lord Vanewright,” Isabel said teasingly, though her heart was breaking.

  “An entire staff to fulfill my every wish,” her sister said wistfully. “It might have been worth putting up with a man who could barely tolerate me.”

  Isabel sat down on the opposite end of the trunk. She leaned over and released her little tabby cat. It plopped down on its back and rolled from side to side. “Vane—uh, Lord Vanewright liked you.” Well enough that he did not prevent Delia from kissing him, Isabel glumly thought, thinking of the night of the masquerade. “Lady Netherley had a high opinion of you, too.”

  Delia shook her head. “The earl never really looked at me. Not the way he looked at you.” Her sister raised her hand as the coachman touched the brim of his hat and said farewell. “Perhaps you should have stayed. Once Lord Vanewright’s anger cooled—”

  “No,” Isabel said decisively. “It would have never worked. Lady Netherley wanted you for her son, and Vane … well, he will never forgive me for my part in his mother’s ruse. Besides, I have missed Cotersage. This is where we belong.”

  “Not me.” Her sister stared at the cloud of dust left behind by the stagecoach. “You might be content to bury yourself in the country, but I plan to return to London. Your earl was not the only unmarried gentleman in town.”

  “He is not my earl,” Isabel protested. Oh, what is the use arguing? She sighed and stood. “Come on. Mrs. Dalman is busy with Sybil and these trunks need to be brought into the house before it gets dark.”

  * * *

  By ten o’clock that evening the household was silent. Once she and Mrs. Dalman had unpacked the trunks, it amazed Isabel how quickly she fell back into her old routine. She helped the housekeeper set the table for the evening meal, and to Isabel’s relief Sybil requested that a tray be brought to her bedchamber. She was still sulking, but Isabel was too upset about her own woes to feel guilty about her mother’s bruised feelings.

  After supper, Isabel played piquet with Delia. Neither of them seemed very interested in the game, so by nine o’clock they had decided to retire for the evening.

  Unfortunately, Isabel could not sleep. The kitten she had dubbed Christopher had curled himself into a little orange ball and buried his nose near her right ear. She absently reached up and stroked his soft fur, and was rewarded with a low purr.

  “Oh, Christopher,” she murmured to her pet. “I have made a fine mess of my life.”

  It was early for London revelers, and Isabel felt restless. When she closed her eyes, all she saw was Vane’s handsome face, the corners of his mouth curled with revulsion. His parting words had been spoken in anger, and while her heart craved his forgiveness, Isabel knew she did not deserve it. So she had departed London without sending him a final note.

  “Perhaps it was cowardly, but I could not face him again.” She blinked away the sharp sting of tears. “He was just so furious.”

  By now Vane had likely resumed his debauched life of gambling and mistresses. His friends the Lords of Vice would help him forget her, and mayhap he would look upon their time together as an aberration because of Lady Netherley’s meddling. Oh, Isabel had no doubt that the earl would come to forgive the dear lady. After all, his mother had acted out of love, while Isabel had been motivated by less noble purposes.

  Giving up her pretense of sleeping, she kissed the kitten and gently pulled her braid free from his tiny coiled body. She threw back the sheet and climbed down from her bed. Dressed in her nightgown, she tugged the cap off her head and tossed it aside because she felt overly warm. She was about to open the window when a soft shuffling noise outside her door caused her to halt.

  Everyone was in bed. Isabel’s eyes rounded in trepidation when she heard a low, very male voice curse. Without hesitation, she grabbed the first thing that was within reach and crossed the room in her bare feet to the door.

  As the latch on the door moved, Isabel bit her lower lip to keep from screaming. She raised her makeshift weapon above her head, prepared to teach this would-be housebreaker a harsh lesson for preying on helpless women.

  A dark head appeared as the door opened, and Isabel struck with ruthless intent. Metal collided with flesh, and the thief was brought to his knees with her unexpected attack.

  “Devil take it, it’s me!” a familiar angry male voice raged at her as he turned his head to glare at her.

  “Vane!” Isabel gasped, his presence shocking her into silence.

  He climbed onto his feet and snatched the handle from her loose grasp. “A bed warmer,” he said, shaking his head with disgust. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “W-what are you doing here?” she asked, suddenly finding her voice whe
n he shut the door and locked it. The key disappeared into a waistcoat pocket as he stalked away from her and set down the bed warmer. “Who let you into the house?”

