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Authors: Adrienne Basso

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BOOK: His Wicked Embrace
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For one hysterical minute, Isabella panicked, thinking the valet had discovered the missing bed linen from the earl's chamber. Thoughts of an embarrassing scene filtered through her mind, but she soon realized that absent sheets would hardly send the unflappable Mr. Jenkins into such a tizzy.
“What has happened, Jenkins? Is it the children?” Damien's face contorted with concern.
“Catherine and Ian are fine,” Jenkins assured his employer. He paused a moment to catch his breath. “A carriage has pulled into the drive. I swear, you will be astonished when I tell you who is riding inside.”
“How cruel of you to ruin my little surprise, Jenkins,” a strong male voice drawled from the open doorway, making his presence known.
Three heads turned in unison to view the speaker. Jenkins looked both worried and shocked, while Damien's steel-gray eyes darkened noticeably with anger. Isabella looked closely at the stranger, beholding a fashionably dressed man, probably in his mid-thirties, of average height, with fair hair, a pleasant though not exactly handsome face, and an erect bearing. Since no one had yet spoken his name, she had no earthly idea who he might be.
Damien stared incredulously at the man lounging in the doorway for several seconds before his anger exploded.
“Poole, you mangy mongrel. What in God's name are you doing here!” The earl leapt from his chair and lunged toward the stranger.
Isabella let out an involuntary screech at Damien's violent movement, but Jenkins apparently anticipated the earl's reaction. Moving swiftly, Jenkins placed himself between the two men, planting his hands firmly on Damien's wide shoulders. “He would like nothing better than to provoke you,” the valet whispered sharply. “For pity's sake, Damien, don't give him the satisfaction.”
Ignoring the servant's advice, Damien attempted to move around Jenkins, but the valet successfully blocked his way.
“I give you fair warning,” Damien snapped “Remove yourself from my house. Immediately!”
“I have traveled a good distance to see my sister's children. And I have no intention of leaving until I do.”
Lord Poole! Isabella's eyes widened in amazement as she realized the stranger's identity. It was no wonder Damien and Jenkins were acting so oddly. Looking back and forth between the earl and Lord Poole, she clearly read the smoldering animosity. Isabella moved forward, hoping to somehow lend her assistance. Turning toward Lord Poole, she said beseechingly, “Perhaps it would be best if you called on us another day, sir.”
At the sound of her gentle voice, Poole broke eye contact with the earl and focused his attention on the woman who spoke. He had absently noted her presence when he first entered the room, but had paid her little heed. All his attention had been centered on Damien.
Turning his head aside, Lord Poole looked curiously down at Isabella. What little color he had in his face quickly drained away.
“My God,” he exclaimed in shocked disbelief. He took a small step toward her and reached out to touch her arm. “Emmeline? Can it truly be you?”
“If you so much as lay a finger on her, Poole, I shall take great delight in breaking it,” Damien declared, his voice low and lethal.
“Emmeline?” Lord Poole repeated softly, ignoring the earl's threats, his deep blue eyes, never wavering, fixed on Isabella.
For a split second, Isabella wished she possessed the fortitude to enact the charade. How simple life would be for everyone, she thought morosely, if she was in truth the damnable Emmeline.
“ 'Tis said I bear a distinct resemblance to your sister, Lord Poole,” Isabella replied steadily. “You are hardly the first person to remark upon it.”
Isabella threw a challenging stare at Damien. He frowned at her, the firm set of his jaw declaring his determination to neither agree nor disagree with her remarks.
Isabella had no choice but to introduce herself. “I am Isabella Browning, Lord Poole. Governess to your niece Catherine and nephew Ian.” She would have offered her hand in greeting, but she was afraid Damien would not allow it.
Lord Poole looked puzzled, and for a minute or two was quiet as he weighed the introduction heavily in his mind. Then, giving Isabella a pensive, but not unfriendly look, he asked, “Are you really the governess?”
“Yes, she is,” Damien forced out through tight lips.
Lord Poole's hollow laugh rang out loudly. “God almighty, Saunders, only you would be perverse enough to hire a governess who is the very image of my late sister.”
“Matters of my household are no concern of yours, Poole,” Damien retorted hotly. He definitely did not like the marked interest Poole was displaying toward Isabella. In another moment he half expected Poole to bow ceremoniously and kiss her hand in greeting. He doubted he would be able to control his temper if Poole actually touched her.
