Emma Jensen - Entwined (20 page)

Blushing and fumbling, she reversed the gown and quickly put it on. All the while, Nathan stood in the doorway, face not averted in the least. Of course he would not look away, she thought. He had no idea he had just walked in on her stark naked. The knowledge offered some comfort, but not enough.

"My lord, I did not hear you knock."

"I apologize. I assure you I did so."

Somewhat calmer now that she was covered, Isobel suggested that he sit. He did not.

"Thank you, but I won't stay. I only came to remind you that we are dining with my family tomorrow."

"I remember."

"Ah, yes, well, good."

For a moment, he looked very young and slightly lost, hands thrust into his dressing-gown pockets. Isobel deliberately kept her own gaze averted from the dusky, hair-sprinkled skin visible below the hem. Well, averted after that first glance. He had lovely feet.

Feet?
Dia,
she must be more rattled than she thought to have noticed.

But then, she was fast coming to the conclusion that Nathan was far more handsome than she had first thought. Still frightening, yes, when he was not charming her into witless stammering, but not at all hard on the eyes.

Clearing her throat, she managed, "Was there something specific you wished to discuss about tomorrow night?"

One of his lovely feet brushed against the other as he shuffled. "I-I suppose I ought to tell you about my siblings. I thought you would meet my sister tonight, but she was not in attendance."

"Nay. Your mother said she is at a party in Surrey."

"Inconsiderate," Nathan muttered, and Isobel smiled.

"She could not have been expected to know we were arriving in Town.

No one did."

"Mmm.
True. She will be there tomorrow, no doubt." There was a moment of silence, then he announced, "My brother will be there, too."

"William. Aye, so your mother said. He is in Town with his regiment."

"Ah... yes."

Isobel had never seen Nathan quite so awkward, and while she searched for an explanation, she found herself smiling with the unexpected pleasure of the moment. "Do you perhaps wish to tell me of William's mysterious experiments now?"

"Hmm?
Oh, no. No. Another time." He shook his head bemusedly, sending a lock of hair falling onto his forehead. "Well, then, I will bid you a good night. Again."

"And to you, Nathan. Again."

He turned as if to enter his chamber, then stopped. "How did you manage it, Isobel?"

"Manage what?"

"My father. I have never seen him take to anyone as he clearly has to you. Not even his own children."

She wanted to tell him just how very taken the duke was with his own children, but it did not seem quite the right moment. So she gave an airy laugh and answered, "Trout."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Trout," she repeated. "The fish. There's a strapping grand one mounted in his study. I merely mentioned my own fishing experiences. I've a fair hand with a rod, you know."

She thought she saw his chin jerk. Obviously fishing was not an activity in which proper English ladies participated. How very predictable. But he did not comment on her talent at all.

"You were in my father's study?"

"Aye, for a good hour."

"He
invited
you in?"

She smiled. "Nay, I invited myself. Your mother and I were passing by on a tour of the house. I daresay she wasn't planning on my darting into the study, but I saw your father at his desk and thought it would be a good time—"

"Isobel," Nathan interrupted, a rueful smile softening his features, "you are a wonder."

"I am glad you think so." Driven by some odd impulse, perhaps from that smile, Isobel crossed the room and, rising to her toes, brushed a light kiss over his jaw. "I am continually impressed by you, too." She retreated a few feet. "Sweet dreams to you, Nathan."

He muttered something in response and disappeared into his chamber.

One hand, she noticed as he went, drifted upward to touch the spot she had kissed.

Warmed and somehow giddy, Isobel wandered toward the window. She had discovered there were few stars to be seen in the London night, but she thought she would look anyway. There had been enough gratifying surprises in her day that she was ready to chance one more. She drew the curtain aside and peered out. It had rained since their return, laying a glossy sheen over the street. Under the streetlamp, the moisture glinted faintly. Not stars, certainly, but a pleasing sight nonetheless.

A slight movement caught her eye. Following it, she saw a shadow slipping into the darkness. Had someone been there, across from the house?

But nay, there was nothing now.

"If you can see stars on a rainy night, lass," she chided herself, "to be sure you'll be seeing ghosts next."

