Chapter One
“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner…You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
Isolde let out a long, slow breath, cheeks puffing out. She hastily read to the end of the chapter, sparing a few moments to reread a passage or two to ascertain that what she’d read was correct, then closed the book.
Well. Well.
There was a reason that this newest novel, intriguingly entitled First Impressions, or as some were now calling it, Pride and Prejudice, was causing such a stir. No wonder the esteemed author kept her identity a careful secret.
Isolde, for her part, was thrilled. Why should the brilliant, charming, and fascinating Elizabeth Bennet accept the – admittedly wealthy – hand of Mr. Darcy, who said that she wasn’t beautiful enough to tempt him? Isolde had chafed more over that insult than the fictional Miss Bennet had herself, she thought.
The book was only halfway through, too! Isolde knew already, though, that it would end with Elizabeth Bennet marrying someone. Mr. Darcy intrigued her more than the rest, despite his boorishness. Stories always ended with the heroine either happily married or tragically dead. At least Mr. Darcy was simply an awkward man, instead of a rake all ripe for reforming. She hated those books. Isolde had torn Pamela in two towardsthe end, full of rage for the awful man the poor titular Pamela had married. What a silly girl.
She leaned back with a sigh, tucking her feet up under her. The afternoon was wearing on, and still there was no sign of the guest they had hoped for. Isolde’s spot in the window seat afforded a decent view down the drive. The Belford townhouse was in the centre of London, although one would never have thought it to look at the lush gardens and long, winding drive, well-raked by diligent gardeners every day. They were working now, picking their way through the undergrowth, inspecting the waxy, perfect blooms coming up through the earth.
I hate gardening, Isolde thought miserably.
The Season was just starting, and until it got into full swing, there wouldn’t be much to do in town. For her part, Isolde preferred to stay at home and read. There were so many books to read, and more novels being produced every day. Pride and Prejudice was one of her favourites so far, and Elizabeth Bennet easily a favourite heroine. Isolde’s book club were all going to love her. She would certainly suggest that the circulating library stock more of that author’s books.
The rumble of carriage wheels on gravel jerked her out of her reverie, and Isolde blinked, leaning forward. A hired hackney cab, its dull black sides splattered with mud, was making its way up the drive. A familiar face peered out through the window, and Isolde gave a strangled shriek.
Leaping to her feet – Pride and Prejudice slid off her knee and landed with a thump on the carpet, but she hardly noticed – Isolde went racing out of the library, skidding along the carpeted hallway outside.
“He’s home! He’s home!” she shouted to no one in particular, then leapt down the stairs, fully intending to rush out and greet her brother.
Not your brother, needled a voice at the back of her mind,making her smile falter.
But then she was outside, and James was right there, handing up a handful of coins to the cab driver, flashing that white-toothed grin that was even more remarkable now that his skin was so well-tanned.
He turned to smile at her, and Isolde threw herself at him.
“Steady on, steady on, little sister!” James laughed, catching his balance. He wrapped his arms around Isolde, lifting her full off the ground and swinging her around. “It’s good to see you again, I can tell you that.”
He put her down, and Isolde wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.
“We were starting to think you weren’t coming. You were meant to be home three days ago.”
He winced. “Indeed, I encountered a series of misfortunes during my travels – carriages with splintered wheels, inclement weather, and the like. Yet, I have arrived at last, and I eagerly anticipate being warmly attended to. I bear gifts, of course – a gentleman cannot embark on a Grand Tour without returning with tokens of appreciation, can he?”
“I place no importance on gifts, especially now that you have returned. Do come in, do come in. Mama and Papa are out, so I shall have you to myself for a few hours.”
Towing him by the hand, Isolde gestured for the footmen to collect James’ things, and pulled him into the cool darkness of the hallway.
James, never one for measured silences, chatted incessantly as he stripped out of his heavy travelling coat, hat, and gloves. The butler smiled benevolently as he waited to receive the items.
“If I may say so,” old Sinclair intoned when a pause came, “we below stairs are all very glad to see you returned safely, Lord James.”
James beamed. “And I am most pleased to return, Sinclair.Please convey my fondest regards to all.”
The butler bowed and melted away. He barely spared a glance for Isolde. The older servants, the butler and housekeeper, both seemed to treat her a little strangely. Distantly, perhaps, compared to the way they treated James.
It made sense now, of course, and the knowledge burned in Isolde’s chest like a trapped fire. The family portrait loomed large in the Great Hall, above the spot where James stood, fixing his thick mouse-brown hair in the mirror.
In the portrait, the resemblances were clear. James had his mother’s eyes – flinty grey, large and clear and fringed by black eyelashes, with firm brows set over them. He had his father’s mousy hair – which was likely to thin in later years, but for now was thick and strong – and his father’s sharp jaw and aquiline nose.
And then there was Isolde.
The painting had been done six years ago, when Isolde had just turned seventeen. She had a round face, a roses-and-cream complexion which, while fashionable, did not match the olive skin of her father and brother. Her hair was blonde, refused to curl, and she had blue eyes, downturned at the corners.
