decide," he carefully replied.
"I'd rather not eat—right now. I'm too excited."
He set his glass down, slid upright in his chair, and gazed at her with a look that was faintly quizzical and wholly carnal. "What would you like to do instead?"
She bit her lip, debating how to ask, and then in a rush said, "May I see your bedroom?"
His pulse rate leaped, but he schooled his expression to a well-bred courtesy. "Certainly," he said, coming to his feet.
"If you don't think me too forward. Bess warned me that men don't—"
"It's not a problem." Offering her his hand, he drew her up from the chair.
"I wish I could be calm. I'm so nervous."
Her hand was small and warm in his, and it took effort to maintain his composure. "Should I bring a bottle of champagne with us?" He smiled. "For your nerves."
"Maybe you should, although I already had some wine at Molly's before I left—to calm myself… and I'm not sure when I'll get tipsy."
"You may get tipsy if you like," he genially offered, picking up the bottle from the iced container. "I've always found the world looks considerably better after a bottle or so."
As they stepped into the hall, Pomeroy materialized from the shadows.
"Postpone dinner," Dermott instructed. "I'll ring when we're ready."
"Very good, sir." The chef was going to burst into tears.
"I wonder if I might be a
little
hungry," Isabella apologetically said; the smells of dinner were wafting up the dumbwaiter in the hall.
"Something light?" Dermott suggested.
"That would be wonderful. I think I smell chicken."
"A little of everything," Dermott ordered.
"Now, sir?"
Dermott looked at Isabella, then back at Pomeroy. "Now," he said.
"I do apologize," Isabella remarked as they began ascending the stairs.
"No need. Pomeroy will take care of it. That's what he does."
"Our household was rather small—compared to yours. And not so formal. I confess, I'm quite intimidated."
"By Pomeroy? Don't give it another thought. If you're hungry, you can eat. It's as simple as that. What else do they have to do? Hell, I'm hardly ever home."
"Don't you like your home?"
He glanced around the cavernous staircase and entrance hall, a multitude of ancestors staring down on them from the walls, the cupola fifty feet above them. "I suppose I do. Never thought about it."
"And yet you're never home."
"Too quiet."
"You require stimulation?"
He laughed. "You might say that, darling. Come, this way." Tugging on her hand, he led her down the corridor toward a huge painting of a man in Elizabethan dress with a hunting dog.
He'd called her darling. The word strummed through her brain, warming her senses even while she told herself to discount charming words from charming men.
He stopped before two massive carved doors just short of the huge painting, and tucking the champagne bottle under his arm, opened them. "Welcome to my wing, Miss Leslie," he said, ushering her into an enormous drawing room.
"This can't be your bedroom."
He nodded toward another set of double doors. "It's in there. The earls of Bathurst apparently used this room for—" He grinned, interrupting himself. "I haven't the foggiest idea. Come, I'll show you my bedroom. It's built on a slightly more intimate scale."
Only slightly, she realized as he opened the doors into the bedroom. The idea of intimacy must have been in terms of royal levees. The bed was mounted on a dais, crowned with a gilt coronet draped in crimson brocade. Enormous gilt chairs covered in a similar brocade were placed along the walls, as though courtiers had watched their master sleep. Windows ten feet high were draped in swags and tassels and more of the crimson brocade. A large desk sat in the middle of a Persian carpet off to one side. Obviously a working desk, papers were strewn over its surface. The ceiling must have been twenty feet high, the mural adorning it that of a bacchanal.
"Do you actually sleep here?"
"Cozy, isn't it?"
"For two hundred people maybe."
"Let me show you
"I'd rather not eat—right now. I'm too excited."
He set his glass down, slid upright in his chair, and gazed at her with a look that was faintly quizzical and wholly carnal. "What would you like to do instead?"
She bit her lip, debating how to ask, and then in a rush said, "May I see your bedroom?"
His pulse rate leaped, but he schooled his expression to a well-bred courtesy. "Certainly," he said, coming to his feet.
"If you don't think me too forward. Bess warned me that men don't—"
"It's not a problem." Offering her his hand, he drew her up from the chair.
"I wish I could be calm. I'm so nervous."
Her hand was small and warm in his, and it took effort to maintain his composure. "Should I bring a bottle of champagne with us?" He smiled. "For your nerves."
"Maybe you should, although I already had some wine at Molly's before I left—to calm myself… and I'm not sure when I'll get tipsy."
"You may get tipsy if you like," he genially offered, picking up the bottle from the iced container. "I've always found the world looks considerably better after a bottle or so."
As they stepped into the hall, Pomeroy materialized from the shadows.
"Postpone dinner," Dermott instructed. "I'll ring when we're ready."
"Very good, sir." The chef was going to burst into tears.
"I wonder if I might be a
little
hungry," Isabella apologetically said; the smells of dinner were wafting up the dumbwaiter in the hall.
"Something light?" Dermott suggested.
"That would be wonderful. I think I smell chicken."
"A little of everything," Dermott ordered.
"Now, sir?"
Dermott looked at Isabella, then back at Pomeroy. "Now," he said.
"I do apologize," Isabella remarked as they began ascending the stairs.
"No need. Pomeroy will take care of it. That's what he does."
"Our household was rather small—compared to yours. And not so formal. I confess, I'm quite intimidated."
"By Pomeroy? Don't give it another thought. If you're hungry, you can eat. It's as simple as that. What else do they have to do? Hell, I'm hardly ever home."
"Don't you like your home?"
He glanced around the cavernous staircase and entrance hall, a multitude of ancestors staring down on them from the walls, the cupola fifty feet above them. "I suppose I do. Never thought about it."
"And yet you're never home."
"Too quiet."
"You require stimulation?"
He laughed. "You might say that, darling. Come, this way." Tugging on her hand, he led her down the corridor toward a huge painting of a man in Elizabethan dress with a hunting dog.
He'd called her darling. The word strummed through her brain, warming her senses even while she told herself to discount charming words from charming men.
He stopped before two massive carved doors just short of the huge painting, and tucking the champagne bottle under his arm, opened them. "Welcome to my wing, Miss Leslie," he said, ushering her into an enormous drawing room.
"This can't be your bedroom."
He nodded toward another set of double doors. "It's in there. The earls of Bathurst apparently used this room for—" He grinned, interrupting himself. "I haven't the foggiest idea. Come, I'll show you my bedroom. It's built on a slightly more intimate scale."
Only slightly, she realized as he opened the doors into the bedroom. The idea of intimacy must have been in terms of royal levees. The bed was mounted on a dais, crowned with a gilt coronet draped in crimson brocade. Enormous gilt chairs covered in a similar brocade were placed along the walls, as though courtiers had watched their master sleep. Windows ten feet high were draped in swags and tassels and more of the crimson brocade. A large desk sat in the middle of a Persian carpet off to one side. Obviously a working desk, papers were strewn over its surface. The ceiling must have been twenty feet high, the mural adorning it that of a bacchanal.
"Do you actually sleep here?"
"Cozy, isn't it?"
"For two hundred people maybe."
"Let me show you
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