Eliza stiffened, and Clayton wished he’d kept his mouth shut. “I can manage your father, don’t worry.”
He bit his tongue.
You could manage him once, better than my mother ever could. Your influence is waning, though.
He kept these unhelpful thoughts to himself. Eyes narrowed, Eliza watched him.
“Lady Isolde seems fond of you.”
He flinched. “Don’t tell me that you’re giving credence to those scandal sheets, too.”
“Of course not. I don’t believe what I read, half the time, but I always believe what I see, and that girl is fascinated by you. What’s more, you are fascinated by her.”
“I am not! And I’d thank you not to repeat such ideas.”
Eliza snorted. “What do you take me for, some foolish gossip? Speaking of gossip, I had better return this book before anyone sees me with it. I borrowed it from our housekeeper – she has the most remarkable store of novels in her room, I mustsay – and she will be wanting it back.”
“Have you read the book?”
“Of course I have. It’s thrilling, but I don’t need to tell you that your father won’t approve. I don’t want to give him more opportunity to disapprove of me.”
There was something almost sad in that last sentence, and Clayton had to bite his tongue to keep silent.
It was tempting to beg Eliza to come and stay with him, where she’d be safe from Auric. Safe in a way Clayton’s mother had never been.
But of course Eliza would never agree. She never had in the past. She could flee Auric, perhaps, and not be obliged to return, but their children belonged to him. Eliza would never leave Amelia and Edward behind, and Clayton would never expect her to.
“I liked her,” Eliza added, smothering a yawn. “Lady Isolde, I mean. She was remarkably clever and funny when she was talking about Pride and Prejudice. It’s clear she has a very fine understanding of literature. She is a sensitive woman, I think. It must be difficult for her to hear herself be maligned in those gossip columns.”
Guilt stabbed at Clayton’s chest.
She is a sensitive woman. A clever one, too. I don’t deserve her friendship, and certainly not her love. She doesn’t love me, I know she doesn’t. She’s too clever for that. She feels things deeply, and when she discovers how I have opened her to censure, all but ruined her reputation… he shuddered, closing his eyes.
What have I done?
“Clayton? Are you alright?”
His eyes flew open, and he saw Eliza looking at him with mild curiosity. He smiled weakly.
“Of course. I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all. Are we nearlyhome, do you think?”
Chapter Fourteen
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself last night,” Beatrice said, “but you really must concentrate on the matter at hand, Isolde. Books and literature are fine pursuits for anyone, lady or gentleman, but there are more serious things to think about. Now,” she held up two pieces of ribbon. “Which do you think? The white, or the pale pink?”
Isolde eyed the ribbons. “Neither. They’ll both get dirty too quickly. The ribbon is for my hem, after all.”
“Well, do you intend to go tramping through ankle-deep mud?” Beatrice retorted, disgruntled. “We’ll take the white, thank you, miss.”
Isolde bit back a sigh. “If you’d already decided, why did you bother asking me?”
“Oh, hush. You can wear this dress for Vauxhall.”
“White is certainly a bad choice, then.”
Beatrice wasn’t listening. She moved off to talk to the modiste – a woman who introduced herself as Mademoiselle Vert, whose strong French accent kept slipping, and who Isolde would bet her fortune had never even been to Paris.
Not that it mattered. The woman made excellent dresses and was a popular London modiste for a reason. Beatrice had decided that Isolde needed a new dress, and so a new dress she would have.
