Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord

by Sarah MacLean

  He lifted his body from hers gently, wincing as his wounded shoulder protested the weight. He hissed at the discomfort, one side of his mouth kicking up. “I hope your letters were worth nearly killing us both.”

  Her eyes widened at the words. “Surely you are not blaming me for our current position. You attacked me!” She pressed her hands to his chest and shoved against him with all the strength she had—a surprising amount, considering their recent near-death experience.

  He raised an eyebrow at the words, but lifted off her, standing and making a show of adjusting his coat, taking a moment to consider its ruined sleeve, half torn at the elbow, before he took hold of its cuff and, with a firm tug, ripped the entire lower portion off completely.

  He turned his attention back to her, still on the ground, now seated, ramrod-straight, peering up at him from beneath a mass of escaped auburn curls, transfixed by his billowing white shirtsleeve now flapping loosely in the breeze.

  “Well, it is not as though there was any amount of mending that might have made the thing wearable again,” he pointed out, reaching the arm in question out to her.

  She leaned away slightly, as though uncertain of his motives.

  “A lesser man would take offense, you know,” he said. “Saving your life should have proven my good faith.”

  She blinked, and for a fleeting moment, he was certain that he saw something flicker in her eyes—amusement, perhaps? She reached up, accepted his hand, and stood. “You did not save my life. I was perfectly fine until you—” She winced as she tested her weight on one foot—he might not have even noticed if he had not been so fascinated by her.

  “Easy,” he said, slipping one long arm behind her. “You’ve had quite a tumble.” Their position brought their faces mere inches from each other. He lowered his voice. “Are you well? Can I help you home?”

  When she looked up, he saw the flash of awareness in her gaze. She was warming to him. It was gone before he could consider it further, shuttered away. She stepped away from his touch, removing her hand from his, a pink wash spreading across her face, incongruous with the wide smudge of dirt that marred one high cheekbone. “No. I am quite well, my lord. I do not require your assistance. You need not trouble yourself any longer.”

  He was taken aback. “It is no trouble at all, miss. I was happy to play the knight to your damsel in distress.”

  Her tone turned defensive. “I can see how you might have thought that I was in trouble, my lord, but I assure you, I was completely aware of my surroundings.”

  One brow rose. “You were, were you?”

  She nodded once. “Quite.”

  “And when were you planning to get out of the way of the horses that were barreling toward you?”

  She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She took another step back and turned to fetch the papers she had lost in their fall, now strewn across the grass around them. She was embarrassed, and he was immediately chagrined. He watched her for a moment, then helped, chasing down several of the letters that had blown particularly far afield. Surreptitiously, he looked at the contents of these materials that had so engrossed her and noticed that they were bills—which surprised him. Why would an attractive young woman be handling financial matters?

  Returning to her, he bowed low and presented her with the papers. When she reached to take them, he recaptured her hand, running one thumb over her grass-stained knuckles as he straightened. “My lady, I do apologize. May I introduce myself? I am Lord Nicholas St. John.”

  She froze at the words, searching his face, and he resisted the urge to straighten his cravat. Extracting her hand from his grasp, she repeated, “Did you say St. John?”

  There was a hint of recognition in her words, and Nick paused, uncertain of what to make of it. “Yes.”

  “Lord Nicholas St. John?#x201D;

  She knew him.

  The damned magazine.

  When he spoke, his tone was filled with dread. “Yes.”

  She was after him. Just like all the others.

  Of course, the others had not been so life-threatening.

  Or so beautiful.

  He shook his head to clear it of the thought—beautiful or no, the woman was a viper—and looked over his shoulder, searching for the most immediate escape route.

  “Lord. Nicholas. St. John. The antiquarian.”

  And it was Nicholas’s turn to be surprised. The question was entirely unexpected. He had been prepared for Nicholas St. John, brother to the Marquess of Ralston? Or Lord to Land, Nicholas St. John? Or even London’s most eligible bachelor, Nicholas St. John? But to be identified as an expert in antiquities—this seemed an entirely different approach than that he would expect from most women.

  Perhaps he had found the one woman on the island of Britain who did not read Pearls and Pelisses.

  “The very same.”

  She laughed then, the sound bright and welcome. She grew more beautiful in that moment, and Nick could not help but return her smile. “I cannot believe it. You are very far from home, my lord.”

  Not so far, as long as she was smiling.

  Nick shook off the ridiculous thought.

  “It seems unfair that I have come so far and you have the better of me. On a number of levels.”

  “I confess, I thought you would be … different.” She laughed then. “Of course, I hadn’t thought much about you at all. But now you’re here. In Dunscroft! What excellent good luck!”

  Nick struggled to clear his mind of the confusion she had wrought. “I am afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t! But you will! What brings you to Dunscroft?” He opened his mouth to speak, but she waved a hand. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter! What matters is that you are here at all!”

  Nick’s brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are a sign.”

  “A sign?”

  “Yes. You are. But not of what Lara thought you were a sign of.”

  “No.” The whole conversation was making him wonder if he had suffered a blow to the head when they fell.

