Isabel and the Rogue

Chapter 11

He hadn’t seen Isabel in a week.

Was he avoiding her, or was she avoiding him? Sirius wasn’t sure he knew.

When she did not attend the Venetian breakfast hosted by Countess Abernathy, Sirius had been a tad relieved. He certainly hadn’t recovered from their encounter in Fairchild’s study—he was haunted by Isabel’s vanilla scent, the phantom pressure of her grip on his thighs. Her sister Gabriela had mentioned in passing that Isabel had been nursing a headache for most of the day, and Sirius had spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out whether he should send her a posy of willow bark to alleviate the pain. The following day, his relief turned to disappointment when he learned she had stayed in rather than accompany Lady Yardley to the musicale the older woman had specifically mentioned they would be attending. Sirius had managed to secure an invitation.

Isabel was the reason he was now sitting at a narrow table next to Lord Westhope, within a private room at the British Museum. The viscount had reserved the space so his guests could admire the newest Maqdala acquisitions from Ethiopia on display before hosting a dinner party, and Sirius had immediately accepted the invitation. While it was true Sirius had already visited the museum to admire the collection, he could hardly send his regrets when Westhope indicated the Misses Luna would be in attendance. After a week of not seeing her exquisitely expressive face, Sirius was determined to corner Isabel and find out why she had been avoiding him.

He stared into his glass of brandy now, the amber liquid a backdrop for the memories playing out in his mind. Memories of Isabel sinking her teeth into her plump bottom lip as she moved on top of him, using his body to find her pleasure. The way she shivered when he’d nibbled on her earlobe. How her expression morphed from satisfaction to despondence when those two jackasses had mentioned Lady Needham. As if Sirius had thought of the baroness since that day in the park when he had taken his impromptu balloon ride with Isabel.

Now there was only her, and her foolhardy mission…with only her quiet charisma and gentle beauty to hold his attention.

But Sirius had not had a chance to explain these things to her. After they had extricated themselves from under Fairchild’s desk, Isabel had promptly slipped from the room, rejoining the festivities as if she had never left. No one remarked upon her absence, but much was made of his return when he finally ventured back to the Fairchild drawing room. Sirius had lied about taking a turn about the gardens to smoke a cheroot, silently praying that no one noticed that his person was devoid of smoke. He’d tried to catch Isabel’s eye after he had appeased his inquisitors, but she had immersed herself in a conversation with her sister and Miss Fairchild.

Never had Sirius ever worried about the women he had taken to bed, outside of ensuring their pleasure. They both understood the nature of their association, and knew better than to involve inconvenient emotions in their bed sport. And yet here was Sirius now, fretting and stressing over Isabel Luna, whom he had shared one passionate—albeit mind-numbing—encounter with. He hardly knew himself.

“I’m glad you agreed to come tonight,” Westhope said, sliding onto the chair next to him. The viscount raised his glass at a passing couple before he swung his gaze to Sirius. “I had hoped you might find the cultural treasures from Africa as interesting as I do.”

“And I do.” Sirius gestured with the glass in his hand toward the exhibition beyond the reception doors. “I was here on opening day for a tour of the collection. The items are quite remarkable.”

“Indeed they are.” Westhope leaned back in his chair and speared a glass of wine between his fingers. “I hope the rest of my guests find them remarkable as well.”

Sirius shrugged. “Some will. But most are here to partake of your excellent company.”

“No doubt you’re right,” the viscount said, taking a sip of his wine. “If only the ton knew how wrong your reputation was.”

The change in topic caused Sirius’s thoughts to stumble, but he quickly recovered. “Oh, but it’s not wrong. The ton may not know of my intellectual pursuits, but I am still a rake and knave.” Sirius tossed back his brandy in one stinging gulp. “And will be for the foreseeable future.”

Sirius fought the urge to fidget with his cuff links, certain his action would not go unnoticed by the viscount, who had proven himself to be quite perceptive.

Westhope scoffed even as a smile crossed his face. “Still, I’ve learned over the weeks of our acquaintance that there’s much more to you than you reveal. It’s almost as if you use your roguish reputation to keep others at bay.”

