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‘What do you want with my son now?’ the Widow demanded, narrowing ice-green eyes at her.
There did not seem to be any point beating about the bush. Isobel took a deep breath and said, ‘To tell him that if he asks for my hand my father will give it to him willingly. There will be no scandal, he will be welcomed into the family.’
‘What?’ The Widow stared at her.
‘My parents have accepted that I will never marry anyone else. They are grateful to Giles for what he has done for me. And,’ she added as the Widow opened her mouth, ‘they know about my daughter.
‘And also—’ she slipped in before Lady Faversham could speak. ‘I am well dowered, well connected and perfectly placed to help Giles’s career. All I need to know is where he is and I will go and propose to him.’
‘Propose? You have courage, I will say that for you. And if I object?’
‘Why should you be so spiteful?’ A hint of colour touched the older woman’s cheekbones under the powder. ‘If he does not want me, he can always refuse. If this is some sort of trick, you have the instrument of revenge in your own hands.’
‘I only want him to be happy,’ Lady Faversham said and to her horror Isobel saw one tear roll down her cheek. ‘And he is so stubbornly independent. Will you make him happy?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Isobel said. ‘I promise.’
‘Excellent.’ With a dab of lace the tear was gone, taking the momentary weakness with it, and the green eyes defied Isobel to ever recall she had seen it. ‘He is at Wimpole Hall.’
‘Thank you.’ She turned to go, then on an impulse swung round. ‘Where did you purchase that exquisite robe?’
‘Mirabelle’s,’ the Widow said and, to her amazement, smiled. ‘Buy blue, not green. Blue and silver.’
Giles floated on his back in the plunge pool, ears below water, the steam coiling and rising around him. It had been a long, hard, damp day up at the Hill House supervising the demolition and the salvaging of the best stone and he had become chilled to the marrow.
The heat soothed his body, but the more he relaxed physically, the more his imagination could work and the worse the pain in his heart was. The gentle lap of the water made him think of Isobel’s caressing fingers, the silence gave her voice space to echo in his mind. I love you, Giles.
He had done the only thing he could for her and her daughter, he told himself for the thousandth time. He had left her, he had silenced his mother and he had refused to tell Isobel what was in his heart. Cruel to be kind. The easy cliché mocked him. Cruel to be perhaps less cruel in the long run, that was the best he could hope for.
Before Isobel had come into his life he had never felt lonely. Now he ached with it. Here at Wimpole, as the bustle of the family’s preparations for their departure to Ireland gathered momentum, he could have company every hour of the day and evening if he chose. But he knew he would feel this alone in the midst of thousands without Isobel.
It seemed that to deny love, the emotion he had never believed he could feel, required as much courage and resolution as facing a fellow duellist. The pain certainly lasted longer, bad enough to force him to admit that the emotion was true and would never leave him. He loved her. He could admit it now he was no longer a danger to her, now he would never see her again, except, perhaps, across a crowded ballroom.
He wanted to write to her, tell her how he felt, tell her why this was so impossible. He wrote the letters every night and every morning burned them. How long was it going to be before he could shake off this sensation that without her he was merely a hollow shell, going through the actions of life? Or perhaps he never would be free of it. Perhaps the heart could not heal as the body did.
But doing the honourable thing, the right thing, was never going to be easy. He was not a gentleman, but, for Isobel’s sake, he was going to behave like one. He could cope with physical pain, he just had to learn to deal with mental torment, too, or go mad.
A ripple of water splashed his face and his floating body rocked. Someone else had got into the pool. Lord Hardwicke or young Philip, he supposed, opening his eyes and staring up at the vault of the ceiling, wishing they would go away. The other bather said nothing. Giles raised his head and saw something on the curving edge at the end of the pool.
A small black-and-white puppy was sitting on its haunches watching him. Its tongue lolled out, its tail thrashed back and forth—it was obviously delighted to see him. A long blue leash curled onto the damp brown marble where it had been dropped.
Giles surged to his feet, turned and found Isobel, as naked as a water nymph, her wet hair on her shoulders, standing behind him.
‘Isobel.’ She smiled, that warm, open trusting smile. ‘No! No, go away, damn it! I do not want you.’ And he turned to forge his way through the water to the steps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘GILES.’ HER VOICE stopped him for a second, two, three, then he summoned up all his will and began to walk away again. ‘Giles. Please. If you feel anything at all for me, answer one question.’
He should keep going, deny his feelings for her sake, but he found he could not lie to her. ‘What is it?’ He did not turn around: to see her face, those wide eyes, would be too much to bear.
‘If you had not only my father’s agreement, but his blessing, his public acceptance, would you marry me?’
‘If wishes were horses, beggars might ride,’ he said, still looking at the steps that rose out of the water, then twisted steeply to the changing area. Escape. His voice was choked in his throat.
‘It is not a wish, it is a fact.’
It could not be. It was impossible. He was dreaming.
