“Yes, surely you remember!” Deborah pressed, though her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “You and your father stayed at that lovely house near the shore. You were so frightened of the waves at first, but by the end of the visit, we could barely get you out of the water.”
Isobel's mind raced as she wondered what the story could be and if there was any way to escape this without ruining whatever progress they had attained this far. Was this a genuine memory Deborah was recounting, or a test? The way her aunt was watching her, the subtle intensity beneath her pleasant expression – it felt like a trap.
“I...” Isobel started, frantically trying to decide how Valerie might respond.
Would she remember clearly, or might she have lost some memories as a result of a childhood illness?
Clearing her throat, she took a shot in the dark, hoping she had not just pointed the gun at her own feet.
“I'm afraid that particular summer is a bit... vague in my mind.”
“Vague?” Deborah's eyebrows rose slightly. “But it was such a memorable trip. Surely you recall the sandcastles we built? The éclair chef who came by every afternoon?”
The other ladies were watching now, sensing something in the exchange, though perhaps not understanding what. Isobel felt panic beginning to claw at her throat. She opened her mouth, unsure what words would come out –
“Miss Wightman.”
Richard's voice cut through the tension like a blade. Isobel's head whipped toward the door, where the Duke of Dellamere stood, looking every inch the powerful nobleman despite the careful way he held his right side.
Relief crashed over her so powerfully she nearly gasped aloud.
“Your Grace,” she managed, setting down her teacup with hands that she hoped appeared steadier than they felt.
“Forgive the interruption, ladies,” Richard said with a polite bow that somehow managed to convey both respect and authority. “But I was hoping Miss Wightman might join me for a walk around the grounds. The weather has held, and I thought she might enjoy the fresh air after being confined indoors these past days.”
“Oh, but we were just having such a lovely conversation,” Deborah protested, though her smile had grown strained. “Perhaps later –”
“I'm afraid I have commitments later this afternoon,” Richard interrupted smoothly. “And I did promise husband-to-be that I will ensure that her health and wellness are taken care of. Especially after the brief bout of illness she suffered from.” He turned his gaze directly on Isobel. “Unless you are too fatigued, Miss Wightman?”
“Not at all,” Isobel said quickly, already rising from her seat. She could not keep the smile from her face, could not hide the way her entire being seemed to light up at the sight of him. “I would be delighted. I simply need to fetch my cloak and gloves.”
“I will wait,” Richard said, his voice gentle in a way that made her stomach twist with warmth.
The softness in his tone, the way he looked at her as though she were the only person in the room – it was almost too much. Isobel felt something flutter anxiously in her chest, something that felt dangerously close to hope.
“If you will excuse me, ladies,” she murmured, already moving toward the door.
She practically fled from the drawing room, acutely aware of the curious gazes following her departure. One gaze in particular felt heavy, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Once in the hallway, she paused to catch her breath, pressing a hand to her racing heart.
That had been too close. Far too close. If Richard had not appeared when he did –
“Miss Wightman.”
Isobel jumped slightly, turning to find Richard had followed her into the hall. “You frightened me.”
“My apologies.” He moved closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Are you all right? You looked rather distressed when I entered.”
“My aunt was asking me about a childhood memory I do not have,” Isobel admitted quietly. “I think... I think she suspects something.”
Richard's expression darkened. “We will need to be more careful. But for now, fetch your things. A walk will do us both good, and it will remove you from her scrutiny for a time. We can talk some more outside.”
Isobel nodded, grateful beyond words. As she hurried to collect her cloak and gloves, she found herself marveling at the strange turn her life had taken. Less than a week ago, she had thought Richard Harte insufferable. Now, he had filled several roles in her life, one of which was the role of protector, when he had every reason to distance himself from this mess.
When she returned, properly bundled against the cold, Richard offered his arm – his left arm, she noted, protecting his injured shoulder. She took it without hesitation, and together they made their way outside.
The afternoon air was crisp and clean, the snow crunching beneath their feet as they walked across the grounds. For a few minutes, they simply moved in comfortable silence, putting distance between themselves and the house.
“Thank you, again,” Isobel finally said. “For rescuing me back there.”