Shoving Jenkins out of the way, Damien stood toe to toe with his uninvited adversary. The sound of laughter died quickly as the room vibrated with their barely leashed hostility. The intense dislike between the two men was a tangible thing.
A muscle leaped in Lord Poole's jaw, but he held his tongue. Damien's temper burned brightly in his gray eyes, and his fists were clenched at his sides.
Jenkins scowled at the two men, knowing the slightest hint of an insult, spoken or gestured, would erupt in pandemonium. Moving close to the earl he whispered, “Remember, Damien. Keep thy friends close, and thine enemies closer.”
The valet's words caused Damien to hesitate, then capitulate. Jenkins was right. Lord Poole had already declared his intention to visit Catherine and Ian. Damien knew from experience that Poole would not be dissuaded once his mind was set. He could keep a far better watch on Poole's activities if the man was nearby. Yet the thought of sharing his roof with his former brother-in-law left a decidedly sour taste in the earl's mouth.
Slowly Damien's expression changed. He shrugged his shoulders. “If you truly have come all this way to see Catherine and Ian, I shall not prevent it,” he announced magnanimously. “In fact, I insist you stay at The Grange with us.” Damien's smile was lethal.
Poole cleared his throat and fixed Damien with a penetrating look. “What a surprisingly civilized thing to do,” Lord Poole replied smoothly. “Naturally I shall accept.”
And then, to everyone's mutual astonishment, Lord Poole smiled at Damien and offered his hand. Damien ignored it, but after a censoring glance from Jenkins, the earl grudgingly accepted.
“I feel certain this will be a most enlightening visit,” Lord Poole announced, his blue eyes never leaving Isabella. “Most enlightening.”
Chapter Sixteen
Isabella was fully prepared to despise Lord Poole. In a perverse way, she was almost looking forward to it. Here at last was something tangible toward which to project her feelings of anger and frustration. While it was true that the entire blame for Isabella's current predicament could hardly be placed at Lord Poole's feet, his accountability in her troubles was still significant and Isabella intended to make full use of it. Yet one obstacle to her plan quickly became apparent. Lord Poole proved to be both a charming and a likeable man.
“I've brought some trinkets for the children,” Lord Poole ventured from the schoolroom. doorway. “If you have no objections, I'd very much like to give these gifts to my niece and nephew.”
He stood a respectful distance away, clearly awaiting permission to enter the schoolroom. Isabella could not think of a valid reason to refuse his simple request without appearing shrewish.
“We have finished with our lessons for this afternoon. Please, come in, Lord Poole,” Isabella invited in a chilled tone. “Catherine, Ian, step forward so I may present you properly. This gentleman has traveled all the way from London to visit you. He is your Uncle ... ?” Isabella turned a questioning eye to Lord Poole.
“Thomas,” he supplied readily. “I am your Uncle Thomas. It would please me greatly if you would address me as such.”
Lord Poole entered the room casually, his arms laden with several parcels of various shapes and sizes. A few were tied with string, and one large box sported an impressive red bow with matching ribbons. Both Catherine and Ian moved toward the stranger curiously.
Isabella noted that Lord Poole had changed his travel-stained clothes and was now elegantly garbed in immaculate doeskin breeches, a starched white linen shirt, an impressive waistcoat . patterned in silver and gold, and a handsomely fitted dark brown jacket. The intricate tie of his cravat suggested that Lord Poole's valet had also made the journey from London. No man could be so well turned out in such a short span of time without expert assistance, and Isabella highly doubted Jenkins had offered his services to their unexpected guest.
Isabella studied him openly as he presented his gifts with a flourish to Catherine and Ian, allowing that Lord Poole was an attractive man, in a polished and florid way.
“Oh, look, Miss Browning,” Ian called out excitedly as he pulled out a lethal-looking sword from the box his uncle gave him.
“My goodness, is that blade made from steel?” Isabella questioned in alarm, attempting but failing to extract the toy from Ian's grip.
“ 'Tis made of wood,” Lord Poole responded, “and painted rather cleverly to resemble metal. I'll own I know nothing of small children, Miss Browning, but even I possess the good sense not to purchase something that would pose a danger to my nephew.” He took the sword from Ian and swung it experimentally in the air. It made a swishing sound. “I saw the sword in the window of a shop on Bond street and couldn't resist buying it. It seemed like great fun. I do hope you will enjoy it, Ian.”