Perceptive indeed. Sirius pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “People see what they want to see and believe what they want to believe. They think me a merry rake, and I’m content to allow them to think as much. Therefore the only actions they choose to note are those that support their assertions of me.”

“Like your interest in North African cultural objects.”

Sirius grinned. “Precisely.”

“Well. I’m glad to know that bit of information about you. It makes you more real,” Westhope said with an answering smile.

“More real?”

“Come now, Dawson.” Westhope slapped him on the back. “You’re an earl’s son, a famed hero from the Crimean War. Plus, your gold curls and blue eyes have snared the admiration of one half the population of the ton. That could be a bit intimidating for us simple folks.”

Sirius looked at the viscount askance. “Westhope, you’re a bloody viscount. Even if you were missing all your teeth and were as old as Methuselah, women would be intent on earning your notice and winning your hand.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Westhope tossed back the remainder of his drink. Patting his mouth with a napkin, he set his empty glass on the table. “And I’ve never been particularly interested in marrying, especially because I knew the chances were high that any bride I chose would be just as interested, if not more so, in being my viscountess as she was being my wife.”

“There’s a difference,” Sirius agreed.

“I’m glad you understand that. And truly, I can’t blame a woman for thinking of such things when their choice of a husband determines whether their future will be one of comfort or not.” Westhope turned his gaze to the other side of the room, the corners of his green eyes crinkling. “But I’m beginning to think that perhaps I have found someone who is more interested in me as a person than my title, and I am quite pleased about it. If you’ll excuse me.”

Sirius watched as the viscount walked away to greet new guests who had just entered the room. The man seemed quite serious in his admiration for Isabel, and how could Sirius blame him? But what would Westhope think if he knew Sirius had kissed senseless the woman he sought to make his viscountess? His imaginations were petty, but Sirius could not stop the satisfaction that coursed through his blood at the thought.

Yet the prospect of watching Westhope court Isabel turned his stomach.

There was a break in the crowd by the door at just that moment, and Sirius’s breath stuck in his throat when his eyes met a pair of familiar dark brown ones. Isabel stared back at him for the length of two heartbeats before she blinked and looked away. She turned to greet a couple who had come up to welcome them, before she smiled up at Lord Westhope, who was grasping her gloved hand. Sirius hated that Westhope was touching her, greeting her with smiles and warmth as if all of Isabel’s smiles and warmth should be reserved for him and him alone.

Sirius’s blood pounded in his ears throughout dinner.

Dinner and drinks were a lively affair, and much laughter and interesting discussions were had. It appeared Westhope had tailored his guest list to friends and members of society who would most appreciate the private viewings of the Maqdala treasures, for much of the talk during the meal revolved around the objects and how the museum was able to bring them into the country.

“I do wonder how the British Museum had the authority to acquire historical artifacts from other countries.” Gabriela Luna ran a finger around her glass. “I’m curious, hypothetically of course, of a situation in which a member of the Austrian Empire was to acquire a prized painting from the Elizabethan period. Do you believe England would allow such a seizure to occur so easily?”

“Definitely not,” an older gentleman said, his voice harsh. Sirius narrowed his eyes as he tried to remember the man’s name. Pfeiffer? Pearson? A professor at Oxford, he believed. “The British government has done much to protect British antiquities and keep them safe within British hands.”

Gabriela nodded, her pretty face contemplative. His grip on his utensils tightened because Sirius knew better than to underestimate the youngest Luna sister. “That is good for the British, I would say, but unfortunate for other countries who are in the midst of war or colonization and who cannot protect their own histories from those who would exploit their vulnerability.”

“Vulnerability?” Professor Pfeiffer wrinkled his brow. “Surely you are not claiming the museum took advantage of Maqdala’s political turmoil to acquire these objects.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, sir.” She chuckled and waved her hand, as if Professor Pfeiffer had told a joke. “It is a move that comes from the colonizer’s script, I’m sure. Identify a region in flux and sweep in to either grasp power, destabilize the current government”—Gabriela ticked these items off on her fingers—“or loot what resources or treasures can be found while the local people are unable to protect it. I’d wager that is exactly how this museum came to possess the objects in this collection, and possibly a good deal of other items on display.”

