Page 31 of Isabel and the Rogue

The music changed then, and a rush of couples brushed past them to take a position on the dance floor. The viscount held out a hand to her.

“Are you ready?”

Isabel smiled…or sincerely attempted to. “I am.”

As Lord Westhope led her onto the floor, he placed his hand on her waist and looked down at her. “I’ve been looking forward to this dance all week.”

Unsure of what to say, she dipped her head and allowed the viscount to spin her to the melody.

But not before Isabel felt Sirius’s intense gaze drift along her skin, and glancing over Lord Westhope’s shoulder, she was not at all surprised to find him staring at her. ¡Por Dios! Something had changed in the viscount’s library, but Isabel wasn’t sure what. All she knew was that the captain had held her closely against his chest, his fingers pressing into her flesh and his gaze smoldering pools of blue fire. Isabel had been certain he was going to kiss her, but surely she’d been mistaken. Right?

It took two turns around the dance floor before Isabel could attend to the viscount’s conversation. Bits of his words floated through her whirling thoughts; something about a book he’d long searched for—a first edition of Don Quixote, maybe. Isabel nodded along, hoping she expressed her interest in believable ways. But truly, Isabel found it a herculean task to focus on anything other than the brooding blond man who watched her from across the crowd.

Risking a quick glance in his direction, Isabel found him still standing among a mix of gentlemen and women, the crowd laughing and talking around him. But Sirius’s gaze remained fixed on her, and Isabel bit her lip to be the source of such potent consideration. Was he replaying their conversation in the library? Was he contemplating their almost kiss? Or perhaps he hadn’t meant to kiss her at all, because why would he want to kiss her when he could have any of the beautiful ladies in the room? And yet…the feverish light in his eyes, the one she glimpsed across the room even now, told Isabel that Captain Sirius Dawson possibly had personal reasons for wanting to stop her covert searches.

Suddenly, Isabel wanted nothing more than to return to that dim library and finish their conversation. Had they not heard Lord Westhope in the hall, would Sirius have kissed her? Unlike Ana María, who had confessed to her and Gabby several months into her marriage that she had not known what to expect of her wedding night, Isabel had read enough to know what occurred between a man and a woman behind closed doors. Her books had supplied her with the mechanics, and sometimes the flowery wonders, of the act.

And while Isabel had never thought a great love affair or marriage was in her future, she had absolutely no issue exploring the carnal side of such unions. She knew Padre Ignacio would be aghast at this revelation, but Isabel did not care. A body was just a body, and her spirit was her spirit; she could nurture one while indulging the other.

“Miss Luna, did you hear what I said?”

Isabel wrested her gaze away from Sirius, and blinked up at the viscount. “I do beg your pardon, my lord. I got a bit lost in the music.”

Lord Westhope chuckled, squeezing her hand. “I can understand that. This piece by Strauss is one of my favorites. Are you a great fan of music?”

She pressed her lips together for a moment. “I enjoy music as much as the next person. I do miss the gentle melodies my tía Susana used to play on her guitarra on rainy mornings.”

“The guitar is not a popular instrument among ladies here in England, and I wonder why that is.” The viscount’s brow crinkled. “I’ve heard it played, and it produces a beautiful sound.”

“It’s probably because it’s a Spanish instrument,” Isabel tossed out with a shrug.

Lord Westhope frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Come now, Lord Westhope,” she said, offering a wry smile, “surely you know that the British don’t seem to value much about Spanish culture.”

To his credit, the viscount appeared to consider this claim carefully. Instead of responding with an immediate rejection of her statement or even offering an excuse, Lord Westhope screwed his mouth up and stared down at her with a pucker between his brows. Isabel respected his tendency to ponder his response before he said it. And, not for the first time did she wonder why she couldn’t feel something, anything, for the viscount aside from warm friendliness. For if Isabel were looking for a British husband, Viscount Westhope would be more than ideal.

But as long as she had a choice, her future lay in Mexico.

“I suspect,” he began, a teasing smirk playing with the corners of his mouth, “that the British have turned their noses up at the Spanish ever since Sir Walter Raleigh defeated the famed Spanish Armada.”

A bubble of laughter burst from her throat. “Ay sí, surely that’s it. And I’m certain the Spanish have held a nearly three-hundred-year-old grudge ever since.”

“Oh, indeed. National pride is exploited at every chance.” Lord Westhope smiled down at her. “And the British have turned their noses up at the Spanish, even if it deprives us of truly excellent music.”

Isabel chuckled again…but the sound tapered off when she spied Sirius staring at her with a dark glower. Was he upset with her? Because she was enjoying her waltz with the viscount? Isabel had watched him seduce any number of ladies, each time an assault on the armor she wrapped tightly about her. And he was upset now that a handsome man had made her laugh?

Arching a brow in return, Isabel turned away from him and forced herself to focus all of her attention on Lord Westhope.

Their waltz ended some minutes later, and Isabel was almost sorry for it. When the viscount escorted her into the dining room, a bevy of guests followed them. To her relief, Lord Westhope selected a small table near the front of the room that was large enough for only one other couple to join them, and thankfully that couple was Gabby and her dance partner, a young lord whose name Isabel promptly forgot.

Dinner passed in a pleasant manner, Lord Westhope regaling them with stories of hunting rare books all over Europe, and Gabby’s lordling chimed in with funny witticisms that hinted at the charming rake he would one day be. Throughout the time they spent dining, Isabel made a conscious effort not to look for Sirius. The captain had no right to scold her the way he did—and he certainly had no right to cause heat to simmer low in her core. And just because most men had ignored her since she arrived in London, the captain included, did not mean that she was not deserving of Lord Westhope’s attentions.

But after Isabel had wished good night to the viscount and prepared to return to Yardley House, Sirius stepped into her path.

Isabel held up a staying hand when Gabby looked back at her in question from the carriage. She reached for her composure as she followed Sirius to the side of the foyer. But just being in his vicinity, inhaling his crisp cedarwood and orange scent that had quickly become familiar to her, threatened all her firm admonitions. Isabel curled her hands into fists, her fingernails cutting into her palms and grounding her in reality.

“Will you hack out with me tomorrow morning?” he asked quietly, his deep blue eyes intent on her face.