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Her face feeling as though it were in flames, she got up from the bed and went to the washstand to bathe her eyes and burning cheeks. The cool water helped calm her. As she forced herself to look into the minor, she knew why she had not prevented his embrace. Madame Vernisse may have been a worker of miracles, but even her powers could not render Isabella Latham beautiful. Or even unusually pretty. There was nothing uncommon about her blue eyes. They were not violet, like those of the infamous Lady Delmont. And while the right light— or the right frock—might enhance their colour, they had no real depth, no real mystery. And it was highly improbable that they were "that deep blue of the Ionian sea, wherein a man might choose to drown himself," as Basil had recently assured her. If only he would drown himself, she thought crossly. But in doing so, he would drown the only romance that had ever had or would ever enter her life. She stared critically at her reflection as she angrily yanked the comb through her hair.
She was twenty-six years old. And until this poetically inclined fortune hunter had come along, no man had ever looked twice at her. Not, of course, that she'd had much contact with young men; first poverty, and then the work she was so happy to do for Uncle Henry, had kept her from socializing. Still, her own father had barely noticed when she was in the same room. And now, though a small army of men had besieged her, not one except Basil had so much as hinted, in look or word, that she (as opposed to her income) was desirable. Oh, they had flattered her, but not with hidden suggestion, as Basil had. And as to the flattery, one could not even enjoy it for what it was, knowing that their eyes lingered more lovingly—good heavens!—upon her mother.
Thus, though she knew it was foolish, Isabella had wanted not simply to be kissed, but for someone to want to kiss her. She had wanted to know what it was like. Only now she could hardly recollect what it was like, so overset was she with anger and shame. She took a deep breath and forced herself to remember. His hand had touched her cheek, bringing her face closer to his...and then his lips, soft on her own. And then? What had she felt? She closed her eyes, trying to recapture that moment. But all she could remember was his overwhelming physical presence and her own warring sensations of fear...and curiosity. It was not quite what she'd expected from an embrace. She hadn't even felt that rush of warmth she'd experienced when Lucy hugged her. And not...that tingle of excitement when Lord Hartleigh sat down beside her.
For that was what she'd been contemplating when Basil had come upon her. Lord Hartleigh. Oh, worse and worse. Lord Hartleigh, who only tolerated her to indulge his ward. Had Isabella actually believed one cousin might substitute for the other? The idea drove her tears away.
"Isabella," she scolded her reflection, "you are perfectly absurd."
And with that heartening thought to cheer her, she dried her tears, changed her clothes, and went down to join her family.
Chapter Six
"Lord Hartleigh!" her aunt cried. "Taking you for a ride in his carriage? But that—"
"Is yet another one," Mama interjected, in an undertone.
It was at tea that Isabella had quietly announced her plans for the following day. Alicia had nearly knocked over the teapot in her excitement and had been about to bubble forth predictions concerning the earl's intentions when the viscountess's outraged response immediately subdued her.
"What is it that you are saying, Maria? You know one cannot understand you when you mumble."
"It was nothing, my dear sister. Arithmetic. Counting to myself."
"I cannot think why you should do figures when we are discussing this highly improper state of affairs."
The only indication of alarm Maria Latham gave at this pronouncement was a slight lifting of one eyebrow in disbelief. "I do not see what is so improper about Isabella being invited for a drive. You were not shocked when Mr. Porter invited her—and I am sure that high-perched contrivance of his cannot be safe."
Isabella attempted to step into the crossfire. "We are not taking a drive through the park, Aunt Charlotte," she began to explain.
"What, have you rejected him too, my love?"
Now this was very naughty of Mama indeed. Lady Belcomb had not at all objected to the penurious suitors who crowded her drawing room every day the family was "at home." It was a convenient means of separating the wheat from the chaff, since, with neither looks nor charm, the only attraction Isabella could boast was her fortune. Those who called were therefore not at all the sort whose attentions one would wish upon Veronica. But Lord Hartleigh was not of this ilk. What doubly provoked the viscountess was that the earl seemed somehow beholden to Isabella on account of that absurd business with the little orphan.
And now here was Maria implying—with that studied innocence of hers—that the Earl of Hartleigh had been reduced to a state which rendered him vulnerable to rejection, and by a tradesman's daughter! The idea filled the viscountess with rage and, consequently, turned her face purple. She relieved her feelings by venting some of her wrath on her daughter.
"Veronica, I do wish you'd stop that dreadful noise," Lady Belcomb commanded, scowling at her. Under her parent's glare, Veronica quickly stifled her giggles and bowed her head to stare into her cup. Alicia, subduing her own mirth, bent her head likewise and endeavoured to look serious.
"Please, Aunt," Isabella interjected. "It is all very easily explained—and not a bit what you think." This being met by no other rejoinder than a "harrumph," she went on, "I believe you are aware that Lord Hartleigh has been named as guardian to the daughter of his very dear friend, who passed away a short time ago—"
"Such a sad business," Mama sighed.
"This ward," Isabella went on, with a brief frown at her irrepressible parent, "has taken a fancy to me; I am sure I don't know why..."
"But, my love, you were always so good with children—even the most tiresome—"
"Mama, it is very difficult to hold my train of thought when you keep interrupting."
"Yes, Maria, do let her get on with it."
Murmuring an apology, Maria looked off toward the clock with an abstracted air.
"At any rate, the child has taken a fancy to me, and Lord Hartleigh—who, you can well imagine, is much at a loss to amuse a seven-year-old girl—"
A quelling glance from the viscountess squelched another of her daughter's giggling fits.
"—has invited me to this exhibition of landscapes solely to please the child, who insisted I bear them company."
There were some signs that Lady Belcomb was beginning to be appeased: Her face, for instance, was beginning to recover its normal colour. She was not entirely satisfied, however.
"It seems to me, Isabella," she asserted, "that Lord Hartleigh is overly indulgent of his ward's whims."
"I am sure, Aunt, that that is because he has had no experience with children. As he becomes more accustomed to his role, I am quite convinced he will be less indulgent."
"I would expect so. Nonetheless, I do not think he would take it much amiss if you were to indicate—tactfully, of course—that it is not at all to his ward's benefit to spoil her."
"At the very first opportunity," Isabella solemnly assured her aunt, while feeling quite convinced that the earl would take it very much amiss indeed.
"Well, then, I suppose we must at least commend Lord Hartleigh for wishing to do his duty by this orphan; although I do feel he has been carried away by his enthusiasm. But no matter. And you will take your abigail with you, Isabella?"
"I do not see why Polly must go as well..." Maria began, but the viscountess's face began to darken again, and she lazily added, "but then I suppose a seven-year-old child cannot count as chaperone."
"Of course not, Mama."
"Then I suppose we must let her go, Maria," Lady Belcomb announced magnanimously.