Amused with herself, she let the curtain fall and retreated to the warm comfort of her bed.

The duke was muttering again. Nathan, well used to his father's temperament, kept his attention fixed on his trout. He had not cared much in the last few months, but Isobel's entrance into his life had made him determined not to resemble some ravenous beast at meals. Besides, he did not think he would be able to explain a trail of spots and crumbs to his mother. She had drummed the importance of impeccable table manners into her children at a very early age and would certainly not countenance a lapse in her thirty-two-year-old son.

The duchess, however, was not paying attention. She was too busy explaining to Isobel, for the third time no less, that dearest William had been expected but was unavoidably detained.

"Detained by some high-stepping filly," the duke muttered. "What think you of that, Isobel? Damned poor excuse, if you ask me."

Nathan smiled into his wineglass. Isobel was at a rare loss for words. He took pity on her. "He means that quite literally, my dear. William has an unfortunate affinity for the Turf."

"Ah. I see." She was, no doubt, blushing. It had been an honest mistake, thinking the duke was referring to a filly of the two-legged variety. Nathan had seen other people do the same.

"Ain't the affinity that is unfortunate, boy; it's the gambling!"

"As you say, sir." Nathan turned back to Isobel. "I stand corrected. And I daresay the wagering would not be unfortunate, either, should he have a modicum of sense in the matter. My brother has a knack for picking any horse guaranteed to come in dead last."

Isobel, it seemed, had nothing to say about William's poor judgment.

The duke had a great deal to say, of course, but was forestalled by his wife's stern reproof. "This is hardly proper discussion for the table. Isobel, dear, you must tell us how you are finding London."

Nathan thought he heard Isobel mumble something in Gaelic. He would have to ask her to teach him some of the language. No doubt she had just given an amusing commentary on Town, and an astute one.

Aloud, she replied, "I've yet to see much beyond the house and the modiste's establishment, Your Grace."

"Mmm.
Yes. Well, that dress is most... becoming."

Isobel assumed the duchess would have much preferred another word.
Bright,
perhaps. The older woman would never stoop to saying
garish.
In truth, the vivid emerald crepe with its daffodil trim was a bit bright, but the modiste had assured her it was all the rage. And she liked bright colors.

"It is a lovely dress," came from across the table.

Isobel sent a grateful smile in her sister-in-law's direction. Lady Mariah was as much the image of her mother as Nathan was of the duke, but she had none of the cool reserve that accompanied the duchess's pale beauty.

She had welcomed Isobel with open arms and not hesitated to express what her parents could not.

"You have brought Nathan back to us," she had announced firmly,

"which proves you are, quite simply, perfect."

That, apparently, was that.

"You must introduce me to your modiste," she was saying now. "Mine does not do nearly so appealing a trim."

Isobel glanced down at the pretty, if rather ordinary embroidered ribbon trimming the bodice of her dress and smiled. Mariah's own gown was a delicate confection of gilt tissue and lace, and put one in mind of fairies.

Her compliment was little more than nonsense. Her kindness, however, was sincere and irresistible.

The duke's muttering increased in volume. He had clearly had enough of this particular subject. "Man can't even eat without having his ears filled with rubbish about flounces and feathers. Bad for the digestion, I say."

"We have mentioned neither flounces nor feathers, Papa," Mariah returned pleasantly, "and I feel compelled to mention that women cannot seem to have a peaceful meal without talk of horses, guns, and warfare. If you must have such conversation, you shall have to appeal to Nathan. We women find such things unsettling."

Her bright eyes convinced Isobel that very little would be unsettling.

Like her brother, Mariah was made of sterner stuff. It must have been difficult, though, for her to hear any talk of the war. Her husband was an officer, serving somewhere on the Peninsula.

"I must confess I am perfectly content to hear about fashion." Nathan's hand brushed Isobel's as he set aside his glass. "Isobel has given me new interest in the matter. Tell me, Mariah, what color would
you
call my wife's gown?"

"Green," was the pert retort.

"Bad for the digestion," the duke muttered, and tossed back his wine.

