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"I should be delighted."
"Is tomorrow too soon?" Lord Hartleigh ventured.
Tomorrow was not too soon. A time being settled upon, and arrangements made for the earl's carriage to stop for her, Lord Hartleigh endeavoured to dislodge his young companion.
"Lucy, I am certain Miss Latham cannot breathe when you clutch at her in that way." He did not add that, Lucy having disarranged Miss Latham's hair, various blond tendrils had escaped to tickle a delicate pink ear in the most enticing fashion...He collected himself with a start. "We must leave her in peace now— else she may not wish to see us again tomorrow."
Miss Latham was not destined to be left in peace, however, for her Nemesis (so Basil had come to style himself) was not far behind his cousin. He had come to the park in response to an urgent message from an elegant young woman with creditors of her own to soothe. When Mr. Trevelyan informed the lovely Celestine—with beautifully phrased regret—that the creditors simply had to wait, this interesting meeting had come to an abrupt end. He therefore decided to devote the remainder of a fine morning to planning the next stage of his assault on the Answer to His Prayers. A broken heart, he decided, was best. He would simply commence to pine away, and let guilt lead her to the altar. He had been staring at the pond, wondering whether an attempted suicide by drowning would be overly theatrical, when his eye caught a flash of colour from the trees beyond. He made out—at some distance—his cousin, engaged in a tête-à-tête with Miss Latham. Now here was an unseemly state of affairs: his Intended conversing with a fashionable gentleman and no abigail in sight. Unless you counted as a chaperone the moppet bouncing up and down on her bosom. Thinking of that bosom, he gave a little sigh. Then, realizing there was no one about to hear it, he left off sighing and backed away into a more sheltered spot from which he might await his own turn.
He hadn't long to wait. Edward rose; the moppet ceased bouncing and was led away. Livelier than she was last time I saw her, Basil thought as he watched her skip along next to her guardian.
As soon as they were out of sight, he sauntered casually around the pond and, in no apparent hurry, made his way to Isabella's side. A glance back told him that they were not in view of the diverse nurses and their charges.
Not having noticed his approach—no doubt preoccupied with the recent conversation and, in particular, the earl's warm brown eyes—Isabella looked up, bewildered, at his greeting.
"I see you, too, have decided to take advantage of this brilliant morning," Basil observed, peering down over her shoulder at the neglected sketch pad. "But you will make a long job of it without your pencil." And without waiting for an invitation, he flung himself down on the ground beside her.
She had not yet had the experience of being alone with Mr. Trevelyan and, considering his disconcerting effect on her when others were about, did not intend to broaden her education.
"I was just preparing to leave..." she began, turning away from the cat eyes to search for her pencil, which had rolled away into the grass.
"And leave me to my lonely meditations? Yet I fear it is no more than I deserve."
"It is not on your account, Mr. Trevelyan," she snapped. It was exceedingly uncomfortable to find him so close. "I have stayed overlong as it is, only I do not know where Polly can have got to. She has been gone this half hour at least."
After amiably suggesting that Polly must have drowned herself, Basil added blandly, "But see, you have had Lord Hartleigh as sentinel, and now that he is gone, here am I to take my turn as your protector."
For what seemed the thousandth time that morning, Isabella felt her face grow hot, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. It was an unsettling experience. The topaz eyes studied her, waiting. He reminded her of a cat crouched, ready to spring. Only he wasn't crouching. He was sitting, leaning back against the tree.
"Lord Hartleigh was only trying to please his ward. She has taken a sudden...liking to me," she said, faltering.
"That is not in the least surprising. But my cousin should beware. The condition is contagious." Considerate of the moppet to have a wrestle with Miss Latham, for that lady's coiffure was in a most appealing state of disarray. A stray cherry-coloured ribbon dangling from her sleeve caught his eye. Apparently without thinking, he lifted it away, but she started at his touch. "Why, Miss Latham," he drawled, "I believe the child has frazzled your nerves. I'm sure I told you I won't bite. I was merely relieving you of this...love token she left behind."
"I shall return it to her," said Isabella, reaching to take it. But he snatched his hand away and pocketed the ribbon.
"Although I am all curiosity as to when you would have the opportunity, I shall keep in mind what happens to curious cats, and content myself with retaining this—as my love token."
" Mr. Trevelyan, you have a highly overactive imagination." Hurriedly, she began gathering up her belongings, preparing to rise. His hand on her arm stopped her.
"I wish you would not leave," he said softly.
Her heart began to pound. The voice and eyes were hypnotic, tempting her in spite of herself. She had only to pull herself free of his grasp. Yet she couldn't, or wouldn't. She had only to say a word to send him about his business, as Mama had suggested, but the word would not come. She had the curious sensation of observing herself, as though in a dream, as the sleepy cat eyes grew larger and seemed to swallow her up, as his fingers touched her cheek, and as she felt his lips on her own. For a moment all thought left her and time hung suspended. The sketchbook dropped from her hands. She felt his arms around her, pulling her closer, his mouth insistent. She felt his heart thudding next to her own. And then, as though from a tremendous distance, she heard a child's cry, and abruptly, the spell was broken. With all her strength, she thrust him away from her and struggled to her feet. He scrambled up after her, catching her before she could run away.
"Let go of me," she gasped.
"I will," he answered, a little breathless himself, "but you must not hate me. Isabella—"
"How dare you?" Angry tears welled up, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.
"I'm sorry I upset you. You must forgive me, Isabella. Here." He offered his handkerchief, which she angrily thrust away.
"Your m-manners leave a great deal to be desired."
"But my darling Isabella, I warned you I was not to be trusted. I told you I was perfectly dreadful. Even my aunt told you. Therefore, it is entirely your
fault—"
"My fault?" He made her head spin. "You must be mad, and I madder still to stand here listening to your nonsense. And I am certainly not your darling," she snapped. "You may address me as 'Miss Latham'—if there is any occasion in future when I should be so idiotic as to permit you to address me at all."
"What you permit me to say aloud has no bearing on what I say in my heart. You are my darling. And my darling Isabella, you must compose yourself, for here comes your unreliable Polly, who has not drowned in the pond after all, and you don't wish to scandalise her."
Suspecting that the embrace had left physical evidence, she hastily endeavoured to restore herself to rights, and hoped that Lucy's enthusiasm would satisfy the abigail's curiosity as explanation for Isabella's disheveled appearance. As she gathered her belongings and began to move away, he stopped her once more.
"You must say you forgive me, Isabella—"
"You are mad—"
"—for if you do not, I shall kiss you again, in full view of Polly."
Worried that Polly may already have had the pair in her sights, Isabella nodded, and struggled to break free of his grasp. He smiled as he released her, and watched as she hurried away.
The perfidious Polly was subjected to a scolding which left her as red-eyed as her mistress by the time they reached home. Declaring that she would see to her own hooks and buttons, and had too frightful a headache to eat luncheon, Isabella slammed the bedroom door on her maid, flung herself on the bed, and burst into tears.
What a horrid, horrid man! To leap upon her the moment they were alone—as though she were one of his ladybirds. Oh, she knew he had them. He had probably come direct from a tryst with one of them. And what had she been thinking of, to allow him to kiss her? Of course she knew it would be no polite peck on the cheek. What a perfect idiot she was! What if they had been seen?