  Vane gave her a guarded look. “Delia. It appears that she is having trouble sleeping, too, and was helping herself to the port when she heard my knock.”

  “And she just let you upstairs?” Isabel said, aghast at her sister’s impropriety.

  “Well, she might have had a few glasses before my arrival,” he said with a careless shrug.

  Delia was drunk. “I need to go downstairs and have a chat with my little sister.”

  Vane cut off her escape by wrapping his arm around her waist. “Let her be. You can always lecture her tomorrow when she has a sore head and weak stomach.”

  He stilled, suddenly aware that she was dressed only in her nightgown. Wary, she stood there rigidly with his arm around her and listened to his breathing.

  “Vane.” She swallowed, realizing she had no right to claim such familiarity. “Pardon me, Lord Vanewright, what are you doing here in Cotersage?”

  “You had it right the first time, Isabel.” Sensing her discomfort, he gave her a slow grin that bordered on lecherous. “As for why I am here, I think that is obvious.”

  Isabel brushed aside his arm and stepped out of reach. “You did not have to leave London to find that.”

  Vane laughed. “My, my … sweet Isabel, does your mother know you have such wicked thoughts? Not that I mind and I am willing to accommodate you, but first things first.” He pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

  Isabel stared at him, wondering if she could reach the copper bed warmer before Vane. A few more bashes to the head might make him more reasonable.

  As if reading her thoughts, Vane glanced at the bed warmer. “If you want me to put my hands on you, Isabel, all you have to do is ask.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You would not dare!”

  “Sit!” he said in a thunderous voice.

  Isabel sat, but she took her time about it. “Fine. As you can see, my lord, I am sitting as you have requested. Why have you come?”

  There was a swagger in his gait that had her chin lifting and her upper lip curling. Arrogant swine, she thought uncharitably when he stopped in front of her, his fists planted on his hips.

  “I’ve come for my apology.”

  * * *

  Isabel’s eyes were dark unfathomable brown pools as she stared up at him. Her lips parted in surprise at his demand. “You journeyed all this way and charmed your way past my sister so I might beg your forgiveness?”

  His cocky grin faded. Well, when she put it like that—

  Isabel rose up from the chair, her slender body rigid with feminine outrage. “You had my apology, you pompous rogue, and you tossed it at my feet.” She shook her fist at him, and he wondered if she was planning to plant it in his face.

  Not that I don’t deserve it.

  Instead she pounded it against her breast. “I cried that day, and every day since because I knew that you despised me for helping your mother with her crazy scheme.”

  “You cried over me.”

  It pleased him that Isabel had shed a few tears at their angry parting. As he followed her back to Cotersage, Vane had had a few bad days wondering if Isabel had left London because her hopes of making Delia his countess had been ruined.

  Misconstruing his joyful expression, Isabel flew at him with her fists raised. Vane caught her wrists, but she still managed to clip him on the chin.

  “Heartless, jaded, conceited arse!” she shouted, her struggles causing him to stagger backward.

  “Isabel, listen to me.”

  “Never!” Isabel snarled, her long hair spilling out from her loose braid.

  She gave his chest a hard shove while he was fighting to keep his balance, probably hoping he’d fall and crack his already bruised skull on a heavy piece of furniture. It would save her from grabbing the copper bed warmer and finishing the deed herself.

  Vane’s spine collided with one of the ornate posts of her four-poster bed. “Damn it, woman, are you trying to kill me?”

  “Yes,” she hissed, charging at him.

  In his short life, Vane had tangled with numerous angry ladies intent on castrating him. Saint once told him that he had a talent for causing trouble, and perhaps his friend was right.

  In a practiced motion, Vane caught Isabel in his arms and spun them about so he was on top of her when her lovely backside bounced on the mattress. The tiny orange tabby he had given her jumped straight into the air before darting off the mattress.

  “Don’t hurt Christopher!”

  Vane peered over the edge of the mattress, but the kitten had disappeared. He gave her an inscrutable look. “You named your cat after me?”

  “If I were naming the cat after the conceited scoundrel who gave him to me, I would have called him Vane,” she said defensively. “Christopher just happens to be a name I favor. I know several gentlemen who bear the name whom I respect and admire.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Let me up,” she said, the slender body he had come to know so well arched against his.