  She shook her head. “No. You are a sign that I must sell the marbles.”

  “The marbles.”

  She tilted her head. “Lord Nicholas, are you quite well?”

  He blinked. “Yes. I believe so.”

  “Because you’ve been repeating me more than actually responding.” He did not respond. “Are you certain you are Lord Nicholas St. John? The antiquarian?”

  Yes. That was one of the few things he was sure of in the face of this perplexing female. “Quite.”

  She considered him for a long moment. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to do.”

  “I beg your pardon? ”

  “Forgive me, but you don’t seem the most … alert … of scholars.”

  Now he was offended. “My lady. I assure you … if you are in need of an antiquarian, you couldn’t do much better than me.”

  “You needn’t sound so affronted,” she said. “It’s not as though I’ve a selection of antiquarians from which to choose.” She grinned, and it was like a blow to the head. Again.

  Who was this woman?

  As though she’d read his thoughts, she spoke. “I am Lady Isabel Townsend. And I must thank you for making this so very easy.”

  Nick’s brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon? ”

  But the perplexing woman did not reply. Instead, she turned away, looking down at the ground around them until, with a cry of triumph, she limped several feet and retrieved a rather sad-looking reticule. Nick watched as she ransacked its contents, finally emerging with a small square of paper, which she promptly extended in his direction.

  He cast a doubtful look at the offering and said, “What is it?”

  “It’s for you,” she said simply, as though such a thing were perfectly reasonable to assume.

  “For me?”

  She nodded. “Well, it was for the Royal Society of Antiquities at large.” She
smiled at his confusion. “But as you are already here … I think you’ll do just fine, indeed.”

  It was not every day that Isabel was catapulted through the air out of the way of a team of galloping horses. But if that was what it took to bring a member of London’s premiere antiquarian society to Yorkshire, she would accept the bruises she had almost certainly received in the tumble.

  Yes, Lord Nicholas St. John was most definitely a sign.

  The man was an antiquarian—an expert in the history and, more importantly, the value of Grecian marbles. And she just so happened to have a collection of Grecian marbles in need of valuing. And selling. As quickly as possible.

  She pushed aside the tiny ache that consumed her each time she considered the plan. This was the only possible solution. She needed money. Quickly. Lord Nicholas could just as easily have been the highly questionable Lord Densmore.

  And if he had been, Isabel—and the rest of the women at the Park—would be in serious trouble.

  But he wasn’t. She took a deep breath at the thought.

  No, he was the answer to their problems.

  If her father had left her ten thousand pounds, she couldn’t have been happier.

  Well, ten thousand pounds would have made her slightly happier.

  But the marbles were worth something—enough to rent a new house and get the girls out of trouble. With any luck, she would have a second Minerva House ready within the week.

  She never thought she’d say it, but that magazine was something of a godsend.

  She watched as Lord Nicholas read the letter she had drafted that morning. It was really no wonder he had been named a Lord to Land. He was rather a remarkable specimen of manhood. Empirically, of course. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and Isabel knew firsthand that his decimated topcoat hid a muscled bulk that dwarfed most men in Yorkshire, and likely in all of Britain.

  But it was not his size that was so clearly his draw. It was his face, lean and handsome. His lips, now set in a firm, strong line, were easy to smile, and his eyes were a lovely blue, a stark contrast to the rest of him, his dark hair and tanned skin. She’d never seen eyes so blue—they were almost stunning enough to make one miss the scar.

  And then there was the scar.

  It was several inches long, extending from above his right eyebrow diagonally across the upper half of his cheek—a thin, white line that had faded with time. Isabel winced as she imagined the pain it must have brought with it. It ran dangerously close to the corner of one glittering blue eye, so close that he was lucky he hadn’t lost it.

  It should have been wicked—a warning—a sign that this man was dangerous and not to be trifled with. And there was a part of Isabel that saw the scar as a manifestation of the intensity that she had seen in Lord Nicholas before he’d tackled her in the street and landed them both out of the way of the horses. But she did not feel fear as she looked at it. Instead, she was desperately curious. Where had he received it? How? When?

  “Lady Isabel.” She was shaken from her musings by the sound of her name.

  How long had he been waiting for her to respond?

  Willing herself not to blush, she met his gaze. “My lord?”

  “You are daughter to the Earl of Reddich?”

  “Sister to the current one.”

  His gaze turned sympathetic. “I had not heard the news of your father. Please accept my condolences.”

  Isabel’s eyes narrowed. “Were you acquainted with him?”

  He shook his head. “I am afraid we did not move in the same circles.”

  She released a breath she had not known she was holding. “No. I don’t imagine you did.”

  If he understood her meaning, he did not show it. He lifted the missive she had written. “I am to believe you have a collection of antiquities?”

  “There is no collection finer.” She could not keep the pride from her voice. One dark eyebrow rose at the words, and she blushed. “Well, no private collection finer.”

  His smile was there, then gone. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It was my mother’s,” she said quickly, as though that made everything clear. “I assure you, it is well worth your time.”

