glance back told him that they were not in view of the diverse nurses and their charges.
Not having noticed his approach—no doubt preoccupied with the recent conversation and, in particular, the earl's warm brown eyes—Isabella looked up, bewildered, at his greeting.
"I see you, too, have decided to take advantage of this brilliant morning," Basil observed, peering down over her shoulder at the neglected sketch pad. "But you will make a long job of it without your pencil." And without waiting for an invitation, he flung himself down on the ground beside her.
She had not yet had the experience of being alone with Mr. Trevelyan and, considering his disconcerting effect on her when others were about, did not intend to broaden her education.
"I was just preparing to leave..." she began, turning away from the cat eyes to search for her pencil, which had rolled away into the grass.
"And leave me to my lonely meditations? Yet I fear it is no more than I deserve."
"It is not on your account , Mr. Trevelyan," she snapped. It was exceedingly uncomfortable to find him so close. "I have stayed overlong as it is, only I do not know where Polly can have got to. She has been gone this half hour at least."
After amiably suggesting that Polly must have drowned herself, Basil added blandly, "But see, you have had Lord Hartleigh as sentinel, and now that he is gone, here am I to take my turn as your protector."
For what seemed the thousandth time that morning, Isabella felt her face grow hot, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. It was an unsettling experience. The topaz eyes studied her, waiting. He reminded her of a cat crouched, ready to spring. Only he wasn't crouching. He was sitting, leaning back against the tree.
"Lord Hartleigh was only trying to please his ward. She has taken a sudden...liking to me," she said, faltering.
"That is not in the least surprising. But my cousin should beware. The condition is contagious." Considerate of the moppet to have a wrestle with Miss Latham, for that lady's coiffure was in a most appealing state of disarray. A stray cherry-coloured ribbon dangling from her sleeve caught his eye. Apparently without thinking, he lifted it away, but she started at his touch. "Why, Miss Latham," he drawled, "I believe the child has frazzled your nerves. I'm sure I told you I won't bite. I was merely relieving you of this...love token she left behind."
"I shall return it to her," said Isabella, reaching to take it. But he snatched his hand away and pocketed the ribbon.
"Although I am all curiosity as to when you would have the opportunity, I shall keep in mind what happens to curious cats, and content myself with retaining this—as my love token."
" Mr. Trevelyan, you have a highly overactive imagination." Hurriedly, she began gathering up her belongings, preparing to rise. His hand on her arm stopped her.
"I wish you would not leave," he said softly.
Her heart began to pound. The voice and eyes were hypnotic, tempting her in spite of herself. She had only to pull herself free of his grasp. Yet she couldn't, or wouldn't. She had only to say a word to send him about his business, as Mama had suggested, but the word would not come. She had the curious sensation of observing herself, as though in a dream, as the sleepy cat eyes grew larger and seemed to swallow her up, as his fingers touched her cheek, and as she felt his lips on her own. For a moment all thought left her and time hung suspended. The sketchbook dropped from her hands. She felt his arms around her, pulling her closer, his mouth insistent. She felt his heart thudding next to her own. And then, as though from a tremendous distance, she heard a child's cry, and abruptly, the spell was broken. With all her strength, she thrust him away from her and struggled to her feet. He scrambled up after her, catching her before she could run away.
"Let go of me," she gasped.
"I will," he answered, a little breathless himself, "but you must not hate
Not having noticed his approach—no doubt preoccupied with the recent conversation and, in particular, the earl's warm brown eyes—Isabella looked up, bewildered, at his greeting.
"I see you, too, have decided to take advantage of this brilliant morning," Basil observed, peering down over her shoulder at the neglected sketch pad. "But you will make a long job of it without your pencil." And without waiting for an invitation, he flung himself down on the ground beside her.
She had not yet had the experience of being alone with Mr. Trevelyan and, considering his disconcerting effect on her when others were about, did not intend to broaden her education.
"I was just preparing to leave..." she began, turning away from the cat eyes to search for her pencil, which had rolled away into the grass.
"And leave me to my lonely meditations? Yet I fear it is no more than I deserve."
"It is not on your account , Mr. Trevelyan," she snapped. It was exceedingly uncomfortable to find him so close. "I have stayed overlong as it is, only I do not know where Polly can have got to. She has been gone this half hour at least."
After amiably suggesting that Polly must have drowned herself, Basil added blandly, "But see, you have had Lord Hartleigh as sentinel, and now that he is gone, here am I to take my turn as your protector."
For what seemed the thousandth time that morning, Isabella felt her face grow hot, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. It was an unsettling experience. The topaz eyes studied her, waiting. He reminded her of a cat crouched, ready to spring. Only he wasn't crouching. He was sitting, leaning back against the tree.
"Lord Hartleigh was only trying to please his ward. She has taken a sudden...liking to me," she said, faltering.
"That is not in the least surprising. But my cousin should beware. The condition is contagious." Considerate of the moppet to have a wrestle with Miss Latham, for that lady's coiffure was in a most appealing state of disarray. A stray cherry-coloured ribbon dangling from her sleeve caught his eye. Apparently without thinking, he lifted it away, but she started at his touch. "Why, Miss Latham," he drawled, "I believe the child has frazzled your nerves. I'm sure I told you I won't bite. I was merely relieving you of this...love token she left behind."
"I shall return it to her," said Isabella, reaching to take it. But he snatched his hand away and pocketed the ribbon.
"Although I am all curiosity as to when you would have the opportunity, I shall keep in mind what happens to curious cats, and content myself with retaining this—as my love token."
" Mr. Trevelyan, you have a highly overactive imagination." Hurriedly, she began gathering up her belongings, preparing to rise. His hand on her arm stopped her.
"I wish you would not leave," he said softly.
Her heart began to pound. The voice and eyes were hypnotic, tempting her in spite of herself. She had only to pull herself free of his grasp. Yet she couldn't, or wouldn't. She had only to say a word to send him about his business, as Mama had suggested, but the word would not come. She had the curious sensation of observing herself, as though in a dream, as the sleepy cat eyes grew larger and seemed to swallow her up, as his fingers touched her cheek, and as she felt his lips on her own. For a moment all thought left her and time hung suspended. The sketchbook dropped from her hands. She felt his arms around her, pulling her closer, his mouth insistent. She felt his heart thudding next to her own. And then, as though from a tremendous distance, she heard a child's cry, and abruptly, the spell was broken. With all her strength, she thrust him away from her and struggled to her feet. He scrambled up after her, catching her before she could run away.
"Let go of me," she gasped.
"I will," he answered, a little breathless himself, "but you must not hate
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