The older gentleman opened and closed his mouth for a moment, before he grasped his glass of wine and took a drink. “Artifacts need to be protected, and if a mother country cannot do it, it is the responsibility of others to step in to do so.”

“Responsibility?” Isabel interjected. “Why is it that there is a responsibility to things and not to people?”

Sirius’s heart stuttered a beat at Isabel’s question. It was not like her to enter a conversation in an argumentative way, and he almost smiled as he took in the proud tilt of her chin and the flashing light in her eyes.

“I don’t understand what you mean, Miss Luna,” Professor Pfeiffer murmured with a frown.

“You spoke of responsibility. Of how artifacts and historical items should be protected, and I am asking why such things warrant more protection than the people who made them.” Isabel winged up a brow. “I’d wager that whoever swept into Africa to save these cultural objects we have been admiring this evening did not even think of how they could assist the Ethiopian people, whether by offering them food or shelter or aid.”

The older man laughed, and several other gentlemen at the table snorted. Sirius ground his teeth together.

“It’s not the museum or the British government’s responsibility to aid the people—”

“Just to protect their riches,” Isabel interjected.

Professor Pfeiffer scowled, jerking on his tie. “I’m sure this is a difficult thing for a young woman like you to grasp, but the workings of government have priorities—”

“Christ, Professor, if you are attempting to excuse the museum’s culpability in this, you are doing a poor job of it,” Sirius called, fixing a lazy smile on his face. “Just be honest. It’s easier and certainly more profitable to focus on looting the historical treasures of warring countries than it is to provide humanitarian aid.”

“I will say no such thing,” Professor Pfeiffer growled, “and I think it grossly unfair to place this sort of responsibility on the museum or even the British government.”

“You keep speaking of responsibility, Professor, and yet you seem quite adept at assigning responsibility only when it serves your needs.” Isabel smiled, the gesture not meeting her eyes. “A bit disingenuous, don’t you think?”

The older man gaped and stuttered, and Sirius simply took a sip of his glass and enjoyed the show. With a twitch in his lip, he noted the look of pride Gabriela flashed her older sister, and Sirius was certain his own expression mirrored hers. So often Isabel was overshadowed by her fiery younger sister, but she was fierce and strong in her own right. His Isabel was not to be overlooked.

HisIsabel? Sirius took a mouthful of wine and welcomed the burn as it singed down his throat. He had no right—no interest, really—in claiming anyone, least of all someone as singular as Isabel Luna.

Her gaze met his then before it quickly flitted away. In the next moment, Westhope patted Isabel’s hand on the table next to him and leaned close to whisper in her ear. Red flashed before Sirius’s eyes. Gripping his glass with stiff fingers, Sirius willed himself to remain calm even while he battled the urge to throw the viscount across the room. Whatever was wrong with him?

“I’ve known Professor Pfeiffer for a good long while, and I can speak confidently that his intent is not to be disingenuous,” Westhope proclaimed to his guests. Yet when Isabel arched a brow, the viscount cocked his head at the older man. “Still, the Misses Luna bring up excellent points about how our society values tangible goods—property—while turning a blind eye to humanitarian issues.”

“I suspect the Misses Luna are more aware of this issue considering what is happening in their country,” Sirius said, pleased he managed to unlock his teeth. “Seeing how Mexico is now occupied by French forces and an Austrian grand duke is now their supposed emperor, I think their concern and frustration is more than warranted.”

Isabel met his eyes, the corners of her lips tilting ever so slightly up.

“I’m glad you think so, Captain Dawson.” Gabriela folded her hands demurely on the table in front of her, but her chin was lifted proudly. “When one is forced to flee their homeland in the middle of the night to escape an advancing army, sadly one’s thoughts are not of protecting hundred-year-old artifacts from the Mexica empire.”

“There is no excuse for fortune hunters and foreign dealers to prey upon such dire circumstances,” Isabel said with a firm note.

“I quite agree, Miss Luna,” Viscount Westhope interjected, flashing a look to the gathered guests that made it clear the topic would not be argued further. “Speaking of Mexico, what news is there of the war with France? Since we’ve become acquainted, I’ve tried to pay attention to any reports of it in the papers, but coverage has been lacking.”

