Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
T he next morning dawned without any whistling at all. Rowan quite seemed to have lost the ability. He had slept little last night, had been sitting blank-eyed in his study chair since the clock in the hall had chimed three times. How could he sleep after his aunt and uncle had summoned him to their house and lectured him on proper gentlemanly behavior? It stung. To have acted badly. To have disappointed them.
But how could he act like a gentleman when he wasn’t one?
That was pure horseshit. He’d always acted the gentleman with women. Grouchy, perhaps, cold and impersonal, yes, but still a gentleman. He’d never abandoned good sense and caution for a woman before, never flirted with her virtue. Until Isabella. With her, words like gentleman and lady seemed to hold no power, no meaning. She and Rowan were only ever themselves, and together, that was enough. That was everything.
The more important question, the one that had chased him away from sleep all night was one he did not like the answer to. How was a man like him supposed to be with a woman like her?
Not that he had a choice. According to the admiral, she was stuck with him .
He fell forward at his desk, his head thumping hard. He groaned. What an absolute mess. A sailor’s son and a duke’s daughter. Yes, quite the fairy tale.
“Rowan?” Isabella’s voice, floating in from the sitting room. “Are you in here?”
He had given her free roam of his hotel, including his personal chambers, and he hadn’t thought anything odd about it. Though of course it was odd. Wrong. Scandalous. But he’d needed her, and she’d been willing and entirely capable, entirely in control of her own life choices. How was she not a widow? Her willingness in the bedroom… He groaned again, his body leaping to attention at the mere thought of that one night they’d spent together.
“Rowan?” Her voice closer now as she wandered into his study. “Oh, there you are. Are you ill?”
He pushed upright. “Perfectly fine.” He managed a smile, and she managed one, too, but it didn’t quite hit her eyes, and that brought him to his feet. Yesterday he’d wanted everything from her and lady or not—damn everything—he still wanted it, wanted her.
He cupped her face and pulled her up for a kiss, short and soft.
“You’re not… upset?” she asked when he pulled away. “About me?”
“I was shocked.” He’d thought himself in control, thought he’d found a woman who’d fit perfectly into his life. Realized he’d been wrong. And it was too late to retreat.
“Do you… dislike me?”
“No.” The mere suggestion made him want to sling her over his shoulder and show her how much he adored her. “But had I known… I would not have allowed myself to go so far with you.” He’d have stranded himself on an island floating in shark-infested waters.
“Ah.” The tiniest word, but she lifted her face and smiled brightly. “You’re a mess. Come along. Let’s fix you up. I saw a carriage being readied. For the Barlows?”
“Yes.” When she circled her hand around his wrist, he let her pull him through the sitting room and into his bedroom. He sat on the bed at her slight push.
She glanced around, found his boots, and dropped them at his feet, then rummaged in his wardrobe for a pressed cravat, waistcoat, and jacket. “Your valet keeps you well stocked. Do you have a valet?”
“I have a man who prepares my clothes—Coxley. But I dress myself, shave myself.” He reached for the boot pull and yanked on first one Hessian and then the other.
“Naturally.” She chuckled and held up the waistcoat. “In you go.”
Hell. Why’d she have to be so damn adorable? And why did he have to… like her so damn much? And why couldn’t he control the corners of his lips, keep them from drifting upward? “Cravat first, a chuisle .”
“Really? There’s an order?”
He took the cravat from her hands, tried to. She brushed him away. “Let me.”
“You do not know how.”
“Tell me.”
She hooked the cravat around the back of his neck, and with her fingers brushing against his skin, how could he say no? “Wrong way. Middle against the front, cross around the back, and hold the ends at the front.”
She pulled her arm toward her chest, and the cool linen slid across his neck, the rasping somehow erotic. Leaning closer, she repositioned the linen, wrapped it, tugged it tighter. “Like this?”
“Yes.” His voice raspy, too. “Not too tight.”
