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.”
“It’s difficult to concentrate with wedding bells pealing in my ears,” she ribbed. Charles was neither ambitious nor greedy; he was simply an old woman, she thought, anxious for his recalcitrant sister to wed. “Now hush and go away. I want to join this conversation.”
“My main focus is reducing land taxes,” Lord John answered Sophie’s question.
“You support landowners, then,” Isabel interjected, hoping her tone didn’t come out as harsh as she imagined. She had no use for an aristocrat who acted for the benefit of his peers.
“Anything that would encourage the employment of demobilized. Ex-soldiers, that is.”
“Oh.” Isabel met Iris and Sophie’s gazes, reading their thoughts. Hanson might just be the representative they sought. “Lord John, it appears we may have a similar concern.” She stepped a little closer to the blond god, ignoring Stilgoe’s smug chuckle. “Do tell us more.”
“I would love to, if you granted me the pleasure of escorting you onto the dance floor for this next waltz, Miss Aubrey.”
“Why…I—” She looked over at Stilgoe, who merely shrugged. She beamed at John. “Yes, I thank you.” As she took his proffered arm and let him lead her to the floor, she couldn’t help noticing the number of heads turning in their direction. Never before had she been the subject of so many women’s envy. What was John doing with her, anyway? She was pretty, she supposed, but they hardly exchanged more than a polite greeting now and then, and Lord John had a flock of admirers eating from the palm of his hand. What the devil was Stilgoe up to, she wondered.
“Stilgoe tells me that you and your friends founded a charity in support of war widows,” John remarked as he whirled her across the floor, keeping the correct distance between them.
“We act for women and children who lost the breadwinner of their family in the war and are now facing beggary and workhouses as their sole means of survival.”
“What made you decide to help this particular group?” He stepped and turned, moving in tune with the music.
“My brother died at Waterloo. Iris’s father, an officer with the 95th Rifles, died in Spain. Sophie’s husband, a navy lieutenant, died at sea. We felt it was our duty to help other women who shared our grief but didn’t have the benefit of our economic and social stability.”
“What are your goals? What efforts have you made so far?”
“We visit almshouses, workhouses. We donate food and clothing. We hold a meeting every Friday afternoon and invite bereaved women in order to build a list and to learn more regarding what needs to be done. We’re also working toward submitting a bill proposal to Parliament. We believe the government should financially compensate these women for their loss.”
“I’m impressed. A woman as young and as lovely as yourself taking on a task of this magnitude…I can’t imagine it’s easy, considering your personal loss. In which regiment did your brother serve?”
“The 18th Hussars, my lord.”
His shoulder stiffened beneath her hand. “Call me John, I insist.”
“Very well, John.” She smiled. “You may call me Isabel.”
“Isabel. Your name has a distinct feminine ring to it. It suits you well.”
“Thank you, John.” She saw Sophie dancing with the elderly Admiral Duckworth. There seemed to be a physical tug-of-war going on between these two, which her friend did not enjoy.
“Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at the Barrington ball tomorrow?” John inquired.