“It has indeed,” Gabriela said tartly, “but Se?or Valdés has managed to keep us abreast of the developments at home.”

Sirius listened with half an ear while Gabriela relayed what they knew about the moves Emperor Maximilian had taken to solidify his power within Mexico. He had made a number of liberal decisions that had surprised the monarchists who had aided the French, and Isabel chimed in to emphasize how the emperor’s decisions could undermine his support among his advocates. And now that the American Civil War had ended, the United States government was sending aid to Juárez supporters, and there was reason to be optimistic that the tide was turning. Several of the guests asked questions about the Mexican people’s attitudes toward the French and how political turmoil over the preceding years had paved the way for such an occupation.

It was obvious that the sisters were well informed about the topic, and although Gabriela did most of the talking, Isabel interjected on occasion with her own passionate words. Sirius knew he needed to be circumspect, especially at such an intimate gathering, and yet he found it difficult to look away from her. Everything about Isabel suddenly captivated him, from her quiet beauty to her unflappable composure. When Westhope inadvertently snagged his attention, the viscount’s brow crinkled in unspoken question, and Sirius hastily looked away.

He stayed at the table long after the other guests had embarked on a private tour of the Maqdala collection, nursing his wine and silently waging a battle with his riotous emotions. Westhope asked if he intended to join the group, and Sirius nodded, stating he would follow as soon as he was done with his drink. But he was in no rush. Truthfully, watching Westhope plant a hand on the small of Isabel’s back as he ushered her forward left Sirius seeing red.

He needed to do something. Something to finally discover what, if anything, Westhope knew about the French and their intentions. Because if his uncharacteristic agitation tonight was any indication, Sirius could not stand idly by and watch the viscount court Isabel. Two things were bound to happen if Westhope touched her again: the viscount would come to harm, and thus Sirius’s career with the Home Office would be at an end. Sirius had never considered himself a masochist, and he certainly was not going to become one now.

As he grappled with his turbulent thoughts, Sirius spied Isabel step away from Westhope and disappear down a side antechamber while he was in conversation with his other guests. Sirius knew the ladies’ room was on the other side of the building, so where was Isabel headed? Throwing back the rest of his wine with one acerbic gulp, Sirius rose to his feet and followed her…a smile pulling his mouth taut.

He did not search for long, finding Isabel standing in front of a large gold and silver processional cross, her mouth ever so slightly ajar as she looked up at it. It was an impressive sight, and Sirius couldn’t fault her for wanting to steal some time to study it alone.

And yet because they were alone, Sirius intended to take full advantage.

A door marked with a sign that read museum staff only was situated not far from where Isabel stood, and without a second thought, Sirius approached her and grasped her arm.

“Come with me,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her along after him.

Isabel scowled, but did not fight him. “What do you want, Captain Dawson?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Isabel Luna.” A sigh of relief slipped past his lips when he found the door unlocked. The room was empty, so Sirius ushered her inside, locking the door behind them. Turning to look at her, he narrowed his eyes. “Now, whatever is wrong?”

She planted her hands on her hips. “The only thing wrong is you stealing me away and locking me in this room.”

“You stole away on your own.” He spread his palms. “I simply took advantage of the moment to speak with you privately.”

Curling her lip, Isabel spun about and walked to the opposite end of the room. It appeared to be the office of a museum administrator or manager, and he watched as Isabel fidgeted with the pens and trinkets that lined the narrow desk. A small, high window offered a view of the darkening sky outside, emitting faint rays of light to illuminate Isabel’s raven hair as she paced around the desk. She was once again refusing to meet his eyes, and Sirius clamped his jaw in frustration.

“Isabel, have you been avoiding me this week?”

He hadn’t meant to ask the question so baldly, but Sirius could admit he wasn’t in full grasp of his faculties.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, still not looking at him.

“You most certainly do.” Sirius took a step toward her, even as he linked his hands behind his back. “You’re too smart for me to believe you.”

“Only because you cavort with simpletons,” she snapped over her shoulder.

Well, she had him there.

“Do you think I’m a simpleton?” His voice was a growl, his patience beginning to slip. “You expect me to believe you suddenly canceled all of your engagements—even though your sister and Lady Yardley attended—because you weren’t avoiding me?”

