eyes apologetic.
“You should go up to bed,” he said.
She cocked her head. “I thank you for your offer of traveling with me, and for saving my life and your wonderful generosity.” A slight frown appeared between her brows. She licked her lips and swallowed. “But I will not imposition you further. Besides, it seems they only hit at night and I can travel the stage during the day.”
Jason sighed. People rarely went against him. It was a good move, but pointless. He propped his chin on his fist, leaning to the side in his chair. “You could.”
She smiled.
“But you won’t.”
The smile died and something flashed in her eyes. Did her composure ever slip? Did she ever show emotion other than polite responses? Should he push her to see?
“It seems I am tired after all, my lord.” Her foot tapped daintily on the floor.
“Back to ‘my lord’, am I?”
That earned him a glare and he barely managed to hide his smile.
She gingerly rose and he stood to help her up. But she ignored him and stepped to the side. “Good night.”
When she was at the door he said, “Good night, Emily.”
He caught the faint huff and smiled.
* * * * *
Jason was not smiling two mornings later. It was a little past dawn when he stood outside his new traveling coach, looking up at the house.
“My lord?”
He turned back to Grims . “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” The missive he’d received from Isobelle was cryptic at best, and left him worried.
Please come. There is something I must tell you. Someone you have to meet. I am dying. Your ever loving, Isobelle .
She’d given him directions to her cottage in the Cotswolds . And now, here he was a half an hour after opening the missive, getting ready to depart.
“Take care of Mrs. Smith and let her know I’ll be back as quickly as possible.” He climbed aboard and thumped the roof of the carriage.
As the miles rolled by, his worry about the message he received overshadowed his concern for his house guest. When he’d come back from the Continent, wounded and disillusioned with war, though still strong in his hatred for one Corsican and busy setting up the lucrative façade of a shipping company, he’d found a mistress.
Isobelle Travers. She was of Portuguese descent with dark hair and eyes, wonderful olive skin and so beautiful it had made him—along with every other male in White’s and any other St. James club—salivate.
Jason had returned home after being wounded near Lisbon in the fall of 1810. When he received word that his father was ailing and he had a responsibility to his family, title and country to come home, he did just that. Sold his commission—for form’s sake, since it had been years since he’d actually served under any actual officer—and returned to the civilized world of drawing rooms and vast estates.
But then that’s what he, along with his partners in the shipping business, had been ordered by the War Ministry to do. Jason had met Isobelle soon thereafter and it had been more than just lust between them. Certainly that had been a wonderful benefit to their arrangement, but she was intelligent, sharp-witted, and knew what she wanted out of life.
Jason had respected Isobelle , not only as his mistress, but also as a friend.
Then one day, several months into their mutual relationship, she’d up and disappeared. He’d searched everywhere for her, but to no success.
Cotswolds ? What was she doing there? And who in the blazes did she want him to meet?
* * * * *
Emily took one last glance around this room. She’d mended and healed quickly, or so she’d been told, but then, she’d had to learn to heal quickly.
The silks in this room were pale ice, the color of folded snow. Silver shot through the window coverings and the bed curtains. The counterpane was a darker hue. Treasures, old and fragile sat on the vanity, the little side tables, the mantle, things she dared not touch for fear of breaking some priceless family
“You should go up to bed,” he said.
She cocked her head. “I thank you for your offer of traveling with me, and for saving my life and your wonderful generosity.” A slight frown appeared between her brows. She licked her lips and swallowed. “But I will not imposition you further. Besides, it seems they only hit at night and I can travel the stage during the day.”
Jason sighed. People rarely went against him. It was a good move, but pointless. He propped his chin on his fist, leaning to the side in his chair. “You could.”
She smiled.
“But you won’t.”
The smile died and something flashed in her eyes. Did her composure ever slip? Did she ever show emotion other than polite responses? Should he push her to see?
“It seems I am tired after all, my lord.” Her foot tapped daintily on the floor.
“Back to ‘my lord’, am I?”
That earned him a glare and he barely managed to hide his smile.
She gingerly rose and he stood to help her up. But she ignored him and stepped to the side. “Good night.”
When she was at the door he said, “Good night, Emily.”
He caught the faint huff and smiled.
* * * * *
Jason was not smiling two mornings later. It was a little past dawn when he stood outside his new traveling coach, looking up at the house.
“My lord?”
He turned back to Grims . “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” The missive he’d received from Isobelle was cryptic at best, and left him worried.
Please come. There is something I must tell you. Someone you have to meet. I am dying. Your ever loving, Isobelle .
She’d given him directions to her cottage in the Cotswolds . And now, here he was a half an hour after opening the missive, getting ready to depart.
“Take care of Mrs. Smith and let her know I’ll be back as quickly as possible.” He climbed aboard and thumped the roof of the carriage.
As the miles rolled by, his worry about the message he received overshadowed his concern for his house guest. When he’d come back from the Continent, wounded and disillusioned with war, though still strong in his hatred for one Corsican and busy setting up the lucrative façade of a shipping company, he’d found a mistress.
Isobelle Travers. She was of Portuguese descent with dark hair and eyes, wonderful olive skin and so beautiful it had made him—along with every other male in White’s and any other St. James club—salivate.
Jason had returned home after being wounded near Lisbon in the fall of 1810. When he received word that his father was ailing and he had a responsibility to his family, title and country to come home, he did just that. Sold his commission—for form’s sake, since it had been years since he’d actually served under any actual officer—and returned to the civilized world of drawing rooms and vast estates.
But then that’s what he, along with his partners in the shipping business, had been ordered by the War Ministry to do. Jason had met Isobelle soon thereafter and it had been more than just lust between them. Certainly that had been a wonderful benefit to their arrangement, but she was intelligent, sharp-witted, and knew what she wanted out of life.
Jason had respected Isobelle , not only as his mistress, but also as a friend.
Then one day, several months into their mutual relationship, she’d up and disappeared. He’d searched everywhere for her, but to no success.
Cotswolds ? What was she doing there? And who in the blazes did she want him to meet?
* * * * *
Emily took one last glance around this room. She’d mended and healed quickly, or so she’d been told, but then, she’d had to learn to heal quickly.
The silks in this room were pale ice, the color of folded snow. Silver shot through the window coverings and the bed curtains. The counterpane was a darker hue. Treasures, old and fragile sat on the vanity, the little side tables, the mantle, things she dared not touch for fear of breaking some priceless family
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