“Now what?”
Now he pulled her down atop him and kissed her hard. He shook his head, cleared his throat, kept his hands to himself. “Tie it. A simple knot first.”
She tugged her gloves off and stuffed them in her pocket, then tied the cravat ends together. “Like this?”
“Mm.” She smelled of chocolate. “What did you eat this morning?”
“Not much. I had a cup of chocolate.”
“I knew it.” What if he took the taste from her tongue? He bit down on his tongue instead. “Tighten it. Not too much.” She tugged the ends of the linen in opposite directions, making it snug around his neck. Why was he breathing hard? “Then settle that knot with one end on top and the other on bottom.”
“Like this?” She tilted her head as she twisted the knot .
“Yes. Now flatten and smooth the top bit.”
She bit her bottom lip as she concentrated on it, and a small lock of hair fell out of her bonnet. The ribbons beneath her chin were easy to undo, and her hands froze when he attacked them, silently, surely. They went back to work as he lifted the bonnet off her head and set it on the bed beside him. Her lovely pink lips popped into the slightest smile, and his pulse tripped into a hot pace.
“Now?” she asked.
“Loop it around the bottom end and tighten.”
“Like this?” Golden eyebrows descending toward one another as she got everything wrong.
“No.” He rested his hands atop hers. “More like this.” He guided her through the motions with light pushes and taps, her skin satin. His need rampant and galloping closer to the point of no control.
From a pair of hands.
A pink smile.
And a lock of hair curled across this woman’s temple.
This lady’s temple.
Her hands froze just beneath his chin, and her gaze seemed to be located a notch higher than the knot at his throat—on his lips.
With the speed of the winter’s first snow drifting across the city flake by tiny flake, she bent and kissed him. Not cold at all, her lips, her breath. Warm and getting hotter.
“Isabella,” he breathed, chaining his hands around waist and pulling her between his legs.
A knock at the door ripped them apart like a powder keg exploding.
Isabella stared wide-eyed at the open bedchamber door. “That must be Mr. and Mrs. Barlow. Quickly. Make yourself presentable.” She held out his waistcoat, and he shrugged into it. He tried to put on his jacket by himself, but she whipped it away, bounced up to put a kiss on his cheek before she helped him into that as well.
She tidied his hair and straightened his cravat, and he put that rogue curl behind her ear and licked a speck of remaining chocolate from the corner of her lips. Her breath hitched, and he knew one desire—to throw her on the bed and damn the Barlows. But before he could move, she buttoned his waistcoat, smoothed his jacket, and he, giving up all hope, offered her his arm.
A domestic dance, every step cozy and comfortable and right. And every step of it making every part of his body more and more aware of every part of hers.
By the time they made it to the sitting-room door and flung it open, he was wishing for a hat to hold over his cock. God, don’t let anyone look down.
“Good morning,” Isabella said, stepping back to let them in. “Apologies for taking so long to answer the door. We do not have any help when we stay in these rooms.”
Mr. Barlow winked. “No need to apologize. We were young once, weren’t we, Mrs. Barlow?”
She preened as she took a proffered seat on the sofa. “We were young just this morning, Mr. Barlow.”
Mirth shook the suppressed line of Isabella’s smile.
Rowan cleared his throat and sat in a chair across from them. “It is time, I think, to talk business.”
Behind him, Isabella set a hand on his shoulder. “Too quickly, darling. Let them breathe first.” She sat in the chair next to him. “You must know my husband is not a patient man.”
“He’s been quite patient,” Mr. Barlow said.
“Incredibly so,” Mrs. Barlow agreed. “We have had a memorable time in London, and it is all because of you. I think you can guess what our decision is.”
“I don’t dare guess.” Rowan crossed one leg over the other. “But I do hope. Yet, I will not assume.”
