Sunrise with a Notorious Lord Read online

  “I am doing no such thing, Lord Vanewright,” Isabel said primly. “Go home before the watch sees you and mistakes you for a housebreaker.”

  “Take pity on me, Isabel,” Vane entreated, his arms extended. “A few minutes so I may bid you a proper good night, and then I will take my leave.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the empty street. “Where is your coach?”

  “I told my coachman to drive onward and then circle back.” Hatless, he staggered back a step to keep his balance. “I did not want to cast suspicions on this house. I wouldn’t do that to you and your sister.”

  Isabel hesitated. “The hour is late.”

  “And yet, here we are, Isabel. You and I,” he pointed out unnecessarily. “Let me in. A few minutes. What harm can I do?”

  Her forehead wrinkled as she frowned at him with undisguised suspicion in her gaze. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes,” he conceded, “and you would be, too, after the day I’ve had.”

  Isabel bit her lower lip and cast a guilty glance in the direction of the study where she had abandoned a glass of cordial on the table. She was in no position to judge.

  “Delia is asleep, and I am not properly dressed for visitors.”

  Vane chuckled. It was low, sensual, and full of unspoken promise. Her stomach fluttered as warmth pooled in her limbs.

  “Since I have no intention of being proper, your state of dress hardly matters, does it?”

  * * *

  Madness had brought him to the Thornes’ residence. Madness and a considerable amount of brandy. When he had ordered his coachman to drive down Isabel’s street, he had told himself that he had no intention of stopping. Then he had noticed the oil lamp burning invitingly through the window of the study. Isabel had not retired for the evening.

  A sudden need to see her seized him by the throat. It prompted him to pound on the small trap door and to order his coachman to halt. He hastily disembarked from the coach before he could think of a single reason why he should not summon her to the window.

  As he had approached the town house, the small sliver of conscience he possessed almost hoped Isabel would have the good sense to turn him away. If she let him into her home, he was afraid he would not be able to keep his promise and leave.

  “I will use this poker if you misbehave,” she said fiercely.

  “I consider myself warned, Miss Thorne.”

  Isabel nodded. “Very well. Come to the door and I will let you into the front hall—but no farther. You may bid me good night and then take your leave.”

  “Upon my word,” he said humbly, praying he was telling the truth.

  A minute later, the front door opened. Isabel must have brought the oil lamp from the study and placed it on the small round table in the front hall to illuminate the interior.

  “It is fortunate you did not wake the entire household,” Isabel said in lieu of a greeting as she stepped aside so he could enter the hall. She promptly shut the door.

  “I will count my blessings later.” Vane reached up to remove his hat, and then remembered that he had left it in the coach. “Forgive the late hour. I was on my way home and saw the light in the study.”

  “The drive home took you down our street?” she said, sounding unconvinced.

  “This evening it did.”

  Perhaps it was impolite to scrutinize a lady in her current state of undress, yet Vane could not resist. She was captivating. Despite her protestations, Isabel’s attire covered her from her neck to her feet. She wore a simple white muslin dress—or perhaps it was her chemise. It was difficult to tell without untying the white pelisse robe decorated with plumetis embroidery. Even her arms were covered. Several layers of muslin, embroidery, and lace were denying him from even the slightest glimpse of the tempting flesh underneath. Fortunately, his experience with the female form was quite extensive, and no amount of muslin was likely to quell his curiosity or imagination.

  “So you’ve come to bid me good night,” she said crisply as she touched her hair in a nervous gesture.

  Isabel had forgotten to don her lace cap. She had braided her hair into a single plait. The heavy length fell over her right shoulder and over the soft curve of her breast. She had not braided her hair to entice, but the casual styling would have only been seen by her family, or a lover.

  Without thinking, Vane reached out and caught the plaited length of hair with his bare hand. Isabel gasped at his brazenness, but she did not pull away.

  “I have often wondered and I was correct. It does feel like silk,” he murmured, entranced by the texture and weight.

