regarding who he was or what he’d done in his life. His first impulse was to enlighten her, but what would that serve? Disillusionment had poisoned his soul. Why would he do that to her? “I was glad to do it, but…”
“Don’t.” She shook her head, remaining a vision of sweetness and light. “I didn’t come here to plague you further. I respect your decision.”
“You do?” He frowned behind the mask. “Then why did you come?” His curiosity was killing him. A new fear suddenly gnawed at him—what if she stopped coming?
Smiling, Isabel lifted the infant and—to his utter stupefaction—deposited her in his arms. “I told Danielli so much about you, she wanted to meet her uncle’s best friend.”
“U–cle!” Danielli piped and ran her soft, chubby palm along his hair and ear. Her delicate touch did strange things to him—it almost made him feel human again. Extraordinary.
Isabel’s sky blue irises filled with love. “Isn’t she adorable? I’ll have you know she rarely pats anyone outside our family. Congratulations on being accepted to a most prestigious club.”
“The Aubrey pride of golden lions?” A grin tugged at a corner of his mouth. “So…what did you tell her about me?”
“I told her you liked puppies, for one. The rest is between us girls.”
Warmth seeped into his jaded soul as he cuddled the soft angel against him. “She’s so pure, so defenseless.” Gazing at the tiny face beaming at him, a sudden, inexplicable instinct to protect her overwhelmed him. “How is such a perfect little creature to survive in our ugly world?”
“That’s her ammunition—she’s so small and lovable, she makes you want to protect her.”
His throat clogged; he glanced at Isabel. She had the same damnable effect on him. Very gently he caressed Danielli’s silken head. “She’s enchanting. How old is she?”
“Thirteen months.”
He knew he had no right to be jealous, but he couldn’t resist asking, “Who’s her father?”
Isabel frowned. “Interesting question,” she replied, eyeing him strangely.
The thought of Isabel belonging to another man, who made love to her every night and saw her smile every morning, gutted him. “She’s yours, isn’t she? You married.”
She studied his eyes. “She’s Stilgoe’s. He married.”
Heady relief broke over him. As if released from invisible chains, a faint grin attacked his lips. “Congratulations. Your brother is a fortunate man. Whom did he marry?”
“Angela Landry. Will was present at their wedding. Didn’t he tell you? It took place right after Bonaparte’s first abdication. Come to think of it, I believe you were invited.”
“I can’t recall.” He had been invited, but he had chosen not to come. After their forbidden kiss, he had made a point of staying away from Seven Dover Street—at first, because he had to, because he couldn’t trust himself near Isabel anymore, and later, because he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t want her pity; he wanted her adoring glow. He contemplated her morosely. Everything about her—her spirit, her beauty, her gestures, her voice—was incredibly lovely and feminine. No doubt he wasn’t the only man who noticed what a bruising Venus she had become or knew about the hundred thousand pounds to be settled on her when she married, and the wolves were circling her at every rout. Sooner or later she would end up married to one of them, and then what would become of him? The problem was: He felt paralyzed to do anything about it.
“Who was the man who left before I came in?” Isabel inquired. She took out a handful of biscuits wrapped in a napkin from her pocket and offered one to Danielli.
“Mr. Brooks, my man of affairs. Why?”
“You let him see you without a mask.”
“How would you know that?” If she had figured that out, she must have also done a quick calculation and realized he’d been wounded the year before her oldest brother’s wedding.
“You made me wait outside. I imagine you weren’t putting your clothes on.” She flashed that engaging smile of hers that used to turn him beet red. “You didn’t the last time I was here.”
His mouth began falling, and he clenched his jaw against it. He couldn’t believe it. Little Izzy Aubrey was actually flirting with him! His old self would have parried with a sly comment about how easily he could shed his clothes if she cared to join him in some recreational activities in the bedchamber—she was, thank God, an adult now—but his new, damaged self settled for the truth. “Mr. Brooks’s sensibilities do not concern me. Yours do.”
“I think my sensibilities might surprise you,” she asserted quietly.
“I wouldn’t recommend it.” Leaning back against the edge of the desk, he returned his gaze to Danielli, who was tracing his mask with her tiny fingers.
“I promised Angie I’d take Danielli to the park. Why don’t you join us? It would be fun.”
He laughed huskily. “So that’s where you’re supposed to be, in the park.”
She smiled back. “Why is it amusing?”
He caught her gaze, grinning predaciously. “It’s always a good sign when a woman lies to her family to be with me.” Her cheeks went up in flames, which was an even better sign. After her absurd suggestion that he consider her a sister, it felt good to have his old teeth back.
Joining the fun, Danielli stuffed her half-chewed, drool-soaked biscuit into his mouth.
“I told her we’d feed the ducks at the pond,” Isabel explained with a chuckle.
Inescapably he swallowed the soggy thing. “I see. I’m a duck.”
“A very”—twinkling eyes raked him from head to toe—“large one, my lord.”
The muscles across his abdomen tightened. He may have lost his face, but he was not that far gone; his male instincts operated in full, blasted capacity. Isabel still had a tendre for him. The good news was she was a full-grown woman with ripe sexual needs; the bad news was she wanted the man he’d once been. Yet he couldn’t resist saying, “I have a garden with a fishpond.”
“You do?” She bit her lip on a timid smile while Danielli wrinkled her nose, hissing, “Fiss! Fiss!” through tiny white teeth. Isabel’s bright blue eyes sparkled naughtily. “Lead the way.”
“Is the guard necessary?” Ashby spoke in Isabel’s ear, creating goose bumps on her skin.
Standing beside him on the lush bank of his garden fishpond, Isabel watched Danielli and Lucy playing with half a dozen dolls and wondered why he, of all men, had to have such a potent effect on her. It was an old mystery. “The guard?” She frowned. “Oh, my maid. Yes, for two reasons. Lucy dislikes your butler. I thought it prudent to separate them.”
“I assure you the feeling is mutual. However,” his tone sharpened, “I don’t relish making an exhibition of myself for the benefit of strangers. Get rid of her.”