Supper was over soon enough, and the duke seemed no worse for the discussion. On the contrary, he patted his belly contentedly and glanced toward the sideboard with its port decanter. His gaze then slid to Nathan.

Isobel could see the contentment there, and the pleasure at what would be their time alone.

She would have very much liked to kick her husband soundly when he announced, "Since there are just the two of us men here, perhaps we could forgo formalities and accompany you ladies to the drawing room now."

Disappointment to one parent, joy to another. The duke's eyes closed wearily even as the duchess's lit up. "Of course, my dear. We should be delighted."

She led the way, chattering all the while. "We moved your Great-uncle Horace's painting from the drawing room, Nathan. No matter that he was a general in the nasty little spat with the Colonials; it was simply too grim a visage to have scowling down on one during tea."

"And to where did you move it, madam?"

"Oh, merely upstairs."

"To the darkest depths of the attics," was Mariah's cheerfully whispered addition.

"I felt it was time for a change." The duchess swept into the grand, and decidedly yellow, drawing room, the rest of the party behind her. "I covered that hideous paneling and moved the—"

"Furniture," Nathan muttered as he encountered some object that most certainly should not have been there.

Isobel was quick to his rescue as always, her shoulder fitting as if by nature under his. "Ottoman," she whispered. As he righted himself, she added softly, "A very ugly, very orange ottoman."

He laughed a good deal louder than he had intended. The dry pronouncement, in that soft Scottish voice, had done him in.

"What's the matter, boy?" the duke demanded. "Too much wine for you?"

"I beg your pardon, sir. It must have been." As Isobel discreetly led him to a settee where, if Nathan remembered correctly, the pianoforte had once been placed, he leaned down and whispered, "Can you see a small, painted table, the base of which is a trio of cherubs?"

"Mmm...
oh, aye, near the windows. 'Tis the same green as my brothers'

faces when they've had too much wine."

Nathan smiled. "An improvement, no doubt. It used to be purple."

The pianoforte had found a new home across the room. Mariah settled herself there and launched into a pleasant minuet. Mozart, Nathan decided, and wondered how long it would take for his father to begin snoring.

It was less than five minutes. Mariah, sighing in fond resignation, joined the family. "He never snored when you played the violin, Nathan."

"With good reason, sprite. No one could sleep with the dogs howling in misery."

"You play the violin?" Isobel was clearly amazed.

"Extremely badly, my dear. It was a short-lived musical career."

"Do you play, Isobel?" the duchess queried, raising her voice slightly, since the duke's snoring had taken on symphonic proportions.

"A little, but not well. We had a harpsichord on Skye. 'Tis my sister Margaret who—"

"You must play for us now!"

"Oh, I do not think—"

"There is ample music on the stand." The duchess was either ignoring her protestations or could not hear them.

"Yes, my dear, you must play. I have not yet had the pleasure of hearing you do so." Nathan, it seemed, was enjoying the exchange far too much.

"With good reason," Isobel mimicked quietly, then rose to her feet.

"Very well, then, but you'll be seeing to your own shins when we leave."

"Whatever did she mean by that, dearest?" the duchess inquired.

Nathan chuckled, then lied easily. "Madam, I have no idea."

Isobel took her seat at the pianoforte. She did not begin playing immediately, but instead took a long look at the Paget family tableau. They were a stunning group, to be sure, even the duke as he sprawled in his chair, mouth wide open. Stunning, and a wee bit complacent. Too complacent, she thought.

She knew precisely what she would play, and it would certainly not be found among the sheets of Bach and Haydn before her. Grinning, and offering a silent request for forgiveness, she struck the first chord.

"What?" The duke came awake with a jerk.

Mariah, on the verge of accepting a cup of tea from her mother, covered her smile with her hand. The duchess bobbled the china. Nathan laughed aloud.

Never had "The March of the MacLeoid," in the absence of pipes and drums, been played with such gusto. Never had Isobel enjoyed it nearly so much.

She finished with a flair—to complete silence other than Nathan's chuckling. Mariah, eyes bright, still had her hands clasped over her mouth.