After that, he hadn’t done much work at all.
It was then, preoccupied with the image of Isabel splayed before him in the height of pleasure, that he had finished his work and gone looking for her. He’d known it would be more punishment than anything else—and their interlude on the roof had only proven as much.
Nick had not wanted that kiss to end. Rather, he’d wanted nothing more than to lay her down in the musty attic and show her precisely how welcome summer storms could be. If not for the interruption of the young earl, Nick could not guarantee that he would not have done just that.
He shifted in his chair at the thought, the tightness in his breeches reminding him of his location—of his mistake.
He had never been so frustrated in his life: frustrated by his inability to understand the situation into which he had been thrust; frustrated by the compelling female who had turned him inside out earlier; and frustrated by the godforsaken rain that was trapping him in this house.
“She’s got to be in some kind of trouble.” He stood again, returning to the window before smacking his palm against the wainscoting and turning back to Rock. “This incessant rain does not bother you? ”
One side of the Turk’s mouth kicked up in a ghost of a smile. “Even men of our ilk cannot move mountains, Nick.”
The words rankled. “I do not want to stop the rain, Rock. I simply want to be able to leave this house.”
“Do you? ”
Nick’s eyes narrowed on his friend. “Yes. You doubt me?”
“Not at all.” Rock returned to his book, refusing to rise to Nick’s bait.
He’d always been difficult in that way.
After a long moment, Nick threw open the window and leaned out into the darkness. There was only the storm beyond the house, nothing but a black, yawning emptiness.
He had wanted her that afternoon.
And now that he could not understand her, he wanted her more.
He gritted his teeth.
A drink would do him a not insignificant amount of good.
He pulled himself back inside, ignoring his wet hair, and moved to the sideboard, tearing open the cabinets there. “There has got to be some kind of liquor in this house.”
“You are doing it again, you do know that, don’t you?”
Nick snapped to attention, turning to face Rock. “I am afraid I do not follow.”
Rock’s mouth twisted in a wry smile, and he went back to reading his book. “Of course you don’t.”
Nick’s gaze narrowed at the words. “What does that mean? ”
Rock did not look up. “Only that, for as long as I have known you, you have been an easy mark for a mysterious woman. Even easier for a mysterious woman in trouble. Do you deny it? “ Nick stayed silent. Rock continued. “I pulled you from a prison in the heart of Turkey, barely able to move from the beating you had received because of a woman. We’ve been in more fights than I can count because of your desire to save every girl you’ve deemed mistreated. But, leaving aside the fact that we came to Yorkshire to save some girl you’ve never met, of course … you are right. We are not at all trapped in this room, with nothing but books to entertain us, because of your misplaced sense of duty to every female that you meet.”
Nick scowled. “Did you not just advise me on the immovable essence of nature? If it were raining any we would be required to build an ark. I did not summon the weather, Rock.”
The Turk’s black gaze cut across the room. “You did not. But if Lady Isabel were Lord Reddich, would we have become trapped here in the first place?”
Nick did not like the question.
When Rock silently turned a page, he crouched low, hunting for a bottle. At this point, he was not willing to be picky. He’d drink what he could find.
Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed a night like tonight—the weather prohibiting him from leaving the house, from having to see or be seen.
Not tonight. Not while he was under this roof. Under her roof.
Not when thinking about this particular storm made him think about auburn curls dripping with rainwater, the lovely swell of a breast slick with the remnants of the afternoon storm.
He gave a short, harsh laugh—devoid of humor. He was in a strange house, in a strange library, with Rock and his notes on an orgasmic Roman statue. He was lusting after the most perplexing female he had ever met—who happened to be the mistress of the most perplexing house he’d ever visited.
And he was expected to do it all without a drink.
The universe was clearly conspiring against him.
He wanted out of this room.
Turning on one heel, Nick headed for the door, the quick movement attracting Rock’s attention once more.
“Where are you headed? ”
“I am returning to the statuary. I cannot concentrate here.”
“Interesting.”
Nick stopped at the dry tone, throwing a wicked glare in his friend’s direction. “Is there something you would like to say, Rock? ”
Rock smirked. “Not at all. I am merely amused that we fled the clawing masses of women in London only to land ourselves here—with an even more dangerous mass of women.”
“That is something of an overstatement. They are harmless.”
“Are they? ”
Annoyance flared at the casual question. One day in this house and Nick was spoiling for a fight. “I am going to work.”
He continued across the room and yanked open the door, determined to put Isabel from his mind.
If only she hadn’t been in the hallway, he might have had a chance at doing so.
But she was there, frozen in movement, only the swirl of her skirts indicating that he had startled her. Nick felt a pang of disappointment at her attire—appropriately feminine, but far too conservative for the bold, exciting woman from earlier in the day. The dress was black, so black that, with her back to him, she might well have faded into the darkness if not for his keen awareness of her.