  She gently tugged her braid from his loose grasp. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

  The courteous question was meant to put distance between them. It was on the tip of his tongue to warn her that it was too late. After all, she was the one who had decided to open the door and invite him in.

  “Well enough, I suppose.” He shrugged. “And you?”

  “Pleasant.” Isabel crinkled her nose in a delightful manner and laughed. “Though it sorely tested my appreciation for the musical arts.”

  So she had attended the recital. If Vane had not been so furious after his encounter with his father, he might have sat beside her and discovered what she had found so amusing about the evening.

  “I had a nasty argument with my father this afternoon,” he admitted, surprised that he wanted to tell her about it.

  Isabel appeared to be equally taken aback. Her wary expression faded as concern weakened her resolve to keep her distance from him. “It is difficult to remain cross with the ones we love.”

  “You have a generous heart, Isabel,” he said, dragging his hand through his uncombed hair. “Unfortunately, I am not so forgiving.”

  She sighed, accepting that she could not dissuade him from his rigid stance. “A generous heart. Your mother paid me a similar compliment.”

  Suspicion roiled in his gut, mixing with the brandy. “When did you speak to my mother?”

  “At Lady Kerfoot’s house. I encountered her at the recital.”

  “Did she mention me or my father?”

  “Are you are referring to the argument that you had with your father?” She shook her head. “No, Vane, there would be no reason to discuss something so personal. Your mother loves you.”

  “My mother loves getting her way,” he said bitterly. As did his father.

  “Now you are being petulant and unjust.” Isabel walked over to the door. “Perhaps we should say good night before you decide to provoke a fight with me.”

  Vane backed her against the door before she could guess his intentions. “Too late,” he said, pinning her wrists over her head. “I have been fighting you since I saw you sitting on your pretty backside on the dirty floor of the dressmaker’s shop.”

  She glared up at him. “Fighting? I retrieved your precious snuffbox, you disagreeable and ungrateful man!”

  He leaned against her, holding her in place with his body. At once, he noticed that Isabel Thorne was not wearing stays. Instead of stiff whalebone, her soft breasts and belly molded against his body.

  “I have also been fighting myself,” he admitted. “I am so weary, Isabel.”

  There was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke. “You just need to sleep off the brandy.”

  Vane only wished it were so simple. “We both know it is more complicated than that, Isabel.”

  Her face blanched as a desperate look crept into her gaze. “You promised to go home straightaway.”

  With his fingers still gripping her wrists, Vane lowered her muslin-clad arms to her sides. He took a deep breath and savored the feel of her body against his. Isabel would not escape him until he was ready to let her go. “And so I shall, my lovely Isabel. All I require is a kiss, and then I shall take my leave.”

  * * *

  Isabel’s heart was pounding. She silently wondered if Vane could feel it. Despite their clothing, she felt every unyielding contour of h
is body as he pressed her against the door.

  Even so, she was not afraid. She would never have opened the door if she had truly feared for her safety. “Do I need to remind you, Lord Vanewright, that I belong to another?”

  “Ah, yes, you are referring to the mysterious gentleman who has almost committed himself to you, are you not?” His brandy-laced breath filled her nostrils.

  “He exists,” Isabel said tersely. After a fashion. “And I do not believe he would be pleased if I were kissing other gentlemen during his absence.”

  Vane grinned down at her. With his left forearm braced above her head, he used his other hand to caress her plaited hair. “Has your beloved gent seen you with your hair down, Isabel? Felt your body against his without your whalebone cage? Has he seen incredibly expressive brown eyes glow with desire in the middle of the night?”

  “Of course not! It would be unseemly to allow him such intimacies—” Her eyes rounded in dismay: She had unwittingly allowed him to trap her with her own words.

  “And yet, I have the pleasure of experiencing them all,” he said, his eyebrows coming together as he studied the soft uneven tail of her long braid. “Personally, I would not give a gentleman who can resist your wiles too much of my esteem. No offense, but the man sounds like an arse.”