Isabel shook her head, her lips a firm line.

Sirius advanced a step toward her, clearing his throat. “Was it because of what happened in Fairchild’s study?”

“Of course not,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms up.

But she still avoided his gaze, and Sirius’s shoulders sank.

“Isabel,” he whispered, flexing his fingers instead of reaching out for her, “what happened between us is nothing to be embarrassed about. You know that, right?”

She nodded, her stare fixed on the desktop.

“I quite enjoyed it, if you must know,” he murmured, dipping his head in an attempt to snare her gaze.

Isabel looked up, her eyes wide. “You did?”

Sirius took a step closer. “Of course I did. You were beautiful.”

“You know many beautiful women.” She scoffed. “Isn’t that what those men said in the study? That you always have an attractive woman seeking your attention?”

“I suppose to others it would appear that way.” Sirius took another step until he was close enough to sweep a loose curl off Isabel’s cheek with his fingertips. “But then those women weren’t particularly memorable.”

“They weren’t?”

Sirius tracked how her throat worked on a swallow. Christ, he knew what her skin tasted like there. Had taken himself in hand all week to the memory. “No, Isabel. I don’t daydream about them in my lap, making little sounds of pleasure.”

Her long lashes swept down to cover her gaze, before she peered up at him through them. Sirius doubted she knew how alluring she was at that moment. “Who do—”

Sirius cut her words off with his lips.

He couldn’t possibly…

And like dandelion fluff, Isabel’s thoughts scattered to the four winds as she melted under Sirius’s touch. All she knew was him. His mouth on hers. His arms enfolding her against his firm chest. His scent invading her senses and leaving her pliant in his hands.

“Watching Westhope touch you, whisper in your ear was driving me mad,” he rasped against her mouth, only to press searing kisses down the column of her throat. “Do you want him to touch you, sunshine? Do you hope he will?”

Isabel shook her head, aghast he would ask her such a thing. “Never.”

Sirius nipped at her earlobe and Isabel shivered. “And yet you keep welcoming his attentions, darling.”

“Because I need to know,” she tried not to pant, but he made it so hard when he nibbled along her jaw, “I need to know if information is passed to him, however innocently.”

His chuckle was like a caress down her spine. “Ah, so you’re doing it for country?”

Isabel gasped as he licked at the pulse point at the base of her neck.

“And now?” Sirius dipped his fingertips beneath the bodice of her gown, just lightly grazing over one pebbled nipple. “Are you allowing me to touch you for Mexico?”

“No.” The word started as a whisper but ended as a moan as two fingers enclosed her nipple and pinched it tight.

Sirius pulled back, and Isabel blinked open her eyes to look at him. In the light filtering through the one small window in the room, she took in his wide pupils and mussed hair. In all the months Isabel had known him, she’d never seen Sirius anything less than urbane and sophisticated. But she had left him undone.

Her. Isabel Luna was capable of bringing Captain Sirius Dawson to his knees.

And to his knees he suddenly dropped. Grasping her hips, he ushered her backward until the back of her legs hit the office chair. Isabel sat with a huff, her skirts rising about her in a cloud. She tucked her lip between her teeth when Sirius looked up at her, a devilish light in his blue eyes.

“Can you be quiet, darling?”

Isabel quirked a brow. “Why?”

“Always so inquisitive.” His hands moved over the tops of her feet before encircling her ankles. “Because I would like to give you something.”

“What do you want to give me?”

“Pleasure,” he purred, dragging his hands up her legs to caress the insides of her knees. Isabel swallowed a gasp at the delicious sensation. “Will you allow me to touch you?”

Sirius was the only man whose touch she desired. Isabel nodded.

His mouth curled into a smirk. “If you can hold your silence, I’ll make you feel so good.”

“What do you intend to do?” she asked, in a breathless voice she didn’t recognize. Already the thought of Sirius touching her…intimately…made her squirm in her chair in anticipation.

Sirius’s eyes were midnight pools. “I intend to taste you. To kiss and lick every part of you I can reach, until you are begging to come on my tongue.”

Isabel whimpered in the back of her throat, her hands curling around the armrests. ?Híjole! No one had ever spoken such crude words to her, and while she knew she should be scandalized, instead Isabel was eager. Daring. Desperate in a way that made her feel as if she’d vibrate out of her skin.

