a black satin mask, the earl leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded across his broad chest. “What a relief. For a moment I feared I might end up in Newgate.” Thick, glossy dark hair tumbled in uneven lengths to his powerful shoulders. A white lawn shirt revealed the pulse beating at the base of his throat and the well-formed muscles shaping his chest. Snug black breeches molded his lean thighs, accenting supple sinew developed through years in a saddle. Tall, strapping, and utterly ferocious, he exuded damn-your-eyes virility.
She curtsyed, her sky blue eyes wide with awe. Years ago they said women swooned when he walked into a ballroom, and that he was the only gentleman ever in need of a dance card. She hadn’t quite understood it as a girl; she did now. Even masked, his dark allure had the effect of a magnet. This was a man who could have anything—and anyone—he wanted.
Watching her through a pair of eye-slits, his gaze traveled the length of her, from the pretty yellow bonnet framing her sun-golden curls to her matching yellow morning dress. When he met her gaze, she realized her memory had deceived her in one respect: His eyes were not blue—that must have been a trick of his blue uniform—they were, in fact, an unusual shade of light marine green. Abruptly he disengaged from the doorframe. “State your business and be off.”
Isabel merely gaped at him.
“I see.” His sensuous lips curved cynically beneath the mask. “Well, now that you have ascertained whatever it was you needed to and satisfied your curiosity at the same time, I bid you farewell.” He crossed the room in five long strides, his black dog loping after him. With a snap of his wrist, he drew the heavy curtain over the street-facing window, throwing the room into semi-darkness. She dreaded to imagine what he faced each day in the mirror. It had to be terrible indeed, for Ashby to shut himself away from the world.
Isabel pulled herself together. “Lord Ashby, I represent the Widows, Mothers & Sisters of War Society. We are a charity organization, working in aid of destitute women who’ve lost their male providers in the war. Shopkeepers, blacksmiths, farmers, they’ve left dependent relatives, women and children, behind. Today these poor souls have no one. Our goal is to help them—”
“I don’t give a damn about your goals, madam. Good day.” He headed for the door.
As he sauntered past her, she gripped his arm. Steely muscles bunched beneath her fingers. “You ought to, my lord,” she asserted. “They concern the families of the men you commanded, your brave soldiers who died on the battlefield.”
His gaze slid along his arm and returned to her eyes. “And your point is?”
She released him. “You were responsible for these women’s deceased loved ones. Don’t you think your men might expect you to do something—anything—to help their kin?”
Moving closer, he pinned her in his glinting gaze. “My duty was to destroy. I’m done.”
She caught a whiff of his shaving soap; the cool scent made her think of forests and glades. Refusing to back down, she sustained his glare. “Perhaps if you knew my brother’s name—”
“I know who you are, Isabel.”
Her heart lurched. “You do?” she asked, suddenly unable to breathe. She hoped he found her…somewhat attractive, if only for the sake of her female pride. She was half-mad for him as a girl, while he was known to be very wicked at the time. A notorious rake, gambler, and pursuer of women, the wags tagged him, but Will claimed that most of the heavy attention his friend attracted was due to his coming into his title so early in life. It was Isabel’s personal opinion, though, that it was Ashby’s unique character which set him apart from the ton’s pack of rakish young bloods.
“You grew up,” he murmured. “The last time I saw you, you wore short blue skirts and had bouncing curls.”
A hot flush crept up her cheeks. “That was seven years ago.” The last time she’d seen him, he sported his regimentals: white breeches, a blue dolman jacket with silver bars stretching over his chest, a similar fur-lined pelisse dangling from one shoulder. He was magnificent. She made a complete fool of herself over him then. She was fifteen years old. “You kept Hector,” she said.
“I promised you I would.” The black satin mask concealed most of his face, but it revealed his hard jaw, chin, and mouth—which she happened to know felt as soft as it looked.
Tearing her gaze away, she sank to the carpet and gave a soft, melodious whistle. The large dog sat up, his ears twitching. Deciding to investigate up close, he came over to sniff her hand.
“Hello, Hector. Do you remember me?” She buried her fingers in his shiny coat, rubbing and stroking. “We were excellent friends once, when you were a tiny pup.” He barked, wagging his tail happily. She laughed. “My, you’ve grown. You’re so beautiful and big and strong.” She lifted her eyes, seeking Ashby’s inscrutable gaze. “I see you’ve been well taken care of.”
“I have,” Ashby replied, though they both knew she had spoken to the dog. “Hector saved my life twice. We’re practically brothers.” He offered her his hand.
Heart thumping, she put her hand in his warm, large palm and let him help her to her feet. They stood very close to one another, surrounded by the dimness created by the heavy drapes.
“I’m sorry about Will,” he said gruffly. “I promised you I would bring him back. I failed.”
“I’m sorry, too,” she murmured. “For what happened to you at Waterloo.”
“Sorauren,” he breathed. “I lost my face at Sorauren.”
“That was four years ago.” She had only found out when people began whispering about him, referring to Ashby as “the Gargoyle of Mayfair.” “Will never mentioned—”
“That I’d become hideous? Will was a saint. He never gossiped about his friends. He made them feel human, even when there was nothing human left in them.”
Staring deep into his anguished, burning eyes, her heart welled with compassion. “Lord Ashby, you are the kindest, gentlest, most generous man I’ve ever known. I don’t believe you could ever lose your humanity.”
“You’d be surprised.”
His harsh words sent an unpleasant shiver through her. “I know bleakness and despair, my lord, but I discovered that by helping others—people less fortunate than I—one heals oneself.”
“I’m thrilled you’ve found your golden path, but not every method works for everyone.”
Before he turned away, she said, “Have you ever seen a child light up with joy at the sight of a hot meal or when he is warm again or when he sees his mother smiling because you helped her in some small way? You and I, we have so much to give, it is our duty to give it.”
He fell silent for a moment. “What sort of help do you require of me?”
His tone didn’t guarantee his assistance, but he was curious. “Our charity board has hired a solicitor to draw up a proposal for a reform bill by which annual compensations would be paid to the aforementioned relatives, women and children, now deprived of means of sustenance.”
“When you say ‘our board,’ I presume you mean you?”
“Lady Iris Chilton, Mrs. Sophie Fairchild, and myself, yes.”
“Go on.”
“We seek an influential gentleman to champion our cause and push legislation across. As a member of the House, you—”
“I haven’t attended sessions in the House of Lords for a long time. Nor do I intend to begin doing so in the foreseeable future. Ergo, I am not the…champion you seek. Anything else?”
“With your power and influence, and with your connections in the War Office, you could contribute to our cause far more than anyone else without attending Parliament.”
“You are wrong, Isabel,” he said solemnly.