  Isabel silently agreed. Mr. Ruddel was an arse. Fortunately, he was not her arse. Nonetheless, there was no reason to point out the fact that she had no intention of marrying the man. She had already revealed too much of her feelings to Vane.

  “Your opinion is duly noted, my lord.”

  He tickled her cheek with the end of her braid. She made a soft choking sound in her throat. If she were not so vexed with him, it might have been misconstrued as laughter. “Quit that at once!” she snapped, turning her face upward to avoid the itchy hairs.

  Vane’s mouth slanted over hers.

  Belatedly Isabel realized he had once again used trickery to get what he wanted from her.

  The kiss he had demanded. The kiss she had unintentionally promised.

  A gentle farewell as he made his way home in the darkness.

  Although it was difficult since her movements were hindered, Isabel closed her eyes and willed her body to relax. Reacting to the subtle changes, Vane shifted his stance and allowed her a little freedom before his hips pressed enticingly against hers. In tandem, his lips brushed hers, silently encouraging her to give him access.

  Of late, she seemed to be taking all sorts of risks. Reckless undertakings usually were met with disastrous results. Even knowing this, her lips parted and she took a small part of him inside of her. Isabel moaned as Vane stroked her tongue with his, a clever, tantalizing dance meant to imitate the mating of male and female flesh.

  Isabel was aware of the rigid rod pressing against her lower belly, of her own body’s response. There was an almost painful tightening between her legs and an answering wetness that might have shamed her if Vane knew of it.

  His right hand covered her left breast as Isabel opened her mouth, craving more than the teasing sweeps and flutters from his clever tongue. She suckled the nimble flesh and his fingers dug into the fabric of her pelisse robe.

  Neither one of them uttered a word. He had demanded a kiss, and those were the unspoken rules. If they ended the kiss, he would have to stop touching her. She would have to let him go.

  Isabel started when his callused hand found her bare breast. When had he slipped his fingers through the slit of her robe and under her chemise? Her nipple contracted as his fingers found her areola. Her breath caught in her lungs as his fingers glided over the tiny bumps that circled the aching flesh.

  Vane muttered an unintelligible oath against her lips as he reached between them and adjusted his swollen manhood. She bit his lower lip for slight separation and he returned the mild reprimand. Isabel moaned with pleasure when he pushed her against the door again. This time she felt the broad head of his manhood press into her. Even through the layers of fabric, she trembled as the blunted flesh found her womanly core.

  His hips ground against her in a rhythm that had her blindly reaching inside his evening coat and under his waistcoat. Isabel grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him closer. Vane’s hand cupped her breast as his thumb caressed her nipple until she thought she could not bear it.

  Their tongues tangled and all Isabel could think was that it wasn’t enough. She wanted more of him. Suddenly her clothes were too confining and she despised the limitations of her body. She wanted him inside her, so deep he would always be a part of her. Isabel wanted to drink him as if he were a potent wine until she was drunk with pleasure. Allow him to cover her like a sheet until his scent clung to her skin, marking her as his.

  Vane sensed her frustration. The frantic rocking of his hips told her that he hungered for the easing only her body could provide. Unlike her, he intended to do something about it. Without warning, he tore his mouth away from hers and ripped her pelisse robe and chemise with one violent tug, exposing her left breast.

  No, she thought wildly, the rules.

  She had forgotten that rules meant nothing at all to a Lord of Vice.

  Every cell in her body was vibrating with need when his mouth latched onto her exposed nipple. He suckled as if he was starving for succor only her body could provide. Isabel tried to push him away in a feeble attempt to make him stop, but felt helpless as a ripple of pleasure rolled down her body. Her legs parted automatically, allowing his manhood and the damp muslin to rub the sensitive flesh between her legs.

