The chandelier blocked her view, but through the sculpted bars of the banister she saw a black-coated retriever sitting vigilantly next to a pair of polished black Hessians. “Dudley, is that my coat you’re wearing?” Ashby’s voice resonated above them.
Dudley cringed. “Yes, my lord, but I can explain—”
“I should hope so. Phipps, stand aside. Let the women go.”
Phipps hung desolate eyes on the daunting form towering over the foyer. “My lord, I—”
“Now, Phipps!” Leather creaked as Ashby turned on his heel.
Isabel shook herself. This was her chance. “Lord Ashby, may I see you privately for a moment? Merely to ascertain that no trickery is played and that you are indeed—”
He halted. Distant eyes perused her through the dappled shimmer of the chandelier. “Wait in the sitting room,” he said after a long pause. “I’ll be with you shortly.” His boot heels pounded the hardwood as he left the gallery, receding deeper inside the house.
Phipps approached her with a contrite expression. “Miss Aubrey, I beg you, forgive me.”
“Me, too.” Dudley nodded briskly, the overlarge coat hanging neatly on his forearm.
“We had no intention of frightening you—” Phipps continued.
“Or your maid,” Dudley inserted. “He wouldn’t have seen you unless we did something…”
“Drastic. We sincerely apologize.” They stared at her pleadingly, Dudley rubbing the bump on his head, Phipps hugging his tender ribs.
Isabel eyed the two misfits. “I expect you to apologize to Lucy as well,” she bit out crossly.
“We shall do so at once,” they promised in unison, bowing humbly.
Isabel returned to the front sitting room. She paced about, anticipation wreaking havoc on her nerves. Confident strides approached the doorway. She held her breath, waiting to see if…
He walked onto the threshold, and her heart slammed hard against her rib cage. “Ashby.”
Wearing 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
