pertinent details to prepare an estimate of the cost the new bill should entail. You’re the only person I know who might have access to army personnel files.”
“Army personnel files? That’s classified information! No one would give you those files.”
She felt like stomping her foot. On his. “How in blazes is a civic-minded person expected to improve anything in this country?”
“You’re not. Which is why we have Lords and Commons and a monarch.”
She eyed him irately. “You won’t lift a finger to help me?”
“My contribution to your cause ended with the five thousand pounds donation.” When she fell silent, duly chastised, he sauntered to a side table. He uncorked a semi-full wine bottle and poured red wine into two glasses. “Look, I’ve had my crusade,” he explained. “Now all I want is to enjoy my private existence, despite its drawbacks.” He returned to put a wineglass in her hand and knocked his glass against hers. “Cheers.”
They drank in silence, sustaining eye-contact. Did he find the experience as intimate and titillating as she did, she wondered as the flavorsome elixir glided down her throat. Long ago she would have sold her soul to the Devil to share such a moment with him. Say something! “What sort of wine is this? Not Madeira, I daresay.” Delicately she licked a red drop off her lip.
Her subtle gesture riveted him. “Madeira is for debutantes and well-manicured dandies.”
Intrigued, she took another sip. “You may think me silly, but this wine is…”
“Multifaceted? Like a person.” He nodded. He whirled the remaining wine in his glass and inhaled the fumes. “It’s Navarrese. Fruity, provocative, smooth, and full of hidden meaning…I bought dozens of cases in Spain and had them shipped home.”
“Listening to you, I feel so green and uninformed,” she confessed, blushing.
“Don’t. It makes me feel old and jaded.” He tipped his head back, emptying his glass.
The sight of a red drop gliding down his bare throat enticed her beyond reason. She shook herself. “What sort of drawbacks do you find in solitude?”
“Several.”
Perhaps that was the key. If she knew what he missed most in life, she could offer to fulfill this void, get closer to him, and thus keep him in her life. “Name one.”
“Celibacy.”
She sputtered her wine.
A wicked glow spread in his sea green irises. “You asked.”
Perhaps he might not be as unresponsive as she had assumed if she undressed before him, but there would be no victory in that. According to her knowledgeable friend, Sophie, a man who desired women and a man who desired a woman were two very different beasts. “I had luncheon with one of your former officers today,” she mentioned casually, returning sideways to her old topic. “Ryan Macalister. He’s a major now. Even he thought you’d make the best sponsor to our cause, and I haven’t told him anything—”
“Is he courting you?”
His harsh tone startled her. “What if he is?”
“You don’t want Macalister, Isabel. Stay away from him.” He set his empty glass aside.
“My lord, I do not appreciate vague hints and arbitrary commands.”
He stared at her. “You want a reason? Fine. Ryan Macalister will break your heart.”
Was he serious? Didn’t he have an inkling of what he had done to her heart? Of course not. Charming rakes never did, particularly when the hearts they crushed were too young to be of any import. Suppressing her old resentment, she dissembled, “I had no idea you predicted futures, my lord. How very clever of you.”
He took a step toward her. “I mean it, Izzy. Stay away from Macalister. He’s not for you.”
He almost sounded jealous, which didn’t make sense. Looking up into his eyes, she asked, “Are you warning me off because he is penniless?” All she got in return was a fierce, unreadable glower. She set her empty glass next to his. “Lord Ashby, as someone whom I once considered as dear as an older brother, I beg you to divulge any information that may prove vital to my future happiness.”
“Damn it, Isabel! I am not your brother!” he growled at her.
She flinched. “No, of course not. Y-You don’t owe me anything.”
He let out a ragged sigh that made his magnificent chest rise and fall. “Go home. Don’t be foolish. I could never take Will’s place in your life.”
“I know that. I’m not asking you to. I’m not a child anymore, Ashby. Nor am I foolish.”
His gaze flitted over her, swift yet thorough, unlike the young bucks who conducted long discussions with her bosom. “Indeed, you are not a child, which makes it even more dangerous.”
Hope leaped in her breast. She searched his brilliant eyes. “Why is it dangerous?”
He reached out and ran his rough knuckles along her cheek. “Because if anyone should see you coming in or out of my house,” he breathed, “you’ll have a devil of a time facing the gossip. You are a lovely young woman, Isabel. It would be a great pity if your future were to be ruined.”
Her hope crumbled to dust. He still didn’t want anything to do with her, even though he was injured and alone and felt compelled to wear a mask. She should have long since abandoned any hope of winning his affections. Knowing that, however, she still craved his friendship. “You are concerned for my reputation. How good of you. Just like an older brother.”
This time he didn’t take the bait. “Goodbye, Miss Aubrey.” He marched past her, leaving her alone in the windowless cellar. Her throat constricted, and she hastened upstairs for air.
Chapter Four
The moment she entered Almack’s, Isabel was ambushed by her brother. “You know my sister, don’t you, Hanson?” Viscount Stilgoe spoke to the man at his side.
She could neither see the gentleman nor hear his response because Iris and Sophie were chatting energetically and blocking her view. “We had an agreement, Charlie,” she hissed in her brother’s ear. “I attend the marriage mart once a week and in exchange you and Mama cease your matchmaking schemes.”
“What good is that when you waste the entire evening standing and gossiping with your friends?” he gritted out almost inaudibly. “Now hush and be charming.”
“Good evening, Lady Chilton, Mrs. Fairchild,” a cultured voice spoke. Her friends moved aside as a white-blond head approached, his black jacket enhancing his unearthly coloring. Isabel gaped. As much as she detested Stilgoe’s sly matchmaking maneuvers, Lord John Hanson VI, whom the ton called the Golden Angel, was simply too beautiful to remain indifferent to. “Miss Aubrey, you look exquisite this evening.” He bowed over her gloved hand.
“Lord John.” She curtsied, smiling despite herself. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”
His translucent azure eyes examined her features. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”
“Hanson heads several legislation committees and is crying for reform as keenly as you do, ladies,” Stilgoe contributed. To Isabel, he whispered, “See how supportive I am, of your cause?”
“You’re so supportive,” Isabel returned in the same low voice, “you refused to support us.”
“What do you suppose I’m doing right now?” her brother whispered while Iris and Sophie questioned John about his political activities. “John’s grandfather is the Duke of Haworth. Some say the duke intends to skip a generation and name John as his successor instead of the father. Imagine the good you could spread in the world with such a sponsor, Izzy.”