He sighed in resignation and held out his hand, every muscle hardening when her gloved fingertips pressed lightly into his palm. He escorted her to the door, draped her in her cloak, and returned to his study window to watch his carriage carry her away.
She belonged to him, as surely as his entailed estates. Nothing and no one could take her away. But he had no wish to keep her by force. He wished to earn her regard, just as he had earned the respect of his tenants. Pride in ownership worked both ways, and until he’d worked side by side with his tenants on his many holdings-until he’d worn their clothes, attended their celebrations, and eaten at their ta bles-they’d had none for him, an errant lord who paid them no mind and felt no loyalty.
His methods had been extreme by any measure, and every time he moved his attentions to a new estate, he had to begin the process of building trust and respect anew. But it had been healing for him. A chance for him to find a home, a place to belong, things he’d never had before.
Now he knew it had been training for this. This was his true home. And if he could find a way to share it with Isabel, in every way, if he could cool his ardor enough and rein in the base needs that clawed at him, perhaps contentment with her could be his.
It was a goal worth striving for.
“She has thrown you over, has she, Lord Hargreaves?” asked a girlish voice beside him.
John turned his head away from the sight of Isabel across the ballroom, and bowed to the lovely brunette who spoke to him. “Lady Stanhope, a pleasure.”
“Grayson has ruined your cozy little arrangement,” she purred, her eyes leaving his to find Pel. “Look how zealously Lord Spencer guards her side. You know as well as I that he would not be here if Grayson had not ordered him to be. Makes one wonder why he is not here to see to the matter himself.”
“I have no wish to discuss Lord Grayson,” he said tightly. Unable to help himself, he stared at his former mistress. He still could not collect how everything could change so drastically in so short a time. Yes, he had noted Pel’s increasing restlessness, but their friendship had been strong and the sex as satisfying as always.
“Even if discussing him could return Lady Grayson’s attentions to you?”
His head whipped toward her. Dressed in blood red satin, Stanhope’s widow was hard to miss, even amongst the crowd. He had noted her several times over the course of the evening, especially since she seemed to be spending a great deal of her time studying him. “What are you saying?”
Lady Stanhope’s rouged mouth curved in a portentous smile. “I want Grayson. You want his wife. It would be to both of our benefits to work together.”
“I’ve no notion of what you are talking about.” But he was intrigued. And it showed.
“That’s fine, darling,” she drawled. “You can leave all the notions to me.”
“Lady Stanhope-”
“We are allies. Call me Barbara.”
The determined tilt of her chin and eyes as hard as the jade they resembled told John she knew what she was about. He glanced at Pel again and caught her staring back at him with her full bottom lip worried between her teeth. His pride smarted.
Barbara’s hand slipped around his arm. “Let’s walk, and I shall tell you what I have planned…”
Chapter 10
Sitting at her boudoir desk, Isabel addressed the last of her dinner invitations with a flourish that belied the apprehension she felt. Grayson had never been the type of man who would brush off such machinations. He was devious and lacked the morals that restrained most, and while he admired similar cunning in others, he did not feel as charitable to those who would try their trickery on him.
Fully cognizant of the fact that she was, in effect, poking a sleeping lion with a stick, she hesitated a moment, staring at the tidy stack of cream-colored missives at her elbow.
“Would you like these sent out immediately?” her secretary asked, hovering nearby.
She hesitated a moment, and then shook her head. “Not just yet. You may go for now.”
Rising from her seat at the escritoire, Isabel knew she was only prolonging the inevitable by failing to set in motion her search for a mistress for Gray, but she needed a bit more inner strength to manage the task. The tension and heated awareness between them was anathema to her mental health.
She’d slept fitfully the night before. Her body, while sore, craved the feel of his. If only she knew what had caused their relationship to alter so drastically, perhaps she could find a way to change it back.
As Gray had requested earlier, she moved over to the adjoining door to speak with him, her stomach fluttering at the mere thought of seeing him. She had barely cracked the portal open when the sound of angry voices stilled her.
“What concerns me is the talk, Gray. Since I avoid those types of preening social events, I had no notion of how bad it is. It is truly dreadful.”
“What is said about me is no concern of yours,” Gray rejoined tightly.
“Damned if it isn’t!” Spencer cried. “I am a Faulkner, too. You chastise me for running wild, and yet Pel has a far worse reputation. They wonder if you have the wherewithal to bring her to heel. They whisper about why you left, that perhaps your recalcitrant wife is too much for you. That you are not man enough to-”
“I suggest you say no more.” Gray’s interjection was fraught with menace.
“Turning a deaf ear does nothing to correct the damage. She was in the retiring room for no more than a few minutes, and in that time I overheard things that made my blood run cold. Mother is right. You should petition Parliament to be rid of her. You quite easily have two witnesses to her adultery. Hundreds, in fact.”
“You tread on thin ice, brother.”
“I will not tolerate the disparagement of our name, and I am aghast that you would do so!”
“Spencer.” Gray’s voice dropped in warning. “Do not do anything idiotic.”
“I will do what is necessary. She is a mistress, Grayson. Not a wife.”
There was a loud grunt, and the wall beside her shook violently. Isabel covered her mouth to stifle a cry.
“Say another unkind word about Pel,” Gray bit out, “and I will not restrain myself. I will not tolerate any slander of my wife.”
“Bloody hell,” Spencer gasped. His surprised voice was so close to the gap in the door she was certain she would be discovered. “You attacked me! What has happened to you? You have changed.”
Stumbling footsteps told her that Gray had pushed his brother away.
“You say I have changed. Why? Because I choose to honor my promises and commitments? That is maturity.”
“She does not afford a like respect to you.”
The low growl from Grayson frightened Isabel. “Get out. I cannot be near you now.”
“We are well met, then, for I cannot bear to be near you either.”
Angry-sounding footfalls preceded the slamming of the hallway door.
Her heart racing madly, Isabel slumped against the wall and felt ill. She was well aware of the talk, which had started when they wed and grew worse as they lived separate lives. Gray’s title held enough power that no one would dare cut her, and she had considered the gossip the price she must pay for her decisions and the freedom she desired. Gray had seemed immune, and so she had assumed he did not care. Now she knew he did care. A great deal. To learn that she had hurt Gray was so painful she could barely catch her breath.
Unsure of what to do or what to say to minimize the damage she had caused, Isabel stood motionless until she heard Gray’s weary sigh. That soft sound touched her deeply, melting something that had long been frozen. She gripped the knob, pulled the door open…
…and was arrested by the sight that greeted her.
Gray was clad in only trousers, a new garment by the look of it, which reminded her of the tailor’s earlier call. He stood by the bed, his hand on the carved post, his back and beautifully curved buttocks hard with tension.
“Grayson,” she called quietly, her blood hot from the mere sight of him.
He straightened, but did not face her. “Yes, Pel?”
“You wished to speak with me?”
