How to Impress a Marquess(58)

For a beat, she just stared at him. The old girl took everything at face value. Then the realization dawned in her eyes that he was ribbing her. “Oh, I was about to say that, if you had waited…for several thousand years,” she retorted. “What I meant was that I thought you would be busy at your house party, choosing a wife. At least, that is what the papers claim.”

“As you often say when avoiding something messy and emotionally taxing, ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’” he quoted her back to herself. “Except to say it’s a shame that Napoleon could not have enlisted Mama; I believe the war might have turned out differently. The Duke of Halsington sent a late reply, upsetting Mama’s meticulous arrangements. He will be joined by his wife, who requires a room conveniently adjoining the Earl of Worthsam’s, while his grace much prefers comfortable quarters beside Mrs. Kettlemore’s. That little farce resulted in ousting me from my chambers to the Fauna chamber, named for housing my late uncle’s stuffed avian collection. I spent the early hours of the morning being stared at by dead birds. But enough about nightmares of being eaten by African lappet-faced vultures.” He gestured to a chair. “Would you care to sit down? Oh, wait. It’s your home. You were supposed to politely suggest that.”

“Would you care to sit down, Lord Randall?” she said, with mock sweetness.

“I don’t mind if I do; how thoughtful of you to ask.” He pulled up a chair before her desk. “Ah, I have something to tempt you with.” He withdrew some folded pages from his pocket and wagged them before her. “I did retrieve the list of new clients for the London bank as you ordered—pardon, I meant requested in your last letter.”

She snatched up the papers, her face glowing with the same delight he had seen in his mistress’s—ex-mistress’s—when he had given her a ruby necklace. Isabella was an odd bird. Any man who dared to romance the shrew would have to forgo the floral tributes—and not because of her adverse reactions to certain flowers, grasses, and hay—and arrive with bouquets of financial reports instead.

She took a seat in her late father’s massive leather chair on the other side of the desk and scanned the lines of patrons. “This is much better than expected,” she said, a small smile playing on her lips—soft and cushy lips, he noted. Rather kissable, not that he would ever consider kissing her. It was merely an empirical observation: the sky was blue; the sun was yellow; Isabella had the kind of lips that should be ravished.

“And by the way,” he continued, drawing her attention back to him, “I wouldn’t write to someone, calling him a flaming ignoramus of the grandest magnitude for his vote on the Scottish banking bill, and then ask him to spend the afternoon at the new bank building kissing babies and welcoming new customers.” Despite the panicky economy, when nervous customers were putting runs on another bank every day and sinking their savings, the Bank of Lord Hazelwood was rapidly expanding, “discovering new markets,” as Isabella would say, taking offices in London and Manchester. He and his father’s profiles and the family’s coat of arms appeared in journals all over England above a caption that read “For four hundred years the name Hazelwood has inspired trust. Place your monies where you place your trust.”

“It must have been such a hardship being adored and fawned over,” she mocked. “I’m sure every unmarried lady in London was beating down the bank door.” She waved the documents. “Incredible. There must be five hundred and fifteen names on this list and about three-fifths of them are women.”

“I seduced the Hades out of those stodgy old ladies and spinsters for their pennies. I still have bruises in the sensitive areas where they pinched me.”

She paused, then a spark lit in her eyes as she realized that he was jesting again. She laughed, a beautiful, silvery sound. Again, he felt that flood of peace. He had an urge to hide in her library, behind that unfashionable skirt of hers and away from his political woes and his parents’ damned house party. But alas, the world marched on. Or marched over him, as it seemed these last weeks.

He drummed the great oak desk with his fingers, suddenly feeling vulnerable. He had never let his guard down around her before, always keeping a protective wall of lithe, barbed words between them.

“Speaking of being pinched, perhaps you read about my little set-to with George Harding in the parliamentary railroad committee meeting.” He tried to sound casual, even as his heart sped up.

“Little!” She raised a single brow, comically screwing her features. “It’s an epic scandal! The financial columns criticize you for standing in the way of England’s progress, the political columns believe you have committed electoral suicide with the election coming, and the society columns wonder whose powerful Tory daughter you’ll marry to patch up the mess.” He couldn’t miss that little hint of glee under her words.

He found that he was too restless to sit after all, and rose to his feet. “The railroad committee voted Harding’s line down. I merely asked if he was spread too thin. The very words you used at the bank board meeting last winter when we decided against investing in his other lines.”

She blinked. “You actually listened to something I said?”

“I didn’t mean to. I was just about to drift off when your words hit my ears. Splat! Then they wouldn’t come out, just rolling around in there. Anyway, I thought you might be right and—”

“Stop right there!” She held up her palm. “Say those words again.”

Despite his worry, his lips cracked into a smirk. “I said I thought you might be right.”

“Oh God.” She flipped open a ledger and reached for her pen. “I must make a note: On this day of our Lord, May 17, 1847, Lord Randall has finally admitted that I was right.”

“No, you weren’t,” he barked. “And I’m glad my troubles amuse you.” His words came out harsher than he intended.

Her head jerked back. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, cursed under his breath, and crossed to one of the windows.

She joined him there. Her eyes were tense, conflicted between fear and concern. She reached out, letting her hand hover an inch from his before pulling back. He knew she struggled to connect with others and messy emotions scared her. He remembered the days surrounding her father’s funeral, when she’d tried so hard to hide her sorrow, but he still felt her deep grief ripping her apart.

“You’ll sail through this tiny setback with no trouble,” she whispered, her voice shaky and unsure. “You’ll win your seat. You lead a charmed life.” He discerned a hint of bitterness under her last words.

“Well, it’s been quite difficult lately, for all its charm,” he quipped. In the distance, a fly rambled down the long drive to the Hazelwood estate. “I think Harding is plotting against me,” he confessed.

“Why?”

He ran his hand over the cleft in his chin, pondering what he could politely repeat about the previous night’s bad turn. He probably shouldn’t mention to Isabella the desire for twelve uninterrupted hours in bed with a beautiful woman, which had made him stick a red rosebud in his lapel and stroll into a gaming hell off St. James’s early last evening. How he had drained a couple of brandies, trying to wash away the anxiety of the last weeks, until he felt the shine of his old, cocky charm return. That he had been about to amble over to the perfect quarry—curly, raven hair; large, luxurious dark eyes—when he heard a sweet, breathy voice say his name.

He had spun to find Cecelia, his ex-mistress, standing there, ravishing in pale blue. His throat had gone dry. The entire room stopped mid-roll, play, bet, or conversation and watched her, as though the famed actress were onstage in her own production. Before he could manage a “good evening” to her, George Harding had stepped forward, flanked by three personal flash men, and placed a possessive hand on her shoulder.

Randall didn’t think that Harding stealing his mistress was relevant to Isabella and the business at hand. Nor did he want to admit to Isabella that Harding was damned handsome, in an exotic way. While Randall was tall, the railroad baron towered over him. The man had bronze skin, a muscular build, a flint-like jaw, and a shiny, bald head. His black brows were slashes above eerie, unblinking eyes. So, essentially his version of the story for Isabella’s ears began with, “I went to a club and saw Harding. He asked me to sit down for a drink, something about clearing the bad blood between us.”

“Why did you take my railroad, my lord?” Harding had asked, setting his glass of cognac on the table and opening his palms. “I try to be a good Tory. I back your candidates.”

Harding’s flash men rushed to agree. “That’s right, Mr. Harding. You’re a Tory’s best supporter,” and “You’ve always done right by the Tories.”

“Do you pay for this personal audience of yahoos?” Randall had asked. “Or do these cullies follow you around because they don’t have any bollocks of their own?”