Nick’s hands worked at the wax seal on the neck of the bottle, and Isabel was drawn to the movement. She noted the care, the certainty of his fingers—the same fingers that had caressed her that afternoon. They were bronzed from the sun, perfectly manicured, but strong and capable—nothing like the feminine hands of the wealthy men from aristocratic families whom she had met in the past.

They were quite lovely, really.

She was thinking about the man’s hands. When she snapped her attention away from them and returned her gaze to his, she noticed the knowing gleam there, as though he could read her thoughts. As though he knew that she was admiring his hands.

How very embarrassing.

For a fleeting moment, Isabel considered escaping the room—running and never looking back. When Rock tilted his head in her direction, however, she was reminded of the reason that she had disturbed the men in the first place.

She must stay and entertain them. And keep Rock from revealing the secrets of Minerva House, and Nick from revealing the secrets of its mistress.

If she were not the subject of such intense scrutiny, she would have stomped her foot. Men were trouble, indeed.

Masking her frustration with what she hoped was a cordial smile, she said, “You will need glasses, of course.”

Nick nodded once, and headed for the sideboard on the far end of the library, crouching low and retrieving three crystal tumblers.

Isabel did not conceal her surprise. “You have made quick work of making yourself at home. I see that you already know the location of our barware? ”

He offered her a sheepish grin, a dimple flashing on one cheek, and she had a glimpse of the troublesome, charming child he must have been.

She found she liked that idea.

“Just a cursory reconnaissance, I assure you. Rock was watching me the whole time—he shall vouch for my behavior as entirely aboveboard.”

Isabel looked to Rock, who, in mock seriousness, announced, “Lord Nicholas is ever the perfect gentleman.”

Isabel couldn’t help her smile when she returned her attention to Nick and said, “I am afraid I find that very difficult to believe.”

The words were out before she could think better of them, and she was immediately aware of the possibility that Rock would read some clandestine event into them. Not that such a leap would be incorrect. Wide-eyed, she quickly shifted her attention back to Rock, uncertain of her next step. When the Turk laughed, big and brash, she let out a little breath that she had not known she had been holding.

“I am sorry that we haven’t anything better than … whatever that is,” she said, eager to change the subject, waving one hand in the direction of the dusty bottle in Nick’s hands. “We do not have much cause for liquor, I am afraid.”

Nick poured two fingers of amber liquid into each of the glasses, then crossed the room to offer the drink to Rock and Isabel.

“No, thank you,” she said, moving closer to the paperstrewn desk at the far corner of the room. She waved one hand in the air as she added, “I should like to know what it is, though.”

Nick took a drink, then leaned against a low bookshelf, watching Isabel with a heavy-lidded gaze. “It is brandy.”

Her head snapped up from the desk. “Really? ”

“Yes. Rather spectacular brandy, I might add.”

Isabel looked to Rock for confirmation. When the Turk nodded his agreement, she said, “I confess I am surprised. I cannot imagine that my father would have allowed a case of spectacular brandy to languish away in the caverns beneath this house. Not when he could have put it to perfectly good use in his own belly.” She returned her attention to the table. “I am very impressed with the quantity of work you seem to have accomplished in a mere afternoon.”

Nick moved toward her, glass in hand. “I am eager to get back to the work once daylight arrives.” He paused, considering her for a long moment before returning the conversation to her father. “How do you think your father came into possession of a case of French brandy? ”

Isabel considered the crystal tumbler in his hand, the wash of amber liquid beneath his strong fingers. She remembered the trip when her father had brought the liquor home. It was the last time she had seen him. The time he had tempted her with a trip to London, with the promise of a season. The time she had thought he had changed … until she discovered his plans to marry her off to the highest bidder.

She’d gone to her mother, begged her to help. To come to her defense. And her mother, desperate to regain the love she had lost, had refused to help her. Had called her selfish.

The earl had left within a week, anyway, apparently realizing that an unwilling, dowry-less daughter wasn’t worth very much on the marriage mart.

He’d never returned.

And Isabel’s mother had never forgiven her.

Well. She certainly could not tell Lord Nicholas the truth.

Isabel did not look up, willing her voice to remain steady. “I learned long ago, my lord, never to question my father’s actions. I imagine the brandy arrived by the same means as everything else in this house—nefarious ones.”

“Perhaps not.” She could hear the care in his tone.

“Yes, well. We shall never know now, shall we?”

She was no longer focused on the papers at which she was looking, but Isabel reached out, moving one page to the side, nonetheless. Her gaze ran, unseeing, across his words, until she registered the strong, fluid lines of the word orgasm, and started.

What was he writing about?

She tilted her head to gain better access to the words on the paper before he interrupted, amusement in his tone. “Lady Isabel?”