“But I can only do this if you’re quiet.” Sirius’s thumbs traced patterns on her thighs. “Can you be quiet for me?”

“Yes,” she breathed, without hesitation. Isabel would be so good for him.

“Good girl,” he said, his voice like smooth black coffee. Taking hold of her hem, Sirius lifted the bulk of her skirts until Isabel felt the cool air on her bare legs. Tucking the taffeta around her waist, he met her gaze. “And good girls get rewarded.”

The heavy weight of her skirts made it impossible to see anything but the top of his blond head, but Isabel certainly felt the smooth glide of his palms down the insides of her thighs, and the shift of her drawers when he hooked a finger inside the hem to pull them aside. When his warm breath coasted along her wet cleft, Isabel bit down on her fist to contain the moan that bubbled up from the depths of her core.

“This is the prettiest cunny I’ve ever seen.” The back of what she thought might be his knuckle brushed across the sensitive nub at the top of her sex, and a tremor shook her frame. “And I have no doubt it will be the best I’ve ever tasted.”

Before Isabel could even think of a coherent response, Sirius licked her from the bottom of her sex to the top, where his tongue flicked her nub. Her back arched, and only the sharp bite of her teeth in the back of her hand kept her grounded.

“I’m so proud of you, darling,” Sirius crooned, catching her eye as his tongue swiped along his lips. “And I was right. You’re delicious.”

Isabel dropped her arm over her face as a shiver shook her frame.

When Sirius began his ministrations again, his strokes were firmer, the attentions he laved on her nub wet and messy and so intense Isabel’s eyes rolled into the back of her head. Sirius pulled back after a moment, and craned his head to meet her gaze.

“Do you know what this is called here?” he asked, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her nub and causing her to tilt her hips into his touch. Somehow she managed to nod. “It’s called the clitoris. It’s said to be the center of a woman’s pleasure. Do you feel pleasure when I do this, darling?”

Isabel opened her mouth to respond, but Sirius leaned forward to suck the little pearl into his mouth, and she twined her fingers in his hair as she bit back a wail. Her pelvis swiveled against his tongue, his chin, desperate for more. Desperate for relief from the rising inferno boiling inside her.

Sirius paused again, and Isabel whined in frustration. “I know, sweetheart. Let me help you.” She watched as he held up two fingers and popped them in his mouth, holding her gaze as he ran his wicked tongue over them. When they glistened, Sirius flashed a triumphant grin. “Remember, you said you could be quiet.”

He traced those two fingers up and down her cleft, and Isabel’s breath hitched in her throat when Sirius hooked them in her opening, pressing them firmly but gently inside. Isabel shifted her hips to adjust to the sense of fullness, but abruptly he twisted his fingers about and pressed them to the front wall of her sex at the exact moment his tongue lapped at her nub and Isabel’s body clenched. Every muscle, every cell, every inch of her tensed…and then exploded in an eruption of light and sound. Her body trembled with the force of her release, and the only reason Isabel knew she had not made a sound was the tinge of iron that filled her mouth from having bit her tongue so forcefully.

Isabel was unsure of how long she lay there panting, her mind scrambled and her limbs loose. Was copulation always this earth-shattering? This overwhelming? This—she ran a hand along her temple, pushing back sweaty strands—messy? Chest heaving, Isabel glanced down at Sirius.

With his cheek resting against her thigh and his blond hair askew, he looked exhausted. Isabel reached down to brush errant locks back into place. Her hands lingered near his neck long after she had put him to rights. Sucking in a breath, Isabel looked for his eyes. They were shuttered, and with a clarity born of his ministrations, Isabel knew he was conflicted. Perhaps he felt a bit vulnerable. Lord knew she did, especially because she was still bare to his gaze.

Probing her thoughts for something she could say to put him at ease, Isabel blurted out, “Why do you call me sunshine?”

Sirius lifted his head and sat back on his haunches, a small frown on his lips. “Because everything seems brighter when you’re there.”

“Oh,” Isabel said dumbly, her mouth trembling. He’d uttered the words so simply, as if the reasons were clear. And yet he’d knocked her completely off her axis.

