The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(53)

A fine line formed between her brows as she looked up at him. “You don’t think my love was true?”

“Do you love him still?”

She studied him, saying nothing.

Had he offended her? Honesty was somewhat new to him, certainly where ladies were concerned. Perhaps she was correct and he was in the wrong. He’d only had one example of love in his life, but he knew it had been love. He missed her even today. “I loved someone once. Not in a romantic fashion, but love nonetheless. I love her still. It doesn’t end. That’s love.”

“Perhaps I never had love to begin with. It seemed so close at the time. Do you think there’s a chance I could still find it? Perhaps with Mr. Grapling? My notions on the romantic sort of love apparently aren’t as clear as they should be.”

He tensed at the mention of the man’s name. No, there was nothing that even resembled love between Isabelle and Reginald Grapling, but Fallon remained silent on the subject. “My notions aren’t as clear as they should be either,” he said instead.

“Will we figure it out one day?”

“You will,” he promised, stroking his fingers down the back of her arm as he spoke. “You desire love in your life.”

“You don’t? Of course you don’t. That would complicate your businesslike bachelor life, wouldn’t it?” She gave him a playful nudge and smiled at him.

“It would indeed.”

But a second later, the smile slipped from her face. “I’ve complicated your life. My stay here—”

“You have. But it isn’t your stay that’s complicating things,” he said, unable to resist the pull of her warmth, the comfort of her weight as she pressed into his side. Everything with Isabelle was unexpected, unplanned, and terribly easy. The way she wore her heart on her sleeve and the depth of her goodness called to him, begging for him to place every one of his closely held cards out on the table for her to see. Friendship…was that what this was? This need to share, to be open? He never shared with anyone.

“You came to my rescue,” she said, pulling him from his questioning thoughts. Her round eyes were wide as she studied him, a new liveliness making them sparkle. “You thought of me, and then you saved my life.”

“I suppose I did,” he hedged. At least he’d scooped her from the floor and brought her here.

“Fallon…”

He fixed problems. That’s what he did, that’s what he always did. And friend or not, she was simply another problem to fix. She had to be. “Don’t,” he commanded in a soft voice.

“Don’t do what?”

“Look at me with stars in your eyes. It’s the same way you looked at Hardaway when you were hiding behind those blasted cakes.”

“He wasn’t worthy of stars, as it turned out,” she said with a sheepish smile.

“Neither am I. You deserve all the stars in the sky. But this is far too complicated, as I said before.”

“What is so complicated, Fallon? Is it so wrong to lov—”

“No. I mean yes. It is wrong.” He shifted away from her, ran a hand though his hair, and pushed to his feet.

She couldn’t decide she was in love with him just like that, like she had with Hardaway. She was staying in Fallon’s bedchamber. He’d put excuses for her absence in place, was doing everything he could to protect her reputation through this mess, but not marrying her would become that much more difficult if she went and fell for him. Blast it all, marriage to him was not going to happen. Everything with her was already so…

Damn. Perhaps he needed to visit one of the brothels he oversaw if he were to survive this day, let alone this week. He wanted everything about her, and she was looking at him like he was the hero of one of those blasted stories in her head. He was no hero. “I…I have to go see to my work. I’ll have food sent up for you. My housekeeper will have to be trusted to know you’re here.”

Mrs. Featherfitch, that’s whom he needed. If he had some distance from Isabelle, he would see the other side of this in no time.

“You wouldn’t have kidnapped me if you didn’t care about me. You don’t have to return the sentiment, but don’t leave. I don’t want you to go. Surely you can see it too. Now that my eyes are open to it, I understand. It’s real this time. Fallon, I lov—”

“You’re in my bedchamber, Isabelle,” Fallon cut in before she could say more. “I can’t go far, can I?”

He didn’t stay to hear her retort, but he was certain it would have something to do with her being kidnapped and his prisoner. He, on the other hand, was beginning to wonder: Between the two of them, who, exactly, was holding whom prisoner?

*

Isabelle had fallen back on the sofa with an unladylike thud, and that’s where she’d been for the past twenty minutes. For the first three minutes, she’d been concerned with appearing tragically abandoned for the occasion of Fallon’s return, but he hadn’t come back. The next seventeen minutes had stretched out as she studied the subtle rosebuds painted on the ceiling above her head.

“Fallon St. James,” she whispered to herself. He wore subdued colors and refused to dance at balls. He certainly didn’t meet the qualifications on her original list. Except that he’d rescued her. He’d thought of her feelings. He was always kind to her. Their conversations flowed unlike any that she’d ever had with a gentleman, in the ballroom or over tea. Perhaps that was why she’d never considered him for her list.