“He needs to hear it from your lips,” Isabella said. “So do I, I’m afraid. My hopes are quite high. You must dash them now or not dash them at all.” She sounded authentically excited. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hands in her lap had turned to rigid fists stacked one atop the other like little stones.
Mrs. Barlow patted her husband’s hand where it rested on the cushion between them. “Do not torture them any longer, Mr. Barlow. Tell them or I will.”
Mr. Barlow pulled up tall, straightened his jacket, and seemed to take every remaining second before he finally said, “The Blue Sheep is yours. We are in complete agreement. You are the best pair to have it, to continue its legacy.”
“Oh!” Isabella jumped to her feet, covering her gasp with her bare hands before flinging herself at Rowan. “Oh, Rowan, you did it. You did it.”
He stood, pulling her up with him, holding her tight. Victory. Sweet victory. “ We did it, a chuisle ,” he whispered in her ear. And if they could do this, they could do anything. Isabella still clinging tightly to his neck, grinning wildly—the most kissable grin in the world, in history—he shook Mr. Barlow’s hand. “Thank you. You will not regret this.”
Isabella flung herself at Mrs. Barlow, and they hugged like old friends. “You will still be in Stevenage, yes? Or nearby? You must let me write to you to inquire about some things.”
“Certainly, certainly. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you without a guiding hand, though after seeing the Hestia, I doubt your husband needs any guidance at all.”
“Come, love,” Mr. Barlow said, stealing her away from Isabella. “It’s time we leave and let them celebrate.” He winked at Rowan, and Mrs. Barlow waved until the door closed behind them.
He’d done it. “It’s mine.”
“It is. I knew you would do it.”
He captured her hands in his. “I could not have done it without you.”
“Of course not.” She preened, but then she wrapped her arms around his waist and set her cheek on his chest. “We can do anything together.”
Could they? Even overcome the vast ocean between them?
“You’ve gone all hard, and not in a good way,” she said, setting her pointy chin on his chest. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m of two minds right now. One is telling me to send you away and get to work on the Blue Sheep. The other is telling me to toss you over my shoulder, take you into my bedchamber, and celebrate in a much less laborious way.”
“That one. I agree with that one.”
He drew a knuckle down the line of her face. “We should not. You should not even be here. How is it that you escape the ducal clutches so well and so often?”
“My Great-Aunt Millicent is in charge of our day-to-day comings and goings, but she is often distracted. She likes to stay out all night gambling and to sleep all day. My sisters are just as… unconventional as I, and we quite do as we please. The naughty books I told you about… we used to loan them out to other ladies of the ton .”
Other ladies of the ton. “You speak so easily of the upper echelons of society. Because you belong to them. I do not. You are a fish, Isabella, the ton your water. I am a bird or a dog or some other creature that would drown where you thrive.”
“That is what you took away from my confession? You are a different sort of creature, Rowan. Most would be sputtering about the illicit enterprise of distributing naughty books to seemingly innocent ladies.”
“That rather impresses me. I knew you were intrepid. What baffles me is how. Your brother does not keep you locked up? Aren’t you supposed to be married or betrothed to some fellow who can further the duke’s financial or social standing?”
“My mother always said my sisters and I would choose our own husbands. My brother has maintained that stance in her honor.”
“He’s unconventional, too, then.”
She tilted her head. “Perhaps. Not so much as his sisters, though. It’s our fault he’s in trouble, our fault he may have to marry a woman he does not love. The letter Mr. Haws has is about our little lending library.”
“Hell.” Everything she’d ever told him clicked into place with the truth of her title. A duke’s sisters lending out naughty books—what a scandal. And the man was willing to marry to keep his sisters’ reputations intact. He couldn’t help but admire that. “You have just as much to lose with this letter, Isabella. It’s not simply your brother. You say you have seven sisters, three of them married, one engaged. That means three more are unattached, and with your social standing, such a scandal could make that an impossibility. If your brother does not wed Mr. Haws’s daughter, you will suffer.”
