The words were low and meant to be teasing, but Isabel was instantly guarded. “Could we? ”
Someone had hurt her.
The thought set him on edge, the muscles of his back stiffening as he wondered who. And how.
He turned away, attempting a playful note. “May I propose a game? ”
“A game? ”
“For each statue I identify, you shall tell me something of Townsend Park. And your life here.”
There was silence as she considered his offer—a silence that stretched out long enough for him to believe that she might not answer at all. He heard her take a deep breath, and looked back at her, meeting her eyes. He considered their dark, mahogany depths, so private and uncertain. So many secrets hidden there—so much that he wanted to discover. The legacy of the bulan—he could not leave a mystery unsolved.
What would it take to unlock those secrets? To see her with her guard down?
An image flashed, quick and intense—Isabel, her head thrown back in passion, open and unguarded, her long, lithe body spread across his bed, waiting for him. The force of the vision pushed him back, away from her, to a safer distance.
He indicated a nearby bust. “That is Medusa.”
She gave a short burst of laughter. “Of course it is. Even I could have identified her. You can’t really expect me to share my secrets for that.”
“I never said they had to be secrets,” he teased, “but if you are offering information of such value, the bust is Medusa, in black marble, likely from Livadeia. More importantly, it is Medusa after she was decapitated by Perseus, but before her head was seated at the center of Athena’s shield.”
“How do you know that?”
He indicated that she should move closer to the statue. Pointing to a small indentation where the head of one asp was consuming the tail of another, he said, “Look carefully. What do you see? ”
She leaned closer, peering into the shadowy nook. “A feather!”
“Not just any feather. A feather from the wings of Pegasus. Who was spawned from the blood that spilled from Perseus’s blade.”
She turned wide eyes on him, and he resisted the urge to preen. “I’ve looked at this statue dozens of times and never seen it. You are the best.”
He bowed exaggeratedly. “As such, you owe me payment, my lady.”
Isabel nibbled carefully on her lower lip. “All right. I shall tell you about the collection.” “An excellent beginning.”
She paused a long moment, and Nick thought she might change her mind. When she finally spoke, the words came from far away as she looked from statue to statue, lost in her thoughts. “My father won them from a French smuggler in a game of chance.”
Years of practice kept him from replying—and she filled the silence with more of her thoughts. “In the early days of the war. He had always been an inveterate gambler. He wagered on everything, money, servants, houses …” She paused for a moment, lost in thought, then caught herself, and continued. “We would go weeks without seeing him, and then one day, he would arrive on the doorstep, a basketful of puppies in hand, or a new curricle in the drive. He gave these to my mother as a gift three days after I turned seven.”
There was more to the story. He was certain of it.
“And she gave them to you,” he prompted.
She nodded, stiffly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “She did. They are mine.”
There was something in that word, mine, that called to Nick. Here was a woman who cared deeply for that which was hers.
“You do not want to sell them,” he said. That much was obvious.
His words pulled her back from wherever she had been. Silence stretched between them, and he thought she might not reply. When she did, there was little emotion in her tone.
“No.”
“Then … why? ”
She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Sometimes, my lord, we must do things we do not want to do.”
She breathed deeply and he noted the pull of her bodice across her br**sts. Feeling guilty for the awareness that pulsed through him at the movement, he looked away, his gaze landing on a nearby statue, towering above them. Recognition flared, and he gave a short, hoarse laugh.
“What is so amusing? ”
“That statue. Do you know who she is? ”
Isabel turned, considering the nude, one hand at her breast as though she could hide her embarrassment at the statue’s state of undress. Taking in the curve of the marble spine, the serene pleasure on the statue’s face, the garland of roses that wound up one leg, Isabel shook her head. “No.”
“She is Voluptas. The daughter of Cupid and Psyche.”
“How do you know that? She looks like every other female statue here.”
He gave her a frank look. “I know because I am the best.”
She smiled, and he felt a supreme satisfaction in her amusement. When she was not wary of him, she was exquisite.
The air between them became heavy, the room suddenly warmer, the musty air thick with the clean scent of her—a mix of orange blossom and something fresh and welcome that he could not place.
He noted the flush of her skin, the hollow at the base of her neck where the column of her throat met her shoulder, and he was struck with want—quick and intense—more than he had felt in a long while.
He watched as the moment hit her, as well—his nearness catching her breath. Their gazes collided, and he was keenly aware of their position, so close, pressed between two statues, on the brink of touching. They were alone, with none but the marbles to see them.