Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord by Sarah MacLean

Nicholas, are you quite well?”
    He blinked. “Yes. I believe so.”
    “Because you’ve been repeating me more than actually responding.” He did not respond. “Are you certain you are Lord Nicholas St. John? The antiquarian?”
    Yes. That was one of the few things he was sure of in the face of this perplexing female. “Quite.”
    She considered him for a long moment. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to do.”
    “I beg your pardon? ”
    “Forgive me, but you don’t seem the most … alert … of scholars.”
    Now he was offended. “My lady. I assure you … if you are in need of an antiquarian, you couldn’t do much better than me.”
    “You needn’t sound so affronted,” she said. “It’s not as though I’ve a selection of antiquarians from which to choose.” She grinned, and it was like a blow to the head. Again.
    Who was this woman?
    As though she’d read his thoughts, she spoke. “I am Lady Isabel Townsend. And I must thank you for making this so very easy.”
    Nick’s brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon? ”
    But the perplexing woman did not reply. Instead, she turned away, looking down at the ground around them until, with a cry of triumph, she limped several feet and retrieved a rather sad-looking reticule. Nick watched as she ransacked its contents, finally emerging with a small square of paper, which she promptly extended in his direction.
    He cast a doubtful look at the offering and said, “What is it?”
    “It’s for you,” she said simply, as though such a thing were perfectly reasonable to assume.
    “For me?”
    She nodded. “Well, it was for the Royal Society of Antiquities at large.” She smiled at his confusion. “But as you are already here … I think you’ll do just fine, indeed.”
    It was not every day that Isabel was catapulted through the air out of the way of a team of galloping horses. But if that was what it took to bring a member of London’s premiere antiquarian society to Yorkshire, she would accept the bruises she had almost certainly received in the tumble.
    Yes, Lord Nicholas St. John was most definitely a sign.
    The man was an antiquarian—an expert in the history and, more importantly, the value of Grecian marbles. And she just so happened to have a collection of Grecian marbles in need of valuing. And selling. As quickly as possible.
    She pushed aside the tiny ache that consumed her each time she considered the plan. This was the only possible solution. She needed money. Quickly. Lord Nicholas could just as easily have been the highly questionable Lord Densmore.
    And if he had been, Isabel—and the rest of the women at the Park—would be in serious trouble.
    But he wasn’t. She took a deep breath at the thought.
    No, he was the answer to their problems.
    If her father had left her ten thousand pounds, she couldn’t have been happier.
    Well, ten thousand pounds would have made her slightly happier.
    But the marbles were worth something—enough to rent a new house and get the girls out of trouble. With any luck, she would have a second Minerva House ready within the week.
    She never thought she’d say it, but that magazine was something of a godsend.
    She watched as Lord Nicholas read the letter she had drafted that morning. It was really no wonder he had been named a Lord to Land. He was rather a remarkable specimen of manhood. Empirically, of course. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and Isabel knew firsthand that his decimated topcoat hid a muscled bulk that dwarfed most men in Yorkshire, and likely in all of Britain.
    But it was not his size that was so clearly his draw. It was his face, lean and handsome. His lips, now set in a firm, strong line, were easy to smile, and his eyes were a lovely blue, a stark contrast to the rest of him, his dark hair and tanned skin. She’d never seen eyes so blue—they were almost stunning enough to make one miss the scar.
    And then there was the scar.
    It was several inches long, extending from above his