Without waiting for an invitation, Damien sprawled down on the small blanket, insinuating himself next to Isabella.
Her nose caught the tantalizing sweet smell of fresh berries. Damien held out a basket of fragrant strawberries.
“Try one,” he coaxed.
Isabella shifted uncomfortably. The deep, silky pitch of his voice brought to mind all manner of sensuous pleasures that had nothing at all to do with fruit. Blindly, she reached out and filled her hands with the luscious berries.
Lounging back against the blanket, Damien propped himself up on his elbows, crossed his ankles and inquired casually, “Is that one of the barn cats over there on the hill?”
“Where? Oh, where?” Catherine shrieked, whipping her head about and dropping a half-eaten strawberry on the ground.
Damien grinned. “Right there, on the hill.”
The earl pointed toward the top of a small grassy knoll, where a substantial-looking cat was languidly resting in the grass, washing himself in a dignified manner.
Catherine and Ian both jumped instantly to their feet, exactly as Damien had planned.
“I can see it! I see the cat!” Ian shouted. “It's the big orange tabby, my favorite.”
“I want to pet him first,” Catherine insisted, nearly knocking her brother off his feet in her haste to reach the animal.
“But I saw him first,” Ian retorted.
Yelling and shrieking with excitement, the pair raced riotously across the meadow.
“Be careful or you'll frighten the poor cat away,” Isabella called, pushing herself upright. She attempted to rise, but discovered she could not. Damien held her hand tightly against his chest.
The children quickly vanished in hot pursuit of their quarry. Damien wasted no time. He pulled Isabella down until she was nearly reclining next to him. Just being so close to her brought him a shivering thrill of anticipation. He fitted his length close to hers, pressing his leg deliberately against hers, wondering if she could feel the power of his desire for her.
“The children are perfectly safe. Besides, I find I like having you all to myself,” he said thickly.
He saw her take a determined breath, but she did not move away. In fact, she appeared to press herself closer to his side. Damien's palms started to sweat.
He released her hand, reached over, and brushed his fingers against her cheek.
“Isabella.” He spoke her name softly, tenderly.
She lowered her eyes, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Isabella,” he repeated, stroking her neck with his open palm, feeling her tremble beneath his sensuous caress.
“This is madness,” Isabella whispered, tilting her chin toward him in silent invitation. “Sheer madness.”
He kissed her. With wild abandon. Even though they were outside in the light of day, even though his children were only a few hundred yards away, Damien's mouth descended commandingly upon Isabella's lips with hunger and need.
He kissed her passionately, totally without restraint. The emotions of last night, the frustrations of the day, careened inside him, nearly out of control. He sought comfort in her arms, he sought understanding, he sought acceptance. He wanted, nay he needed Isabella to feel every bit of his desire for her. He only dared to hope she would return at least a small measure of it.
She didn't disappoint him. She was warm and willing, and her tongue boldly met his as she melted against him. Cupping her face between his hands, Damien deepened the kiss. He pressed closer, crushing her soft breasts against his hard chest, seeking relief from the heat suddenly building inside him.
“Father! Miss Browning! Look what I've found!”
At the sound of Ian's voice, Damien and Isabella sprang apart. Damien bent his knee to hide the painful swelling in his breeches while Isabella turned away to shield the flush in her cheeks.
Apparently oblivious to the tension, the little boy breathlessly stumbled over the edge of the blanket. He opened his closed hands and proudly displayed his prize.
“A frog. I found a frog.”
The creature made a belligerent croak; then, with a flying leap, dove across the blanket and landed directly in Isabella's mug of cider.
“Ian!” Damien shouted, as he rolled out of the way. “What the devil are you doing?”
“I'm so sorry, Father.” The little boy squatted down and plunged his hand into Isabella's cup. “I was holding his leg tight, but he got away. My frog is rather slippery.”
After several attempts, Ian managed to rescue his new friend. He pulled it gingerly from the liquid and held it up for examination. The frog hung limply in his hand, dejected and dripping cider on the blanket. Ian shook it sharply, then turned to his father with bright, questioning eyes.
Isabella coughed discretely behind her hand, trying to disguise her laughter. Damien refused to meet her gaze, certain he would be unable to contain his own mirth if their eyes met.
“I believe the frog will feel better if you put him back where you found him, son,” the earl said solemnly. “He is most likely missing his fellow frogs.”
“Come along, Ian,” Isabella stood on her feet, shaking off the stray drops of cider that had landed on her skirt. “We shall return him together.”
“I'm sorry he jumped in your mug, Miss Browning.”
“ 'Tis all right. I suspect your young frog was thirsty. Do you suppose he had enough to drink before you pulled him out? Shall we give him one last dunk in the cider?”
Ian giggled. He allowed Isabella to dry, then wrap the frog loosely in a linen napkin. He held the cloth tightly, in one fist, then with only slight hesitation clasped her outstretched fingers with his free hand.
Damien watched them leave, feeling unexpectedly lighthearted. She was good for the children. Kind, patient, understanding. He remembered the harsh dictates of his own governess and was glad he was able to provide a far more pleasant experience for his children.
She would be, without question, an excellent stepmother.
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Dinner for the adults that evening began as a strained affair. Isabella had overseen the arranging of the table herself, ensuring that no unpolished silver or cracked china was pressed into service. At first glance, the array of food on the sideboard gave a favorable impression. Closer inspection, however, revealed overdone beef, undercooked pheasant, soggy vegetables, and sauces with a decidedly burnt aroma.
