They arrived at a wood and iron door. He opened it to reveal a narrow flight of stone steps; it only led downward. She followed mutedly, but when she became aware of steady metallic thumping that grew louder the deeper they descended, she asked. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the wine cellar.”
Isabel was horrified. “Lord Ashby spends his days in the wine cellar?”
“Not as often as he used to. The first six months, it was impossible to draw him out. Now he only spends the better part of his nights there.”
Poor Ashby, Isabel thought; drowning his despair in one bottle after another. Thank God she had the sense to come back despite his hostile dismissal.
They reached the bottom of the stairs, a dim little room, a wine cellar, similar to the one they had in Seven Dover Street. There was no sign of Ashby. “Miss Aubrey, I must beg you to wait again.” Phipps disappeared behind one of the bottle racks. The thumping stopped.
“What?” She heard Ashby’s deep, short-tempered voice reverberating inside.
“My lord, you have a visitor.”
“Get rid of him.” Something hard hit the floor.
“It’s Miss Aubrey, my lord.”
She heard a steady rasping noise. Unable to contain her curiosity, she tiptoed past the bottle rack and peeked through the arched opening. A cavernous chamber sprawled before her, aglow with candlelight in various heights and niches. Although outside the sun had yet to set, inside this chamber night ruled. The walls were stacked with wine bottles up to the vaulted ceiling. Sawdust coated the floor. Sculptures, furniture, and raw timber occupied most of the space. She stretched her neck and saw long, sinewy legs clad in glove-tight breeches braced apart at a work table.
He circled the table to stand facing her. “Did she say why she was here?”
“No, my lord, she didn’t, but if I had to hazard a guess, I would say it had something to do with the package you sent her.”
Goodness. Ashby was naked from the waist up. Powerful shoulders topped thickly corded arms. His broad chest tapered to a wasp, muscle-winged waist. Hard sinew undulated in perfect symmetry across a flat abdomen. Perspiration covered the hairless skin in a fine glistening sheen.
She was highly disappointed that his overlong hair veiled his features as he forcefully filed a slab of timber smooth. Undeterred, her eyes caressed his beautiful body, entranced by the play of muscles beneath the smooth, burnished skin. She had seen sturdy stack boys shirtless, but none of them looked like that—a masterpiece of masculine brawn carved in marble-like flesh.
What a strange and wonderful creature he was, Isabel thought. The rich and powerful earl, who instead of hiding behind his lofty title at home had ridden against Napoleon without the slightest regard for his personal safety, was a carpenter. That was how he filled his lonely hours, by creating beautiful things—like Vulcan, the suffering, deformed god of craftsmanship.
“Did she come by herself?” Ashby demanded to know.
“Yes, my lord, I believe she did. She has a carriage waiting.” Phipps reached inside his breast pocket and produced the black satin mask. He set it in front of his master.
A moment passed. “Show her in.”
She jumped back, loath to be caught snooping. She wrung her hands while pretending to examine the dim antechamber. Phipps materialized. “You may go in now, Miss Aubrey.”
Tension knotting her nerve-endings, she drew in a steeling breath and walked in. Her gaze fell on a shapeless stump covered with an old sheet. Carpentry tools were scattered around it.
“Don’t touch anything,” a voice commanded.
She spotted Ashby’s tall back bending over a dresser near the far wall. An antiquated, four-poster bed stood there, draped with a red counterpane. Water splashed in a sink. He washed his face, then plowed his fingers through his thick, dark mane, smoothing it back past his nape. He reached for a creased shirt and dried his face. The next object he reached for was the black mask. He tied it around his head and spun around to face her in all his semi-nude glory.
She snapped her jaw shut. “Lord Ashby.” She curtsied, curbing the impulse to lick her lips. It galled her how instead of outgrowing it, her fascination for him had evolved into something far more disturbing and physical. “I apologize for—” Her breath caught as he swabbed his sculpted, glistening chest with the crushed shirt. She never imagined men could look so…delectable.
“Why are you here?” His voice summoned her gaze back to his head.
She forced herself to concentrate. “My lord, I…I came to—”
“Ashby,” he insisted, his green eyes glittering against the black satin. “I hear enough ‘my lord’ to make me gag.” He tossed the crumpled shirt aside and started in her direction, his boot heels pounding along the stone-flagged floor. “Didn’t I specifically tell you never to return?”
She bit her lip. “I came to thank you in person for your impossibly generous donation.”
“You’re welcome, but you could have sent a thank-you note.”
“You could have sent a smaller sum.” She looked around her, awestruck by the exquisite carvings littering the chamber. He wasn’t merely a carpenter; he was an artist. “I liked the box even better,” she confessed in a throaty voice she hardly recognized. “Did you make it yourself?”
He halted right in front of her, his raw masculinity as compelling as it was daunting. His sweetish, musky scent instantly reminded her of their brief kiss on the bench. Everything came back to her: his quickly drawn breath, his warm, supple lips molded to hers, and then his tongue flicking shockingly, erotically at hers, branding her with his whiskey-spiced taste forever.
A sharp tremor shot through her body. She wanted to kiss him again, and touch him, very badly, but she didn’t dare risk another rejection.
His eyes darkened. “Christ, Isabel! Why won’t you let sleeping dogs lie?” he growled, as though he had read her mind. “Nothing good will come of this. Believe me.”
She didn’t want to hear that. “I need to know—what made you change your mind?”
“I didn’t change my mind. You solicited active participation. I gave you money.”
“Still, you were quite adamant the—”
“The message on your card was effective,” he bit out grudgingly. “You are a formidable sharpshooter, Isabel Aubrey. When you take aim, you hit your mark at its softest spot each time.”
“I apologize. My intention was—”
“Don’t apologize to me. Ever. God knows I’ve a lot more I ought to apologize to you for.”
She flushed to the roots of her hair. He was alluding to that infernal kiss he had scorned. Damn him. “I came to convince you to join our cause.” She was all businesslike from then on. “I know you said you didn’t attend Parliament or move in Society anymore, but I would greatly appreciate your commentary on this.” She offered him the leather brief.
“What’s this?” He took the brief and quickly thumbed through it.
“Our bill proposal. I told you about it. I haven’t had a chance to read it myself yet, but—”
“What makes you think I know anything about legislation?” He skimmed the pages.
“In Will’s words—you are the man with the special skills.” She smiled challengingly.
“My skills are many and varied, but you already have my answer.” He returned the file.
Blast. “There is something else. We need the army’s lists.”