“Oh, I shall,” Ian assured his uncle reverently, his young eyes shining with pleasure.
Clearly impressed by her brother's toy, Catherine anxiously tore into the large box with the red bow. Her disappointment was audible as she drew out an exquisitely dressed doll, its long golden hair elaborately coifed.
“It is very pretty, Uncle Thomas,” Catherine said quietly, replacing the doll back in the box. “Thank you.”
Ignoring Catherine's lukewarm response, Lord Poole hunkered down on the floor beside Ian and Catherine, intent on making a positive impression. “There are several more boxes to open, children. I certainly hope you will find something more to your liking, Catherine,” Lord Poole said gently.
Backing away, Isabella allowed them a bit of privacy as she set the schoolroom to rights, but her eyes and ears strained often to the group on the floor. It was obvious that Lord Poole had indeed spoken the truth. He had little experience with children, but clearly he wanted very much to increase his knowledge.
A gift box crammed full of intricately painted toy soldiers met with a cry of delight from both Ian and Catherine. Riflemen, horse soldiers, infantry, even artillery was brought forth and exclaimed over. Isabella could almost feel Lord Poole's pleasure at the genuine smile Catherine bestowed upon her uncle. The three began an immediate campaign, pressing the new recruits into active duty.
After a time, Lord Poole stood to stretch his cramped limbs. He noticed that Isabella had remained in the room, and with Ian and Catherine effectively occupied, he seized the opportunity for a private conversation with their intriguing governess.
“You must excuse my forward manner, Miss Browning,” Lord Poole insisted, as he drew himself in front of Isabella. “Your resemblance to my late sister is nothing short of remarkable. Please tell me something of your family history. I feel certain we must in some way be related.”
Isabella deliberately swept her head aside, shielding her eyes. Recalling the many hours she had spent staring at the alluring painting of Emmeline, she admitted it was an idea that often crossed her mind. There was a similarity between her and Emmeline, a resemblance around the mouth and nose. And of course they shared an identical rare shade of violet eyes. And Isabella did not know the identity of the man who had sired her.
Perhaps she was related to Lord Poole and his sister. The notion piqued Isabella's interest and stirred her fears, yet she felt uncomfortable discussing the matter with a total stranger.
“We have never met before, Lord Poole,” Isabella said softly. “If we were in fact related, I feel certain we would be acquainted.”
Lord Poole shook his head in doubt. “The resemblance,” he repeated softly. His finger reached out and grasped Isabella's chin firmly. He slowly lifted her face toward the light. “You are her very image.”
“Only a rather bizarre coincidence, I am sure,” Isabella insisted, pulling away from him. Lord Poole was beginning to make her edgy. He had prominent, light blue eyes and a way of dropping his lids over them to effectively shield his expression when he desired. Yet, more often than not, his light blue eyes held a faint look of mockery and his lips an ironic twist as he skillfully probed a reluctant Isabella about her past.
“Where did you first meet Damien? In London?”
Before Isabella could reply, she heard a muffled curse behind her and turned to find Damien watching them with a cryptic expression on his handsome face.
“I so hope I am not interrupting anything of importance,” Damien drawled.
“I was just leaving,” Lord Poole interjected smoothly. “I look forward to continuing our discussion at dinner this evening, Miss Browning.” With a lithe movement, he bowed at Isabella, then turned toward the children to bid them good-bye. Grinning slyly, Lord Poole sauntered out the door, all the while pointedly ignoring the earl.
Isabella stepped forward hesitantly to face Damien, half afraid of the anger she would see in his smoldering gray eyes. But the earl seemed unimpressed by his brother-in-law's snub. Instead, Damien's attention was centered entirely on her, casting her a look that gave her a melting feeling right down to her toes. Isabella's cheeks heated with the memory of the torrid, intimate passion they had shared, the message in Damien's eyes conveying his strong recollection of that same event.
“I thank you for not further provoking Lord Poole,” Isabella said in a desperate tone, determined to ignore the strong sensual current between them. “I know what an effort it took.”
“Yes, it is indeed difficult for me. Behaving in a civilized and tactful manner is quite wearing,” Damien remarked with a wicked glint of amusement in his grey eyes.
“Especially when one is so unaccustomed to acting civilly, my lord,” Isabella promptly retorted.