Lord Poole made no comment on the unappetizing food, instead making a valiant effort to consume as much of his dinner as possible. Damien was uncharacteristically silent during most of the meal, but could not resist a comment when a dry piece of beef flew off Lord Poole's plate as he was attempting to cut it.
“I do hope you are enjoying our simple English fare, Poole,” the earl commented with a mocking grin.
“As much as you are, I feel certain, Saunders,” Lord Poole retorted. “Hearty English fare can have great appeal. I often find the French chefs vastly overrated, don't you, Miss Browning?”
“On occasion,” Isabella commented, privately thinking how wonderful it would be to be feasting on some overrated French chef's efforts right now.
“I recall one evening dining with Lord and Lady Lofting,” Lord Poole continued. “They so often boasted of having the finest
chef de cuisine
in London, but the man was a fright. On the night I was in attendance, he deliberately threw an entire tureen of hot lobster bisque onto the kitchen floor.”
“How childish,” Isabella commented. “Why did the chef do such a thing?”
“Apparently he was piqued by tardy arrivals in the dining hall.” Lord Poole lowered his head apologetically. “Regretfully, I must confess to being among them.”
“Regretfully?” Damien's brows rose slightly. “I strongly suspect you had prior knowledge of the Frenchman's obsession with promptness, Poole.”
Lord Poole smiled broadly. “Perhaps I did hear a rumor or two about it at my club.” He took a long swallow of his wine. “Still, I can't image a man would be so foolish to allow a servant to take such advantage.”
“Indeed. How utterly ridiculous,” Damien responded in a mocking tone.
Isabella cleared her throat noisily at the remark, her mind filling with the endless occasions when she had clearly overstepped her role as the earl's employee.
Mustering her courage, she risked a glance at Damien. He stared boldly at her, his gray eyes challenging. A quickening sensation jolted unexpectedly through her. Isabella's breath caught in her throat and her mind went blank for a crucial instant. Their eyes met and held, and Isabella's heart swelled with emotion.
The earl's lips curved slightly in an intimate, secret smile that left her feeling as if she had done something that pleased him enormously. She shyly returned his smile, and Damien winked broadly at her. Isabella's fork clattered noisily to her plate.
Her hands trembled as she reached down to retrieve her cutlery, while the strange, heady feeling persisted. Pulse hammering, Isabella deliberately took a large bite of dry beef, waiting for her scattered senses to return.
Fortunately, Lord Poole appeared unaware of her predicament. Polite conversation resumed. Then Jenkins brought in a silver bowl filled with strawberries.
“Luscious, ripe fruit grown on my own land,” Damien stated proudly, his eyes pinned on Isabella. “Sweet nectar from the gods.”
Isabella felt his stare, but refused to raise her chin. She elected instead to gaze at the fruit on her plate and remembered, with almost sad longing, the tenderness, the passion, the gentleness of his kisses earlier in the evening.
“You sound just like a yeoman farmer, Saunders,” Lord Poole said scornfully, but he filled his plate with the appetizing morsels.
“Farming is an honest, noble profession, Poole. One I am proud to be successfully engaged in. Over the years I've learned a great deal from the men who work my lands.” Damien leaned back casually in his chair. “Did you know that the secret to such large, sweet berries is an abundance of aged cow manure mixed in the soil?”
Lord Poole quickly dropped the strawberry he had been about to put in his mouth. It remained untouched upon his plate alongside the other luscious berries.
“Shall we adjourn to the salon, gentlemen?” Isabella hastily suggested. It seemed pointless to suggest the men indulge in port and cigars together while she withdrew. They would most likely come to blows if left alone.
In anticipation of this moment, she had asked Fran to ensure that the room was properly cleaned, aired, and fit for company.
Determined to favor neither man, Isabella ignored the two outstretched hands eager to assist her from her chair and majestically sailed from the dining room. Damien and Lord Poole followed complacently in her wake, but Isabella was not foolish enough to believe impending disaster had been completely thwarted. It was absurdly early to suggest retiring, and there were still several hours left in the evening for the uneasy peace to be shattered.
With each clicking step she took across the unpolished oak-floored hallway, Isabella racked her brain, searching for a stimulating yet safe subject upon which the three of them could engage in conversation. A true challenge indeed.
Lord Poole unexpectedly came to the rescue. Spying the recently polished pianoforte by the salon windows, he asked, “Are you musically inclined, Miss Browning?”
“In a rather limited fashion, Lord Poole.”
He smiled encouragingly. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to favor us with a song.”
“I shall gladly play a tune, Lord Poole,” Isabella replied with a twinkling laugh, “but I must forgo the song. My grandfather once likened my voice to fingernails scratching a chalkboard. I regret to inform you that it was, in truth, a kind comparison.”
Isabella positioned herself in front of the pianoforte, fussing for a few moments before sitting down. She gave only a cursory glance at the sheets of music neatly arranged on the music stand, recognizing the first piece as a classical composition far beyond her talent.
Instead she played from memory, slowly picking out the tunes, gradually playing with greater certainty as she remembered the correct notes. She played the simple melodic ballads she enjoyed from childhood, releasing long-suppressed memories of her mother. Although not possessing a great talent, Isabella played from the heart, and her music had an exalted, vibrant quality that touched both men.
The final note died away, but the mood created by the music remained until a log in the fire crackled, showering sparks over the hearth.
“That was lovely, Isabella,” Damien remarked sincerely. “I recognized a few of the tunesâIrish ballads, I believe. But I never heard the final song. It was charming.”