  Suddenly, instead of pushing him away, Isabel was struggling to pull him closer. She bit her lower lip to prevent herself from screaming. The frantic pumps his manhood was striking against her womanly core were her undoing. Her breasts and womb pulsed with a startling pleasure she had been unaware her body was capable of.

  Vane did not lift his head until she was breathless and too weak to fight him. He kissed her tenderly on the lips and allowed her to stand without his assistance.

  “You…” Isabel gave up speaking. She sagged against the door and tugged the torn pelisse robe over her exposed breast. She pretended not to notice the several bite marks on her pale flesh.

  A part of her was pleased to note that Vane was not unaffected by that madness that had claimed them. His shirt was ripped, and the prominent bulge in his trousers looked painful to her untrained gaze. She tensed, waiting for him to demand more from her.

  “I will take my leave. Good night, Isabel.”

  Vane was leaving.

  “That was a farewell kiss,” Isabel said, bewildered by the hurt and anger she heard in her voice. Her lower lip quivered. She stepped away from the door so he could leave. If he stayed, she might be tempted to dent his skull with the iron poker.

  It was either that or cry.

  Vane opened the front door and hesitated at the threshold. “That wasn’t a farewell kiss.”

  Isabel stared at him, mutely willing him to leave before he confessed something that would make her despise him for the rest of her life.

  “I never expect to take—No.” He gave her a sheepish look. “It is too late for this discussion. And I promised. One kiss and I would leave.”

  “A farewell kiss,” Isabel prompted, finding her voice as her eyes filled with tears.

  The scoundrel had the audacity to grin at her. “What you might want to ponder as you climb into your chaste bed is what would have happened if I had stayed. I doubt either one of us would have been happy with the consequences.”

  Isabel winced and closed her eyes. Lady Netherley. Delia.

  When she opened her eyes, she discovered that he had already shut the door. She took a deep breath.

  She gasped when the door abruptly swung open. Vane leaned against the door frame. “Have you received an invitation to Lord Fiddick’s masquerade?”

  She seemed to live her life in half measures. She was almost betrothed to Mr. Ruddel, and this evening she had almost been ravished by a madman.

 
“No, I do not believe so.”

  Vane winked at her. “You will. And do not disappoint me by not attending. I will not be pleased if I have to search London for you. Nor will you.”

  Isabel waited until the door closed before she sat down on the bottom step of the staircase.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two days before Lord Fiddick’s masquerade ball, a box arrived for Isabel. She recognized Vane’s bold handwriting on the note his servant hand-delivered.

  “His Lordship wanted me to convey his high hopes that you will accept his gift, Miss Thorne. He was most specific that the costume is for you, and not for your sister.”

  Alone in her bedchamber, she removed the lid and peered inside. Bemused, she broke the wax seal and read the words scrawled within.

  Behold the witch who bespells men into beasts.

  —V

  Isabel picked up the white mask encrusted with gold spangles and glass beads and brought it up to her face. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she began to laugh. She was still laughing when Delia walked into the bedchamber.

  “Mrs. Allen said there was a delivery for you,” her sister said, mildly offended that Isabel had not told her about the mysterious box. Delia paused as she noticed the mask.

  “It appears I no longer need a costume for Lord Fiddick’s masquerade,” Isabel announced, withdrawing the mask from her face. “Even so, I can think of an embellishment or two that will improve the impression I hope to make.”

  * * *

  Vane and Saint stood near the balustrade of the gallery overlooking the front hall. Impatient, he had been waiting for Isabel and Delia to arrive.

  “Is there a significant meaning to the masks you have chosen this evening?” Saint inquired, his mouth twisting into a knowing smirk.

  At Vane’s suggestion, the Lords of Vice were wearing formal evening attire and half masks representing various beasts. Saint was a hawk, Dare an owl, Hunter a lion, Sin an alligator, Reign a fox, Frost a snake—his choice amusing everyone. Vane had claimed the wolf mask for himself.