To Sin With A Stranger (4 page)

Still, she always accepted any invitation Minister Cornelius Carington’s notoriety in the House of Commons garnered the two of them. She and her father were all that was left of their once happy family.

Everything was different for them, now that her mother had died. Her father spent full days and nights at Parliament, often failing to return home, all the while growing more and more embittered with life, and intolerant of others. She tried not to give her father reason to be disappointed in her, at least not more than her sex already had, but somehow she always managed to do just that.

Tonight, it seemed, would be no different. From the corner of her eye, she observed a gentleman trying to conceal that he was jabbing a finger toward her, while conversing with a gaggle of snickering matrons and their escorts. He raised his fist before the shortest of the ladies standing near and drew it back, then let it fly, jerking it away a scant second before it hit her nose. They all laughed.

Criminy. A tickle coursed up Isobel’s throat as she realized that the gentleman was recounting her…exhibition…at the Pugilistic Club. Of course, that was it. Why she hadn’t done anything the least bit scandalous since then.

Truth to tell, she had been rather amazed that her father hadn’t already heard of her impulsive entry into the club to request money from the clodpates inside. Those men obviously had so much, they were willing to throw it away on two brutes pounding each other.

She glanced back at the gentleman, and as if his report was a pebble tossed into a pond, she watched the gossip spread into the crowd in ever-widening circles. It was only a matter of time before the story reached her father. “Oh, that wretched louse,” she ground out beneath her breath as she quickly turned to scan the room for her father.

She had certainly fooled herself by thinking he mightn’t hear of what she’d done. What a goose she had been!

Then she spied him near the doorway and began to glide toward him, not wishing to draw any more attention than she already had. Why, if she was quick about it, mayhap she could convince him that she had a pain in her head and they ought to leave. It was possible he would never hear about the incident with the fighter on the stage.

By the time she reached her father, his jowls were red and wobbling with anger—but amazingly he did not seem angry with her. “I cannot believe any of the patronesses, not even Lady Sefton, would invite a common bruiser into our gentle fold,” he was saying to Sir Rupert Whitebeard. “But there he is, and it looks as though he’s brought a half-dozen seconds.”

Her father caught notice of her then and grabbed her arm. He moved his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Isobel, stand by my side; do not even turn your head toward the door. Your name cannot survive additional scandal.”

Isobel did not argue. He was entirely right, but she had to look, had to see whose reputation instilled such loathing in her father.

And so she straightened her arm and, as a ruse, allowed her reticule to slip to the floor. “Oh dear,” she muttered, and then bent to retrieve her bag before her father was able.

As she rose, her gaze flitted toward the doorway, and her eyes met
his
—the mannerless, wicked, impudent brute who’d humiliated her at the club. Behind him was a collection of the tallest, most beautiful beings she had ever seen. The women were the height of most men, their features delicate and perfect. The men were giants, at least a foot taller than any other gentlemen in the assembly room. Like those of the fighter himself, their muscles were pronounced beneath their dark blue coats, protruding like great river stones embedded in a shallow creek.

She sucked a deep breath into her lungs. My word, where had these huge, beautiful creatures come from? The tickle that had lodged in her throat moments ago suddenly plummeted into her chest and then expelled itself in a hail of coughs that drew the attention of several members of the ton standing nearby. Unfortunately, it also brought her to
his
notice.

One corner of the fighter’s lips lifted in a cocky grin, and he tipped his head toward her.
Lord above, he’s recognized me. Perfect. Just what I need this night.

Isobel straightened her back and cast her eyes to the floor, as though to confirm that nothing had spilled from her reticule.

In the periphery of her vision, she saw that he and his party of gods and goddesses had been greeted by Lord and Lady Carsden.

“Father, my—my head pains me. May we adjourn for the evening?” Isobel wrapped her hands around her father’s arm, hoping to charm him into sharing her thinking, the way she’d been able to do before their lives had changed forever…when her parents learned her brother had been killed at Corunna.

Sir Rupert chuckled. “Miss Isobel, if you were to leave, how will I ever convince my Christiana to stay?”

“Christiana?” Isobel’s gaze swept the assembly room until she saw her dear friend leaving the dance floor, and a handsome young buck in her wake.