“Love finds a way past scandal. ”
“You believe that?”
She nodded. “My sisters do, too. We have our parents to thank for that belief.”
“Such a scandal would pain you more than you let on.”
“Me? Do not worry about me. I already have a suitor.” She grinned. The imp. But then her grin flickered like a dying candle. “Don’t I?”
“Isabella.”
She pulled from his embrace. “I do not like how you say my name, Mr. Trent.”
“The admiral and Aunt Lavinia expect it. After yesterday. They expect you and I to… marry.”
“I have a choice in who I wed. So do you. I’ll not marry an uninterested fellow.”
“Uninterested?” Uninterested like a hungry fox is uninterested in its next meal. “Until yesterday, I had fully planned on marrying you.”
“Until yesterday? I would like to know what has changed.”
“Everything, Lady Isabella.”
She wound her way to the window and brushed the curtain aside to peer down onto the street. “What would you do if we married?”
She would just ignore, then, his valid reservations. He could humor her. For now. “What would I do? Live happy. Bed you often. Learn from you. Spoil you. Watch you spend lazy days with my aunt and see how the admiral becomes putty in your hands. I’d bundle you into my coach and take you to each inn I intend to buy so you can charm the owners and offer your opinion on improvements. I’d be grouchy, but one look from you would soothe me. And if I ever found you cleaning chamber pots, I’d—”
She pressed a palm to the glass, her body half silhouetted by the heavy curtains and half by the light streaming in. Her eyes, reflected hazy in the window, seemed distant, unreadable.
“And what would you do if we wed?” he asked.
“Live happy. Be bedded often. Introduce you to my family. My sisters would tease you, and my brothers-in-law invite you into their little club with my brother. Do you like coffee? They confer once a week at a coffee shop to talk about whatever it is husbands talk about when not hovering over their wives. I’d gladly follow you to every inn and charm and take notes and enjoy the coach rides home.” She sauntered toward him, and when she stood just in front of him, she drew a heart on his chest with the tip of her finger. “I’d certainly roll my eyes when you are grouchy, and I would not mind never cleaning a chamber pot again, but… I will not give up gathering information.”
“Gossiping, you mean.”
“A crude term for an important social function. So much is kept from us—women. It is no wonder we must resort to more nefarious means of knowledge accumulation. And I won’t stop. When we marry.”
“I suppose you’d need a husband who didn’t mind.”
“Certainly.”
“No telling where you’ll find one of those.” He didn’t mind. Not one bit. As long as he had her.
“Are you teasing me?”
“I would think not. Where would I have learned how to do something like tease ?” He wrapped an arm around her, splayed his hand wide on her lower back.
“You are teasing. I think I like it. I’ll add it to the list of things I like about you.”
“You’ve a list? What’s on it?”
“Teasing, as I just said. And I like how your hand feels on my back. I like your kisses. And I like how you sneeze in the sun. Adorable.”
“Irritating.”
“I like as well to hear you tell stories. Your voice makes shivers creep up my spine. I like how you trust me to help you in serious matters and how you seek out my opinion. I like how you speak of Mrs. Garrison and the admiral with pure affection in your voice. I don’t think you know it’s there. I like that, too. It’s also adorable.”
“You’re lying. I do not give my emotions away so easily.”
She flattened her hands against his chest, right next to where his heart raced. “You’re lying to yourself. You do not hide them so well as you think. Like right now. I can tell by the pounding of your heart you are not unaffected by my nearness.”
He swallowed. “There is not a distance you could travel where I would be unaffected by you. Isabella is in the world, and I am mad with desire for her. For you.”
“Well then, let me prove to you just how well we will work together.”
He lowered, the tip of his nose almost touching the tip of hers. “And how will you do that?”
“By keeping you sane and kissing you.” She kissed his chest first, then the tip of his chin, his nose, his forehead. Then she dragged her lips down to meet his and cast him entirely under her spell.