would see. She closed her eyes, knowing that she needed only to tilt her chin upward, an almost imperceptible shift, and their mouths would touch…in a gentle kiss.
And then the unimaginable happened.
Before she realized it, her lips brushed his warm mouth. For the briefest instant, their breath mingled, the pressure of lips increased as the thrum of her heart trebled with desire.
She sighed at the sensation of it, her mind reeling…before settling into the present again.
“Oh, oh blast.” Her eyes flew open. Lud, she had given in to a moment of missish musing. “I didn’t mean to…” Her fingers hurried to her mouth, and then awkwardly to his, before she realized she was touching his mouth—again. “I do apologize, my lord. I do not know what came over me…Please forgive me, won’t you?”
She felt her eyelashes fluttering.
His brow rose, and he looked confused. “I don’t know what you mean, Isobel. You did nothing wrong. The heat made you swoon a wee bit, ’tis all.”
She stared up at him. Was it possible that he truly thought her kiss was naught but faintness? No, she could not be so blessed with luck.
But as she gazed at him, his expression gave suggestion he thought otherwise. Could it be?
“Issy!” came a female shout.
Isobel leaped from the bench and saw Christiana standing in the open French windows. “Oh, thank heaven!”
Christiana beckoned. “Hurry, come inside before the footmen return. They’ve been instructed to keep you locked in the garden.”
Isobel started to rush for the open doors, but stopped when she realized Lord Blackburn was not following her. “We must hurry. You heard Christiana, did you not?”
Lord Blackburn leaned forward on the bench until he could see the upper windows. “Just as I thought.” He pointed to the upper levels of the house.
Isobel yanked her head upright. Dark-coated gentlemen were drawing the women away from the windows, amid a flurry of protests.
“I think they’ve had their entertainment for this evening,” he said, grinning. “More than enough excitement for tonight, eh?”
Isobel swallowed hard. No, tonight could not be at an end!
She’d managed to extract promises from the guests for only a few pounds to support her charity. And, from what the other ladies had witnessed, they likely believed they were halfway to winning the wager.
She couldn’t have that. She needed their attention. She needed their fascination with her and Lord Blackburn for as long as possible.
She needed money for the widows. A whimper slipped from her mouth. “I shall see you inside, Lord Blackburn. Mayhap the musicians will play a Scotch Reel.” She offered what she hoped was a beguiling smile, but her nerves were strung tighter than violin strings.
She bobbed a quick curtsy, then turned on the ball of her slipper and left him in the garden.
Surely he would return to the ballroom, if only to bid her good night. She had until then to come up with a way to shift any too-firm perceptions.
Mayhap there had not been enough excitement this night. Not for her purposes anyway.
No, not by a league.
Chapter 8
He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.
Elliott
Sterling had not yet reached the top of the staircase when Grant trotted down to meet him. His brother hooked his arm around his shoulder and urged him hurriedly toward the ballroom. “Where the hell have you been?”
“In the garden.” Sterling clasped his brother’s middle finger like a filthy rag and pried Grant’s arm from his shoulder. “You could have guarded the French windows and given me a wee bit more time with the lass.”
Grant’s eyebrows nearly met at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what you are blaming me for now, but if it has to do with Miss Carington, you have to listen. You cannot be makin’ it look too easy. Especially now.”
“Make exactly what look too easy?” Sterling paused before entering the ballroom and lowered his voice.
And then the unimaginable happened.
Before she realized it, her lips brushed his warm mouth. For the briefest instant, their breath mingled, the pressure of lips increased as the thrum of her heart trebled with desire.
She sighed at the sensation of it, her mind reeling…before settling into the present again.
“Oh, oh blast.” Her eyes flew open. Lud, she had given in to a moment of missish musing. “I didn’t mean to…” Her fingers hurried to her mouth, and then awkwardly to his, before she realized she was touching his mouth—again. “I do apologize, my lord. I do not know what came over me…Please forgive me, won’t you?”
She felt her eyelashes fluttering.
His brow rose, and he looked confused. “I don’t know what you mean, Isobel. You did nothing wrong. The heat made you swoon a wee bit, ’tis all.”
She stared up at him. Was it possible that he truly thought her kiss was naught but faintness? No, she could not be so blessed with luck.
But as she gazed at him, his expression gave suggestion he thought otherwise. Could it be?
“Issy!” came a female shout.
Isobel leaped from the bench and saw Christiana standing in the open French windows. “Oh, thank heaven!”
Christiana beckoned. “Hurry, come inside before the footmen return. They’ve been instructed to keep you locked in the garden.”
Isobel started to rush for the open doors, but stopped when she realized Lord Blackburn was not following her. “We must hurry. You heard Christiana, did you not?”
Lord Blackburn leaned forward on the bench until he could see the upper windows. “Just as I thought.” He pointed to the upper levels of the house.
Isobel yanked her head upright. Dark-coated gentlemen were drawing the women away from the windows, amid a flurry of protests.
“I think they’ve had their entertainment for this evening,” he said, grinning. “More than enough excitement for tonight, eh?”
Isobel swallowed hard. No, tonight could not be at an end!
She’d managed to extract promises from the guests for only a few pounds to support her charity. And, from what the other ladies had witnessed, they likely believed they were halfway to winning the wager.
She couldn’t have that. She needed their attention. She needed their fascination with her and Lord Blackburn for as long as possible.
She needed money for the widows. A whimper slipped from her mouth. “I shall see you inside, Lord Blackburn. Mayhap the musicians will play a Scotch Reel.” She offered what she hoped was a beguiling smile, but her nerves were strung tighter than violin strings.
She bobbed a quick curtsy, then turned on the ball of her slipper and left him in the garden.
Surely he would return to the ballroom, if only to bid her good night. She had until then to come up with a way to shift any too-firm perceptions.
Mayhap there had not been enough excitement this night. Not for her purposes anyway.
No, not by a league.
Chapter 8
He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.
Elliott
Sterling had not yet reached the top of the staircase when Grant trotted down to meet him. His brother hooked his arm around his shoulder and urged him hurriedly toward the ballroom. “Where the hell have you been?”
“In the garden.” Sterling clasped his brother’s middle finger like a filthy rag and pried Grant’s arm from his shoulder. “You could have guarded the French windows and given me a wee bit more time with the lass.”
Grant’s eyebrows nearly met at the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what you are blaming me for now, but if it has to do with Miss Carington, you have to listen. You cannot be makin’ it look too easy. Especially now.”
“Make exactly what look too easy?” Sterling paused before entering the ballroom and lowered his voice.
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