  Perhaps it was rather arrogant of him, but he was feeling aroused and triumphant when he pinned her wrists above her head. “Struggle all you want. I promise to relish every delicious rub.”

  Impotent and soundly caught, she glared up at him with defiance. “I hate you!”

  Vane calmly studied her flushed face and glittering angry eyes. “No, my dear, in fact you are in love with me.”

  Isabel stopped struggling and gaped at him. Her lower lip quivered mutinously before she burst into tears.

  “Isabel … Isabel,” he crooned as he released her wrists. “There, there, darling … don’t cry.”

  Taking advantage of her limited freedom, she covered her face with one hand and tried to push him away with the other. “Oh, you horrible man. Have you come just to torment me? Why must you take everything from me?”

  She rolled, burying her face into the nearest pillow and beginning to cry in earnest.

  Her misery cut him to the quick. Vane felt helpless, and it unmanned him that he was responsible for her tears.

  “Isabel, look at me.” He tenderly peeled her hands from her face. “Hush, love, no more games. I’ve come to give you something.”

  Isabel hiccuped. “What?” she asked warily.

  Wet strands of hair were clinging to her cheeks. His fingers brushed them from her face. “Everything. I have already given you my friendship and body. It seems appropriate that you claim my love and name as well. Isabel Thorne, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

  “W-what?” Stunned, she tried to push herself up on her elbows. Her forehead connected with his chin. Groaning, she slapped her palm over her bruised brow and stared at him with a dazed expression. “What did you say?”

  Uncertainty crawled up his spine until he felt the tension in his neck. “I am asking you to marry me.”

  Instead of the enthusiastic assent he was expecting, Isabel’s expression crumbled as her eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

  In his entire life, Vane had never felt the slightest desire to offer marriage to a lady. He had always assumed that when he got around to it, the lady would be happy about it.

  “Have I mistaken your feelings, Isabel?” Vane asked, lowering his head and kissing her cheek. “I am not a bad gent. My looks are passable, I have all my teeth, and I can make you a countess.”

  She choked back what could have been a sob or a giggle and turned her face away, giving him access to the side of her neck. Perhaps it was ruthless of him, but he was going to gain her consent even if he had to seduce her. His cock throbbed in agreement. He had been hard and ready for her the moment they had landed on the mattress.

  Isabel shuddered as his tongue licked her earlobe. She turned her head to halt his sensual ministrations, and to his relief and amazement she was laughing. “Stop. Passable looks and strong teeth are no reason to marry a man.”

>   “Do not forget that you will be my countess,” he teased, and was rewarded with a watery smile from her.

  “Vane, your mother—” Isabel sighed when he nibbled her neck.

  “This is not the moment to bring up my mother,” he said, letting his body press against hers so she could feel his arousal.

  “But … Delia?”

  Vane cupped her chin. “If you must know, you were my mother’s choice all along. Delia was merely a ruse to keep us from figuring out her true intentions. She’s a wily old woman, I grant you, but she managed to pick the perfect bride for me. Marry me, Isabel.”

  “I—”

  The look he gave her was positively mischievous. “So you want to be convinced.”

  “No, I…”

  He lowered his head and put his mouth over her right breast, suckling her nipple through the thin linen fabric of her nightgown.

  “Ah, yessss,” Isabel drawled until her breath hissed through her teeth. Her legs moved restlessly against the mattress.

  “Like that, do you?” he murmured, his hands sliding possessively over the soft mounds until his fingers grasped the lacy collar of her nightgown. Without warning, he tore the thin fabric down the front, exposing her form. “Lovely.” He took a few seconds to admire her bared breasts. “And mine to lick and fondle, are they not?”

  Isabel responded by cupping his testicles through his trousers. Solid instincts made the flesh between his legs retract and tighten. The snug garment offered little protection if she planned to maim him. He shuddered as she caressed him.

  “Only if I can make the same claim. Is this mine?” she purred. The sound had his cock straining for release.

  “Christ, yes,” he said hoarsely. “Everything. It is yours.”

  “Prove it.” She lightly squeezed his testicles, and his body reacted as if she’d wedged a bit in his mouth. He gave way, allowing their positions to reverse.