If she was going to survive this affair—for that’s what it had become—with her dignity intact, she needed to set some boundaries.

Straightening her spine, Isabel said, “We should return. Our absence will be noted.”

Sirius dragged his hand through his hair. “Yes. Of course. Although I’m loath to converse and laugh with Westhope and his guests as if the time we spent in this room didn’t occur.”

So was she. Still, Isabel pushed her skirts down and stood, her legs shaky. “I admire Lord Westhope a great deal, but you know the true reason I’m encouraging his attentions.”

“He is quite taken with you,” Sirius murmured, his blue, blue eyes intense on her face. “And I don’t blame him.”

Although her throat was tight, Isabel forced herself to say, “And if my future was in England, he would make a fine husband.”

Sirius’s mouth compressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. No comment about how he would make her a better husband. About how he understood her better than Westhope ever could. How he, Sirius Dawson, had seen her and given her a chance to prove herself in ways so many others had not. Not a single word on how he would love her and endeavor to make her happy as she longed to make him happy.

Her heart fractured, the jagged pieces an outline of his dear face.

“But”—Isabel worked on a swallow, tears like glass scouring her throat—“I don’t fit in here. Ana, and even Gabby, have made friends and connections, and I still feel so out of place.”

“But what of Miss Fairchild?” Sirius shook his head. “What of…”

He snapped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. What had he meant to say? Isabel’s heart lurched with hope in her chest, but her mind screamed at her not to be foolish. Sirius had taught her about passion. Offered her assistance when she needed it the most. But that wasn’t enough.

Isabel twined her hand in her skirts. “England has no future for me.”

“And what do you want for your future?” Sirius asked, his expression guarded.

“I’d always hoped our time in England would be short.” Isabel shrugged, the movement meant to be carefree, though it felt anything but. “And yet the weeks have turned to months and now years, and I’m no closer to returning to Mexico than I was when we first left Veracruz.”

“So you want to return, but what then?”

What then, indeed. Isabel hadn’t allowed herself to think past her mission of aiding the Juárez government’s fight. If she proved herself, what did she want?

Isabel nibbled on the inside of her cheek. “Ideally, I would like to work for Presidente Juárez. I could translate documents, perhaps. Write correspondence.”

His brows drew together. “You’d want to be a clerk?”

“Maybe.”

“But, won’t your parents object?” Sirius shook his head. “I don’t see how they would allow you to work a menial job or any job, for that matter.”

An exhausted sigh slipped past her lips. “They would not be pleased by the prospect. Young Mexican women of my station are raised to run a household, but in an ideal world, I would be able to make decisions for myself and my future. And I want to do something worthwhile. I want to be someone other than Elías Luna’s middle daughter. I don’t want to be the wallflower Luna sister anymore. I want to be something more.”

The muscle twitching in his jaw was the only indication Sirius was moved by her words. “And if you find a way to help the Juárez government, you’ll be able to be someone different?”

She nodded, his form obscured by the tears that filled her eyes. “At least I’ll have done something. Helped in some way. I’ve spent my whole life in the shadows. In the pages of books, dreaming of exciting adventures and daring acts. And here I am now, with the chance to do something tangible to help my people, and I would never forgive myself if I didn’t try.”

Spinning away from him, Isabel wrapped her arms about her waist. “I just want to make my father proud. I want to earn the right to return. My sisters and I weren’t given an option when we were sent here, and I don’t want to feel that powerless again. I refuse to.”

“Sunshine,” Sirius whispered, the word ragged. He reached for her and placed a hand on her arm, patiently waiting until she turned to look up at him. “I don’t understand how anyone could not be proud of you.”

Isabel dropped her eyes to his chest, her emotions threatening to overthrow her tenuous hold on them. She wasn’t certain anyone had ever looked at her that way. But it didn’t matter. Sirius’s life was here, where he was a beloved member of society, and hers was in Mexico…as soon as she was able to make a place for herself.

Daring to smooth her hand down his lapel, Isabel shook her head. “I just have to find something, anything, to send home.”

Sirius leaned down and bussed her temple, remaining there for a heartbeat. “I promised I would help you, and I intend to.”