She held out her arms for the transfer. Unlike earlier, when Ariel was awake, they had to move more carefully so as not to wake the babe.
First, it was Percy’s scent that reached her, his body heat infusing sandalwood with him, a scent she’d so very recently come to know, intimately. Then it was the feel of him, for she couldn’t not touch him—the tensile length of his forearms, the brush of fingertips across the back of his hand—as she shifted Ariel from his to her arms.
“You have him secure?”
His face lowered as he spoke. He was close, so close she could lift onto the tips of her toes, lean in ever so slightly, and press her lips to his.
It would be so simple. And right.
It would make matters infinitely more complicated. And wrong.
She stepped back, breaking away from a moment that couldn’t—shouldn’t—be. Over her shoulder, she said, “I shall be a few minutes, will you—?”
“I’ll be here.”
She should feel mortified about her unasked question and that he’d intuited it so easily. But she couldn’t quite summon the feeling. A lightness had filled her at the reassurance. She wanted him here when she returned downstairs.
What a dreadful, awful, wonderful feeling that he knew her so well. It could lead nowhere good, of that she was certain, but, mayhap, inside Rosebud Cottage they could let its magic spell protect them from the harsh realities of the world outside its walls and not worry about where matters would lead.
Rather, they could just be.
And leave the future for later.
Chapter 20
Percy watched Isabel disappear up the stairs with the babe. He had finally worked the conversation around to where it needed to be, then he’d—entirely too predictably—become distracted.
Pay a mind to your priorities, man.
He couldn’t protect Isabel if he couldn’t win her trust.
And how could he win her trust if he rhapsodized like a smitten swain? Really, what was that rose talk all about?
He wasn’t certain, except it was the truth. A truth he didn’t think she trusted in herself. She was beautiful, and she could protect herself. Two rare qualities to find within one woman.
A voice echoed in his head that sounded suspiciously like his old self. Not his old, wicked self, but a self even older, the one who held a capacity for joy.
It was true that she’d become a need in his veins. No use denying it. But . . .
It didn’t feel so very wrong or terrible.
It felt strangely right.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was an addiction that was good for him. The wickedness she provoked, well, was it so very wicked?
Her light step tapped down the staircase, and he busied himself with an arrangement of purple foxgloves so as not to look the besotted fool he felt. Still, he was unable not to observe her from the corner of his eye as she resumed her place beside the bow window. She was in every way as the Duke had described her—beautiful, intelligent, compassionate—but more.
She was fresh.
The way the sunlight caressed her, catching streaks of rich, light brown in her sable hair, lingering on cherry red lips parted in concentration on her work. Even Nature couldn’t resist her.
He was but a mere man. What chance had he?
“Do you enjoy arranging flowers?”
His hands froze, clutching a small bunch of pink Sweet Williams, and his gaze lifted. Amused eyes shone out at him. “’Tis”—he labored for a word, any word—“soothing.”
Her eyebrow lifted. She was enjoying this. “Soothing? You’ve never struck me as the sort of man who particularly needs soothing.”
Percy picked up the vase. “This would look lovely on the console table at your back.”
“Is that so?”
In truth, he didn’t know, or care.
In truth, he was seeking an excuse to cross the room and be near her, which he did in quick fashion. He placed the Sweet Williams in the center of the console and, as if it had only now occurred to him, settled on the opposite end of the sofa. Her attention remained decidedly fixed on her sewing. ’Twas time to stop acting like a lovesick swain and start getting some answers. “I’ve found myself curious.”
Isabel didn’t lift her gaze. “Curious?” She pulled needle through cotton.
“About your connection to the Spanish royal court.”
Her fingers froze mid-sew. “Yes?”
“And your father is no longer tailor to Ferdinand?” Something—a question, a foreboding—hung just out of reach here.
“The King no longer requires my father’s services.”
The same look he’d noted in her eyes when she’d encountered Montfort shone there now.
Fear.
And, of a sudden, he understood. “Lord Bertrand Montfort has connections to every court in Europe. In fact, it would come as no great surprise if he were acquainted with King Ferdinand’s tailor.”
Isabel’s sewing fell to her lap, a fact he doubted she had any awareness of. The fear in her eyes expanded. He doubted she could draw breath in this moment. “This debt owed Montfort,” he continued, softly, soothingly, as if wooing a wild animal to come closer, “is it your father’s?”
Her brow crinkled, frozen in a state of bewilderment. Then it released. Gone was the fear, replaced by a spark of fire. “Is it so easy for you?”
“Is what so easy for me?” he asked, wary. The ground beneath his feet felt like it was beginning to shift.
“To separate yourself from your family.”
The statement hit Percy like a solid blow to the solar plexus. He hadn’t only been observing her. She had been observing him, too.
“It is our family’s problem,” she continued. “What affects one, affects all.”
The implication of her words landed like a follow-up uppercut to the jaw. Family. Percy had neglected his; she would never abandon hers. He deserved her scorn.
But, now, the flare of anger faded from her eyes, and she looked upon him with a sort of contrition. “A dozen seamstresses and tailors sewed for Papa at the royal court,” she began, gently moving the conversation in a less combative direction. “He oversaw the purchase of materials and the construction of all the servants’ uniforms. But only his hand sewed the king’s clothes. There isn’t a stitch he is unequal to.”