“Ah, here she comes now.” Sir Rupert nodded his head toward her. “Are you sure, Miss Isobel, I can’t persuade you to stay a moment longer?”

Isobel didn’t know what to say. The brute could approach at any moment. “I—I…”

Her father cleared his throat. “I think she is quite right in wishing to leave. The company tonight is not what it once was.”

Sir Rupert shook his head. “Carington, that is where you and I disagree. For you see, the fighter, that young man, will be a duke.”

“A d-duke?” Her father could not seem to form additional words. His lips moved and his cheeks bounced, but he said nothing.

“The bruiser, as you put it, is Sterling Sinclair, Marquess of Blackburn. Can you not see the enormous diamond on his ring?”

“I can, what of it?” Carington asked sourly.

“It is the Sinclair diamond. Come now, have you truly not heard tale of it? It is presented by the duke to his heir apparent on the day he reaches his majority.” Sir Rupert chuckled. “You do spend too many hours in the House of Commons, don’t you, Carington? Ought to reward yourself with a few more social gatherings, like your Isobel.”

Isobel smiled politely. She had heard of the Sinclair diamond, but never in her wildest imaginings had she guessed
he
was the heir everyone gossiped about of late.

Miss Christiana Whitebeard skipped the last few steps that stood between her and Isobel. “There you are. Where have you been hiding? On the dance floor, making some poor soul fall in love with you? Oh, do tell me it is so…for once.”

Isobel’s cheeks heated. “No, nothing so grand, I fear. Father and I were about to leave.”

“No, no, you can’t. The Sinclairs are here!” Christiana caught Isobel’s arm and without a thought, pulled her away from her father. “Haven’t you heard?”

“I have no interest in these…Sinclairs.” Without meaning to, Isobel frowned at Christiana.

“Not interested in the Sinclairs? Why, you must be mad. Just
look
at them!”

Isobel let her gaze flit to the doorway once more. He was still looking at her. Heat surged through her body. She tore her gaze away. “What about them?”

“Have you ever seen such an amazingly handsome family?” Christiana gave an exaggerated sigh. “I haven’t.”

Isobel extricated her arms from Christiana’s. “They may be beautiful, but I know for certain that Sterling Sinclair, the Marquess of Blackburn, is the most ill-mannered man in all of England.”

“I heard about your encounter with him at the Pugilistic Club.” Christiana covered her mouth with her gloved hand and laughed. “Why, pray, would you ever decide that entering a gentlemen’s establishment, a sparring studio where men are often half naked, would be a prudent thing to do?”

Isobel shrugged. “It was impulsive. I do not need to be reminded of my folly. I saw gentlemen of Society crowding into the Pugilistic Club—and I knew that while so many widows’ and orphans’ stomachs were empty, these men were heading into a club to throw away money as though it meant nothing! The thought even angers me now.”

“Well, what did you receive in exchange for your daring?” Christiana raised her eyebrows as though to wait for a reply, except she didn’t bother herself with the waiting part. “Nothing,” she said abruptly.

“Not true.” Isobel smirked. “The Widows of Corunna Charitable Foundation received a tidy donation the very next day. Someone in the club heard me. Someone with heart—even if he hadn’t the sense not to frequent the Pugilistic Club.”

“Well, your father must have forgiven you.” Christiana leaned close to Isobel and lowered her tone so that no one nearby would hear her next words. “I suppose requiring you to attend this ball was your father’s punishment.”

“He has yet to learn of that particular indiscretion.” Isobel glanced at the doorway again, then back at Christiana. “I do wish the Sinclairs would move farther into the assembly room, so my father and I may pass through the doors without their notice!”

Christiana redirected her gaze toward the door. “Hmm. The fighter is watching you.”

“I know.” She fought the urge to look up at him. “Which is why I must leave, directly.”

“Oh, Issy, what I wouldn’t trade to be you tonight.” Christiana clasped her hands over her heart. “He is so beautiful…but so broken. It’s every woman’s dream, to heal a man with her love.”

Isobel wrinkled her nose at Christiana’s nonsensical fantasy. “What are you prattling on about? Is it not evident that I despise that man?”

“How can you when you’ve heard about the Sinclair family?” Christiana’s lips turned downward, and she clasped her free hand over her heart dramatically. “It’s really quite tragic.”

