Free Tiger's Eye by Karen Robards Page B

Bernard.
    “We got word that Parren had contracted to kidnap a lady without going through the proper channels, so to speak. I’m the proper channel, so I moved to put an end to his insubordination. Your identity was incidental.” His voice was almost apologetic.
    “Well, that’s very nice to know!” She was unaccountably nettled, and it showed in her voice.
    “Are you going to tell me your name, or not?”
    “Oh, yes. I’m Isabella St. Just, Lady Blakely.”
    “Oh, my, a lady! Just what kind of lady are you?”
    “My husband is the Earl of Blakely.”
    “You’re married to Bernard St. Just?” His voice was fractionally sharper.
    Forgetting again that he couldn’t see, Isabella nodded.
    “Well?” He was impatient.
    “Yes.”
    There was a silence. Then, “How in hell did you end up married to him? You’re not much more than a just-hatched chick!”
    “I am three-and-twenty!” Isabella retorted. “Bernard is forty-five. My father says ’tis the prime of life.”
    “And just who is your father?”
    “The Duke of Portland.”
    “Ahhh. So you Ye a very juicy plum for the picking, indeed.”
    “I beg your pardon?” His cant went over her head.
    “Never mind. Is your marriage happy?”
    “Whether it is or not is certainly none of your concern!” Isabella replied, taken aback.
    “I’m simply attempting to determine who would want you dead. If your marriage is unhappy, then that needs to be considered along with everything else.”
    “I told you, none of my family would want me dead.”
    “St. Just dropped a packet at the tables a few months back.” It sounded like an idle observation, but in the context of the conversation it was sinister. Isabella blinked.
    “How do you know that?”
    “Let’s just say that it’s my business to know what goes on in London.”
    “Who are you, anyway? You don’t sound like a—a …” Her voice trailed away as she recollected that what she had been going to call him might just possibly be considered an insult.
    “A …?” he prompted. She thought he might be amused again.
    “A ruffian,” she came up with, and this time he laughed aloud.
    “Oh, I’m very definitely a ’ruffian,’ my lady, believe me. Although I’ve never thought of myself in exactly that way.”
    “I beg your pardon if I offended you.”
    “Not in the least. I’ve never been one to quibble at calling a spade a spade—or a ruffian a ruffian.”
    He was grinning; she could tell he was. Her eyes narrowed. She was providing him with a great deal of amusement, it seemed!
    “Besides ’ruffian,’ do you have another name?”
    “Indeed I do, my lady. Alec Tyron, at your service.”
    “How do you do, Mr. Tyron?”
    “Very well, thank you, my lady. And now that the formalities have been observed, and your fears of imminent murder have been laid to rest, may I suggest that we light a candle? If we are to continue this fascinating conversation, that is.”
    “Oh, no!” His suggestion brought home all the hideous impropriety of the situation. Clad in another of the diaphanous nightdresses, she was the next thing to naked—and he was a (probably dangerous, and certainly wicked) stranger, for all he was sitting so companionably on the end of her bed, and for all the unaccountable feeling of security he gave her in doing so.
    “Why not?” The question was reasonable.
    “I am not … dressed.”
    “Are you trying to tell me you’re sitting there talking to me stark naked? Dear me, I’m shocked!” From the mock-horrified tone of his voice, Isabella knew that he was teasing her. But the image his words conjured up was vivid, and caused a queer little tightening in her belly. Mortified at both the conversation and her response, she struggled for words.
    “No, I am not na—completely unclothed! Of course I am not! I have on a nightrail, but it is—it is not …”He knew perfectly well what she was trying to say, she thought. After all, he had seen her nightrail—and what lay