Page 22 of Isabel and the Rogue

“Lord no.” Sirius frowned. “I would much rather be in my library, reading a good book.” He raised his glass to study it. “Preferably with a draft of this quality.”

“That sounds like a superior way to spend the day.” The viscount crossed one leg over the other as if settling in. “What book are you reading right now?”

For the next fifteen or so minutes, the men discussed the books they had read recently, before moving on to politics and the political upheaval in the United States following President Lincoln’s assassination. Sirius was not surprised that Westhope was well read and well informed, speaking knowledgeably about various topics, but the viscount also had no qualms about admitting when he did not know something. More than once Sirius cursed in his mind to find Westhope had given him yet another reason to like him.

But with a skill he’d honed over years of covert work, Sirius managed to direct the conversation to France.

“My mother always spoke fondly of the library at her parents’ estate in Lorraine. My great-grandfather had the presence of mind to hide the family’s extensive library collection before the Revolution, and all those books are enjoyed by my cousins even now,” Westhope shared, absentmindedly looking out over the crowd.

Sirius went as still as a fox at its first scent of a hare. This was just the sort of opening he had been hoping for.

He swirled the last remnants of his whisky around his glass. “Do you keep in touch with your family in France?”

“I do. I spent many summers there, running across the hills with my cousins.” Westhope slid his gaze to him. “And what of you? Are you close with your family?”

“No.” Taking in the viscount’s surprised look, Sirius smiled. “My apologies. I’ve just never been particularly close with anyone in my family. My mother died when I was quite young, and my father was more interested in playing the part of the sympathetic widower, winning the hearts of ladies and tarts alike, than spending time with his spare.”

“Ah yes, Harcourt is your brother.” Westhope took a handkerchief from his pocket and patted his chin and brow. “I’m terrible at remembering the familial connections within the ton.”

“Yes, the Earl of Harcourt is my older brother, although our relationship is more so that of distant relatives than siblings.”

“Families are an interesting bunch, are they not?” The viscount exhaled. “For instance, I exchange frequent letters with my cousin Jean-Charles even though he lives in the West Indies, and yet I haven’t spoken with my older sister Melody in nigh on two years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sirius murmured, and waited a beat before he said, “although I think it’s swell that you have a relationship with your cousin.”

“Yes, Jean-Charles and I have been quite close the majority of our lives, despite him growing up in France and me in England. But now, he tells me about—”

“I return to your gracious patronage, Westhope, along with two new guests.”

Sirius fought back the urge to shove Whitfield out of the box and into the dirt. He had finally embarked upon the line of conversation he’d been slowly, methodically leading the viscount toward, and his ass of a friend returned to the box at the most inopportune moment.

Rising to his feet, Sirius managed to relax his scowl into a mundane expression before he pivoted to his friend…only to come up short. Isabel Luna and her sister stood on either side of the duke, wearing matching looks of amiability. She met his eyes for a moment, and some of his ire seeped from his muscles. Sirius had glimpsed her earlier in the afternoon, but before he could greet Isabel and Gabriela, Lord Westhope had invited him to have a dram together.

In truth, Sirius had felt terrible when he’d penned a note to Fox to pass along the news that he’d yet to learn anything of note about the conflict in Mexico. His inquiries with several contacts had been unsuccessful, and when he’d called upon Lieutenant Colonel Green at the Home Office, the older man had been unable to meet with him. Numerous times, Sirius had replayed the memory of the frightened, lost look on Isabel’s face when she’d learned of her parents’ circumstances, and he hated how powerless he was to help.

But seeing her now was like drawing in a lungful of fresh, crisp air, and Sirius wondered at how quickly he was able to regain his composure.

“Your Grace, how clever of you to return with two lovely ladies,” Westhope said, raising his brows as if waiting for an introduction.

A hint of annoyance passed over the duke’s face so quickly, Sirius wasn’t sure if he’d truly seen it. “Lord Westhope, allow me to introduce to you Miss Isabel Luna and Miss Gabriela Luna. Ladies, this is Viscount Westhope,” Whitfield said, immediately gesturing with his chin to a footman for a drink.

The sisters sank into graceful curtsies, and after greeting Sirius in a friendly manner, their attention returned to the viscount. While Isabel smiled benignly but politely, Gabriela fluttered her lashes and said, “You’d do well to know, Lord Westhope, that I made a wager on your beautiful colt before I even knew he was yours.”

“Is that so?” A grin brightened the viscount’s face. “Well, I hope he runs a race worthy of your confidence, Miss Gabriela.”

“Am I to understand that he was bred and originally trained in France?” Isabel’s silvery voice was inquisitive, but her onyx eyes were intense. “I confess that I’m not much of a horsewoman, but I didn’t know the French were of horse racing acclaim.”

Westhope took a step toward her, his mien lighting with curiosity. “And I would not fault you for not knowing, Miss Luna. The French do many things very well. They make exquisite cheese, wine, and pastries, but you are correct that they have experienced little success on the racetrack. However”—he leaned forward, his hand cupped to his mouth as if he were about to impart a great secret—“I believe that will change with Delano.”

Isabel winged up a brow. “I admire your confidence, my lord. Tell me, what is it about Delano that has you convinced he’s the colt to change France’s track record?”

Sirius watched with his teeth clenched as Isabel and the viscount launched into a lengthy discussion of Delano’s many qualities, and how they boded well for his success. Eventually, Gabriela and Whitfield wandered away to eat and converse with others, but Sirius could not bring himself to leave with them. Instead, he stood like a silent sentry as Isabel and Westhope bantered, oblivious to his presence. When her pretty red lips stretched around a dazzling smile, Sirius barely managed to bite back a growl.

Pretty lips? Whatever was the matter with him? While Sirius may have just come to recognize Isabel’s striking and unconventional beauty, he had no reason to explain the spots that danced in his vision watching how Westhope leaned toward her. And why was it that this reserved wallflower seemed not at all awkward or uncertain of herself with the viscount as she had with any other man Sirius had watched her interact with?

Another truth waylaid Sirius in that moment: Isabel had not glanced in his direction once since their initial greeting. She’d given the viscount the entirety of her attention, and unease crawled under his skin. Was their tentative accord at an end? Was Lord Westhope deserving of all her interest?

Why did Sirius care? Surely he should be more concerned with the fact that his own discussion with Westhope had been interrupted, rather than the uncomfortable realization that Isabel and Westhope’s conversation bordered on flirtation. Surely the fact that the viscount showed an interest in her should be no concern of his.