Isobel shook her head. “I do not know what you mean.”

Christiana’s eyes went as wide as the mouth of a goblet, and she pulled Isobel with her into the nearest corner of the assembly room. “Truly, you have not heard?”

“I vow, I have not.” Isobel tried to pull away, but Christiana tugged her back.

“I must tell you then. Why, it may change everything.” Christiana turned her head and nodded toward the Sinclairs. “They are known as the Seven Deadly Sins.” It appeared to Isobel that her friend was trying very hard not to show her glee in being able to share a juicy bit of gossip with her.

“What do you mean?” Isobel could not help but mentally count the number of Sinclairs standing near the doorway.
Seven.

“It’s true. Word over scandal broth is that the Duchess of Sinclair died birthing the twins, Lord Killian and Lady Priscilla. It is said that their father mourned deeply, finally retreating to the comfort of drink, and for years allowed the seven children to run wild, do whatever they pleased.”

Isobel lowered her head. She well understood losing a mother and the devastating effect death can have on what is left of a family. Heat needled the backs of her eyes. Unbidden, her mind recalled the night her mother had slipped irretrievably into grief—and, by her own hand, had put an end to her pain and sense of loss, forever.

“Before long, all of Edinburgh Society referred to the ill-behaved Sinclair children as the Seven Deadly Sins.”

“That’s horrible. They’d lost their mother…and their father to drink.” Isobel glanced at the fighter again, this time with a little compassion and understanding.

Christiana squeezed Isobel’s arm, forcing her attention back to the story she was telling. “There is more. As the Sinclair children grew older, they seemed to embrace the sins Society had labeled them with. Sterling, the Marquess of Blackburn, is cursed with greed.” Christiana turned her eyes toward the fighter, and Isobel followed her gaze. “Lady Siusan epitomizes sloth, and Lady Ivy, the copper-haired beauty, envy.”

“This is nonsense.”

“Is it?” Christiana continued. “Lord Lachlan is a wicked rake. No wonder his weakness is lust. Lord Grant, the one with the lace cuffs, is said to have a taste for luxury and indulgence. His sin is gluttony. The twins are said to be the worst of all.” She feigned a shudder.

“Why do you say that?” Isobel pinned her friend with her gaze. “What are their supposed sins?”

Christiana raised her nose toward the Sinclair with a sheath of hair so dark that it almost appeared a deep blue. “Lord Killian’s sin is wrath. Whispers suggest that he is the true fighter in the family, but his anger is too quick and fierce. Why, there is even one rumor that claims that he actually killed a man who merely looked at his twin sister! That’s her, there. Lady Priscilla. Just look at her with her haughty chin turned toward the chandelier—here, in a room full of nobility! Her sin is, quite clearly, pride.”

“Nonsense! I do not believe it,” Isobel countered. “I do not believe any of the story. The tale is naught but idle gossip.”

“I believe it.” Christiana set her one hand on her hip and waved the other in the air as she spoke. “Why else would they have come to London, if not to leave their sinful reputations behind in Scotland?”

“I am sure I do not know.” Isobel saw Christiana’s jaw drop, and then felt the presence of someone behind her.

“Perhaps I have come to London to ask you to dance with me, lassie.” His rich Scottish brogue resonated in her ears, making her vibrate with his every word.

Isobel whirled around and stared up into the grinning face of none other than the marquess.

“I apologize, I would address you by name, but alas, I don’t know what it is. Only that you are easily the most beautiful woman in this assembly room.” Before she could blink, he reached a bare hand toward her, startling her. He saw her staring at it and was compelled to explain. “I beg your pardon.” He moved his hands away, but held his right fist before her as though he meant it as proof of his coming assertion. “My hands are too swollen and injured to fit into gloves. The patronesses understand my lack of gloves has nothing to do with lack of respect.” He chuckled softly. “And there are some advantages to forgoing gloves.” Within an instant, he raised his knuckles, stitched with black threads, and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek—just as he’d done at the club. He sucked in a surprised breath. “English lasses don’t stir me the way you do. You must be a wee bit Scottish.”

Isobel gasped, drew back her own hand, and gave his cheek a stinging slap. “My lord, you overstep!”