Damien merely smiled at her cheeky response, pleased that she felt comfortable enough to engage in verbal fencing. His pride was still smarting from her refusal of his marriage proposal, and having fixed the idea firmly in his mind, Damien was now determined to have Isabella as his wife. He knew he could never win her over if he allowed Isabella to withdraw completely from him.
“Good gracious, what is all this?” the earl exclaimed distractedly as he noted the new toys and boxes strewn about the room.
“Uncle Thomas brought them for us,” Ian explained. He picked up his new sword and lunged toward the earl. “Isn't it grand, Father? I'll wager you have one just like it.”
“My saber is safely packed away in the attic, where it belongs,” Damien replied as he neatly dodged his son's enthusiastic sword thrust. “For pity's sake, be careful with that thing, Ian.” The earl's scowl deepened as he stared at the offending toy. “On no account will you aim this sword at your sister, or Miss Browning, or the servants, or any other living creature. Is that clear?”
“I am sure Ian will exercise great restraint when playing with his new toy, won't you, Ian?” Isabella said. Efficiently scooping up the soldiers from the floor, she quickly straightened out the room.
“It is nearly time for afternoon tea, children,” Damien remarked. “Run down to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Amberly she may serve tea for the four of us in the drawing room. I'm sure Lord Poole will be otherwise engaged and unable to join us. However, Miss Browning and I will be in the drawing room shortly.”
The room quieted when the children left. Damien peered curiously into the large open box on Isabella's desk, discovering Catherine's new doll.
“Poole always did have a keen eye for the expensive,” Damien said soberly. He experimentally tugged on a long golden curl that sprang instantly back to the doll's head upon release. “I suppose Catherine was enchanted.”
“Not especially,” Isabella replied. She carefully replaced the cover on the box, effectively hiding the toy. “I honestly think she would have preferred a sword like Ian's.”
“Don't tell Poole, or one will appear with the morning post,” Damien said with a mocking laugh.
“Your place in their affections is hardly threatened by a few toys.” Isabella reached out and softly stroked the earl's forearm, . sensing his discomfort. “Lord Poole cannot buy your children's regard, no matter how elaborate or expensive the gift.” “Perhaps,” the earl responded, his eyes troubled. “Yet he most assuredly will try.”
 
 
“This seems like a good spot, children,” Isabella announced. “Let's set up our picnic here.”
Last night's heavy rains had thoroughly soaked the ground, but the section of open meadow not far from the house Isabella had selected for picnicking was covered in thick grass. Brilliant late-afternoon sunshine and unseasonably warm spring weather had combined successfully to dry out the worst of the puddles, although there was a thin layer of mud clinging to Isabella's boots and hem.
As she arranged the blanket, Isabella conceded it was rather late in the day and a bit too soggy to be eating out of doors, but the children had been in such high spirits after meeting their uncle that it seemed like the perfect idea. An
al fresco
dinner. Away from the subtle tension and veiled hostility of the house. And the fresh air might even make Mrs. Amberly's overcooked fare a tad more appetizing.
“We shall double our blankets so the dampness of the grass will not seep through,” Isabella informed the children. “It will make for a cozier seating arrangement.”
As soon as the simple meal of cold beef, cheese, warm bread, and milk was unpacked the children began eating with gusto. Isabella poured herself a cool mug of cider and helped herself to a small wedge of cheese.
“I do wish you had allowed me to bring my new sword, Miss Browning,” Ian said between bites of beef. “This is the perfect place to play pirate attack.”
“Pirates is a stupid game,” Catherine sulked. “Ooooh, that's horrid, Ian. Don't talk when you have food in your mouth. I can see inside.”
“Hush now,” Isabella commanded softly, suspecting Catherine was more upset over not having a sword like her brother's than having to watch him eat his meal.
The children had quarreled heatedly over the toy after tea, leaving Isabella no choice but to confiscate it. She had hidden the sword in her room hoping, yet not really believing, that Ian would eventually forget about the cursed thing.
Deciding to take advantage of the momentary peace between the children, Isabella opened the large book she had brought and began reading aloud. The quiet meadow soon echoed with the soothing tone of her voice and the enthusiastic munching of her charges.
“An early evening picnic? Lucky for me, I've brought something to share. May I join you?”
The earl's startling appearance caused Isabella to lose her place in the story. Flustered, she repeated a sentence twice, then finally gave up and ceased reading.
The children clamored to their feet and eagerly embraced their father.
BOOK: His Wicked Embrace
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