AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"I have an unhappy habit of saying what I think—"
"And I an unhappy habit of showing what I feel." The topaz eyes narrowed, looking more cat-like than ever. "But I beg your pardon. I did not wish to embarrass you."
Although she somehow suspected that he did wish to embarrass her—or at least to make her uncomfortable—she dared not contradict. She was afraid that he was only too eager to explain his motives. Abruptly, she changed the subject, asking after his aunt.
"Oh, Aunt Clem's quite well—in her element, in fact, busy at finding a suitable wife for my cousin." Another would not have noticed the way her smile froze on her face, but Basil was watching her closely. He noted her reactions as carefully as he would those of his opponents in a card game.
"Is it so massive an undertaking?" she asked, wondering why she suddenly felt unwell.
"She's been after him to marry since he returned to England. Responsibility, you know. Carry on the title and all that. But it's only since Lucy came into his care that he's shown any signs of enthusiasm." He glanced in the direction of a handsome young woman in ivory silk with whom Lord Hartleigh was conversing. "Though it may be too early to tell, I'd wager that Lady Honoria will be the lucky bride."
Reluctantly, Isabella followed the direction of his gaze. Yes, the earl was paying rather special attention to Lady Honoria. But then, what concern was it of hers?
Basil did not like what he was discovering, but persisted, nonetheless. For one, her discomfort compensated somewhat for his; and for another, well, he preferred to know exactly how the land lay. Thus she was relieved of hearing about Lord Hartleigh's matrimonial prospects and the wagers at White's on Lady Honoria's chances only when the dance separated them. When it finally ended, she urgently longed to be home again.
Unfortunately, the viscountess was enjoying a comfortable close with Lady Cowper and clearly had no thoughts of departing. And then, as Basil brought Isabella back to her aunt, Lord Hartleigh appeared. This time Isabella was struck by the animosity between the two men. Oh, they were impeccably polite to each other, but the air fairly crackled with the tension between them. And when Lord Hartleigh led her away to dance, she knew that an angry pair of cat eyes followed them, watching every move.
Lord Hartleigh was not happy. He'd found himself walking toward her in spite of every intention of going in the opposite direction. For to speak with her meant enduring the presence of his insufferable cousin. Each and every time he'd seen her, he'd vowed to stay away. Yet each and every time, there she'd be, with Basil hovering nearby or stalking her with his eyes—and she looked so...so...in need of rescue, confound it! So the earl, relinquishing Lady Honoria to his rivals, would rescue Miss Latham, only to meet with, not gratitude, but an uneasy acquiescence. As though she mistrusted him as well. In fact, it was much the way in which Lucy looked at him...Isabella's voice called him from his meditations.
"I beg your pardon?" he responded.
"I was asking after your ward. I trust she's well?" Why did he ask her to dance if he was going to be so inattentive? Really, it was too bad. One cousin making her conspicuous by trailing her like a shadow and staring her out of countenance, and the other barely aware that she was alive—even when he danced with her.
"Quite well," he assured her. "At least in health," he added, after a moment. She was nonplussed to find him gazing down seriously at her, and wondered at the flicker of pain in his dark eyes. "I have little experience of children, yet it's clear to me she's unhappy." Lonely, he wanted to say. But to admit that the child was lonely, when everyone from the butler to the lowest scullery maid doted upon her, implied something wanting in himself.
"I think it's to be expected. The child still misses her parents, and her world now is vastly different from the world she knew. It will take time."
As she smiled up at him reassuringly, his throat tightened.
"I hope that is all it is..." His voice trailed off as he forced himself to look elsewhere—anywhere else—and thus met Lady Honoria's quizzical glance. He didn't mention that Lucy had asked for "Missbella" several times. Or that she had taken to none of the doting staff as she had taken to Miss Latham. Or that he had berated himself a thousand times for his behaviour that day at the dressmaker's—for had he been kinder and more patient, he might have learned Miss Latham's secret, and would not have this sad little ghost wandering aimlessly among her new toys and frocks. He mentioned none of these things, but they gnawed at him as he asked after Miss Latham's family and sought her impressions of London, now that she'd spent some weeks in town.
