Page 43 of Isabel and the Rogue

“I wonder if he attended tonight because Lady Needham was supposed to attend,” one of the men said. “Rumor is that she’s been angling to get him back in her bed. Perhaps he’s finally ready to do so.”

Now it was Sirius who stiffened under her, and Isabel curled her hands into tight fists to resist the urge to look at him. Isabel knew it would break her if she saw guilt on his face.

The conversation turned to other topics, but Isabel could not keep up. Was that truly why Sirius was in attendance? Because Lady Needham was supposed to be here as well? Isabel thought his presence at the dinner party was to help her with her search, but had he told her that, or had she assumed it? The possibility that she had misread his intentions stung in the worst way, and Isabel was suddenly desperate to escape. Desperate to be as far away from Sirius Dawson as she could be.

How was it possible for a man who took her body to such great heights to reduce her heart to such depressing lows?

To his credit, Sirius did not attempt to speak again. He simply held her, his arms tight around her.

When the study door finally closed behind the men’s retreating backs, Isabel stumbled from their confined hiding space, her chest heaving as she greedily sucked in air. She needed to expunge his scent from her lungs and exorcise the feel of him from her mind.

And yet Isabel knew it was a pointless task. Sirius Dawson had imprinted himself on her, and while he might view her as a silly girl he helped find pleasure, Isabel knew she would never be the same.

She was adjusting the fall of her skirts, fastidiously ignoring her damp drawers, when Sirius spoke into the silence.

“Isabel, I hope those men didn’t offend you.”

“Of course not.” She waved a hand.

“Because what they said was untrue.”

Pivoting, Isabel finally met his gaze. “What part was untrue, exactly? That you only attended tonight’s event because you agreed to help me, or because you expected Lady Needham to be here?”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I attended because of you, Isabel. Lady Needham has never mattered, and will never matter.”

She loved how he said her name. The back of her throat ached at that familiarity, and yet her heart refused to soften.

“I think that’s the point, though, isn’t it? Your romantic entanglements don’t matter to you. They’re casual affairs. Just as this”—Isabel moved a hand back and forth in the space between them—“was casual.”

A cloud passed over his visage. “And has this been casual for you?”

Of course not. Isabel bit her tongue until the urge to say the words passed. “It has to be.”

His shoulders dropped a tad. “I know. I agreed to do this, to help, not just so you could aid your countrymen, but so that you’ll remain safe.”

Isabel crinkled her brow suddenly. “And what do you get out of it? Why help me?”

Sirius pressed his lips together for a long moment, his blue eyes sweeping over her face. When he finally spoke, his voice was sad. “Because I can, Isabel. Because I can.”

11

He hadn’t seen Isabel in a week.

Was he avoiding her, or was she avoiding him? Sirius wasn’t sure he knew.

When she did not attend the Venetian breakfast hosted by Countess Abernathy, Sirius had been a tad relieved. He certainly hadn’t recovered from their encounter in Fairchild’s study—he was haunted by Isabel’s vanilla scent, the phantom pressure of her grip on his thighs. Her sister Gabriela had mentioned in passing that Isabel had been nursing a headache for most of the day, and Sirius had spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out whether he should send her a posy of willow bark to alleviate the pain. The following day, his relief turned to disappointment when he learned she had stayed in rather than accompany Lady Yardley to the musicale the older woman had specifically mentioned they would be attending. Sirius had managed to secure an invitation.

Isabel was the reason he was now sitting at a narrow table next to Lord Westhope, within a private room at the British Museum. The viscount had reserved the space so his guests could admire the newest Maqdala acquisitions from Ethiopia on display before hosting a dinner party, and Sirius had immediately accepted the invitation. While it was true Sirius had already visited the museum to admire the collection, he could hardly send his regrets when Westhope indicated the Misses Luna would be in attendance. After a week of not seeing her exquisitely expressive face, Sirius was determined to corner Isabel and find out why she had been avoiding him.

He stared into his glass of brandy now, the amber liquid a backdrop for the memories playing out in his mind. Memories of Isabel sinking her teeth into her plump bottom lip as she moved on top of him, using his body to find her pleasure. The way she shivered when he’d nibbled on her earlobe. How her expression morphed from satisfaction to despondence when those two jackasses had mentioned Lady Needham. As if Sirius had thought of the baroness since that day in the park when he had taken his impromptu balloon ride with Isabel.

Now there was only her, and her foolhardy mission…with only her quiet charisma and gentle beauty to hold his attention.

But Sirius had not had a chance to explain these things to her. After they had extricated themselves from under Fairchild’s desk, Isabel had promptly slipped from the room, rejoining the festivities as if she had never left. No one remarked upon her absence, but much was made of his return when he finally ventured back to the Fairchild drawing room. Sirius had lied about taking a turn about the gardens to smoke a cheroot, silently praying that no one noticed that his person was devoid of smoke. He’d tried to catch Isabel’s eye after he had appeased his inquisitors, but she had immersed herself in a conversation with her sister and Miss Fairchild.

Never had Sirius ever worried about the women he had taken to bed, outside of ensuring their pleasure. They both understood the nature of their association, and knew better than to involve inconvenient emotions in their bed sport. And yet here was Sirius now, fretting and stressing over Isabel Luna, whom he had shared one passionate—albeit mind-numbing—encounter with. He hardly knew himself.

“I’m glad you agreed to come tonight,” Westhope said, sliding onto the chair next to him. The viscount raised his glass at a passing couple before he swung his gaze to Sirius. “I had hoped you might find the cultural treasures from Africa as interesting as I do.”