  He gave a little nod. “If that is the case, my lady, then I accept your offer to have a look. I’ve something to do this afternoon, but perhaps I could come tomorrow?”

  So quickly?

  “Tomorrow?” The word came out on a hitch of breath. She had not expected to welcome an appraiser for at least a week—likely more. After all, who would have expected one to be milling about in Dunscroft? What were the odds?

  The estate was in no condition to be visited by a man, much less a Londoner. The girls would have to be prepared for his arrival; they would have to be on their best, most discreet behavior when he arrived. A day was not much time. “Tomorrow,” she hedged.

  How could she postpone his visit?

  “By all means. In fact,” he added with a glance toward the inn, “my man is on his way with our horses. Depending upon the speed of our errand, we might make it this afternoon.”

  This afternoon.

  “Your man.” She looked over her shoulder in the direction of his gaze, where she saw an enormous man leading a gray and a black toward them. Her eyes widened at his sheer bulk. He was a good six inches taller and several inches broader than the village blacksmith. She’d never seen anyone so large. Or so imposing.

  She had to get home. The girls would need fair warning.

  Turning back to St. John, Isabel hedged. “My lord—I—I am certain that you have much better things to do with your afternoon than to come and have a look at my marbles. You clearly had plans before I—”

  “Nearly got us both killed, yes,” he finished for her. “Well, as luck would have it, we have nothing at all better to do. We would likely have spent the afternoon in search of excitement, but, since you’ve already provided me with quite enough of that, I should very much like to visit your statues.” He paused, registering the trepidation in her eyes. “You are not afraid of Rock, are you? He’s a kitten.”

  The giant’s name was Rock?

  Of course it was.

  “Certainly not,” Isabel said a touch too quickly. “I am quite sure that Mr. Rock is entirely a gentleman.”

  “Excellent. Then it is decided.”

  “What is decided?”

  “We shall come to Townsend Park this afternoon—tomorrow at the latest. I hesitate not to escort you home, frankly. I should like to ensure that, should you become distracted, you have someone there to save you from runaway horses.”

  She blushed again as she realized he was teasing her. “You exaggerate, sir. I would have been quite all right.”

  His expression grew serious. “No, Lady Isabel, you would not have been. You would have been killed.”

  “Nonsense.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “I can see that you are a difficult sort.”

  “I am not!” She considered his words. “At least, no more difficult than most ladies.”

  “I do appreciate your honesty; however, most ladies would have thanked me for saving their lives by now.”

  “I—” She stopped, uncertain of how to respond. Was he teasing her?

  “No, no,” he said, interrupting whatever silly string of words she was about to speak. “Do not say anything now. It shall just seem as though I forced you into expressing your gratitude.”

  He was definitely teasing her.

  He leaned close. “You may thank me another time.”

  Isabel did not like the way the low, dark promise in his voice made her stomach tumble.

  Before she could reply, he had turned to greet his friend and take the reins of the large gray horse. Turning back, he said, “Lady Isabel, may I introduce my friend and companion, Durukhan?”

  The man was immense up close, nearly as tall as the black stallion that stood at his shoulder. Isabel offered her hand, and he executed a perfect bow.

  “Mr. Dur
ukhan,” she said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  He straightened, his curiosity evident. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”

  Looking into the man’s dark eyes, she felt compelled to explain. “Lord Nicholas—he was gracious enough to—push me out of the way of”—she waved one hand in the direction of the long disappeared cart—“some horses.”

  “Was he?” A look passed between the two men that she could not read.

  It was gone in a flash as St. John changed the subject. “Lady Isabel has invited us to visit her collection of antiquities, Rock.”

  “Ah,” Rock said, considering Isabel. “Are we leaving now?”

  Isabel’s heart began to pound as she imagined these two men arriving unexpectedly on the steps of Minerva House. “No!” she said, far too loudly.

  The men looked to each other, then to her. Isabel gave a nervous laugh. “I have much to do here in town. And much to do at home. And the collection is not ready for you. After all, I did not expect you to be here. You were a sign, remember?”

  Shut up, Isabel. You sound like a ninny.

  He gave a small smile that made her stomach flip in a not altogether unpleasant way. “And you were not prepared for a sign.”

  “Precisely!” She paused. “At any rate, I am certain you understand.”

  St. John nodded. “Indeed. You have much to do.”

  “Quite.” She ignored the amused gleam in his eyes, patting at her hair nervously before looking about for her bonnet. It had settled several yards away after flying from her grasp during their collision. She strode toward it—as well as one could stride with a throbbing ankle—and retrieved it, turning back to the two men who were staring after her.

  If she weren’t so uneasy, she would have been amused by their dumbfounded looks.

  Instead, she backed away from the two imposing men, “So you see, Lord Nicholas, I cannot begin to show you the antiquities now … but tomorrow … tomorrow sounds fine. In the afternoon? Three o’clock?”

  He dipped his head in assent. “Tomorrow it is.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” she repeated.

  “Fair enough.”

  “Excellent. I shall—look forward to it.” With a too-bright smile and a too-eager nod, Isabel turned and hurried away, leaving the pair behind.