He was surprised to discover that her view of London had little to do with the balls and routs, the dinner parties and assemblies, the fashions and latest on-dits that occupied the minds of the women on his aunt's "list."
Isabella Latham was a different species, who spoke intelligently of books and art and even—gracious heavens!— politics; who could not for the life of her remember Brummel's latest witticism or Caro Lamb's most recent misbehaviour.
As he led her back to her aunt (and the infernal Basil), he puzzled over this odd young lady. Clearly, she had no thought of herself as a belated debutante—in marked contrast to Miss Elderbridge, now in her seventh Season. To Isabella Latham, this London visit was a practical matter of overseeing her cousins' first Season: no more, no less. Apparently, her small crowd of admirers was, to her, a puzzling nuisance, and (except for Basil) about as troublesome to her equanimity as ants at a picnic. A curious, clear-headed, competent female, he thought...so why did she look so devilishly unhappy and vulnerable as Basil bent to whisper in her ear?
Chapter Four
"Well, my love, it seems you have decided to take the shine out of your cousins' debut by snatching up all their beaux beforehand."
Isabella looked up in surprise from the neat hem she was stitching. She had thought her mother was asleep on the sofa among her many pillows.
"Mama, whatever are you talking about?"
Maria sighed. "It wants less than a week until our grand ball, and the house has been so overrun with your suitors that one hardly knows where to turn. I have not had a moment to myself to think."
What her mother possibly needed to think about, Isabella could not fathom. Lady Belcomb and Isabella had shared all the labour of preparing for the ball and making peace among the staff, while Mama's sole contribution had been an opinion of the colour of Alicia's gown.
"I do not recollect our being overrun by anything but servants, Mama. They are always so dreadfully in the way."
"Don't be coy with your mother, Isabella. Here is Mr. Trevelyan stopping by nearly every single day with his friend—the one who prates so interminably of horses." Another sigh. "Your father never showed the least interest in horses, Isabella, I am relieved to inform you."
Nor had he ever evidenced much interest in anything else, thought Isabella. Not his business, nor his daughter; and barely his wife—though (she glanced at the still beautiful woman reclining languidly among the pillows) Mama may not have been the most stimulating of companions.
"At any rate," her mother went on, "as if that were not fatiguing enough, they are soon followed by a host of dandies and other fine gentlemen. And then comes that tall young man—Lord Hartleigh, is it?"
Isabella nodded, and bent quickly again to her sewing.
"And he was here again today, asking after you. I'm afraid your Aunt Charlotte is quite vexed."
A quick scan of her parent's features showed no evidence of distress at this state of affairs.
"He stayed only a few minutes, you know. And Charlotte was very cross with me after. You must not run about London breaking hearts, my love. It is very tiresome for your cousins." A throaty chuckle accompanied this last. It was a sound very much like that which had not long ago so overset the Earl of Hartleigh—who might have been relieved to learn that it was merely a family trait (like hair colour), and not some cruel siren trick.
"I'm sorry, Mama. I shall try to restrain myself in the futur
e."
"Do, love. You have no idea how your aunt frets about these poor gentlemen. And I do sympathise. One can become quite suffocated with all these beaux sighing about the house." In illustration, she sighed once again.
"Mama," said Isabella firmly, "for one, if anyone is to suffocate us, it is the servants. For another, you know as well as I do that nobody is sighing, and certainly not on my account. And for a third—"
"I pray you will not indulge in higher mathematics, Isabella."
"For a third," her daughter went on, "this is a light spring shower compared to the deluge we may expect after Veronica and Alicia come out. And for a fourth, Mama, you are the most dreadful tease!"
"Yes, I know, darling. I can't help it." Mrs. Latham pulled herself up to a sitting position and invited her daughter to join her on the sofa. As soon as they were settled, she said, patting Isabella's hand, "We must speak seriously, my dear. About two matters. First, you were very naughty not to tell your aunt about your first meeting with Lord Hartleigh. She has got wind of it from the servants and told me that when he came today she did not know where to look, she was so mortified." A low chuckle indicated the extent to which Maria sympathised with her sister-in-law.
"Oh dear, Mama. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I was sure there would be a fuss and I just wanted to forget the whole episode." Isabella flushed. "I do hope Aunt Charlotte said nothing to Lord Hartleigh about it..."
