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Rafe wouldn’t mind doing some digging himself because a tunnel out of this claustrophobic village hall would be just the thing right this second. He had never been asked so many impertinent and personal questions in his life. It was all wrapped up in politeness, of course, but in typical quaint English village fashion, they all wanted to know everything about him from his army record to his inside leg measurement. For some reason, they all seemed to think he had a dead wife and no matter how many times he had denied any sort of wife at all, none of them seemed to believe it.
‘The gentleman’s name is Mr Stephen Bassett. He owns Bassett’s Club in Piccadilly.’ If the mostly mute newspaper propriety was as well connected in Fleet Street as his forceful wife claimed, Rafe should have seen some glimmer of recognition in his face, but he smiled back the bland smile of the oblivious. ‘All I know of him is he is a former veteran of the Peninsula and has done rather well for himself since.’
His own discreet enquiries into Bassett’s background had, if not set alarm bells ringing, ever so slightly raised his own soldier’s hackles as the man had quite a ruthless reputation, albeit in business. But then, not being a businessman himself, or in any way, shape or form business-minded, Rafe also supposed it was a walk of life where a little ruthlessness would come in handy. The fellow had indulged in some impressive philanthropy too, so the former Lieutenant Bassett couldn’t be all bad, even though a cursory glance through his well-documented donations did suggest he was selective about where he directed his charity. Favouring projects sponsored by the great and good rather than those struggling without an influential patron. That, of course, could be because all Mr Spiggot had found was the information in the public domain and there was every chance he was just as generous in private.
‘Will he be coming next Saturday to view the estate with the others?’ Mrs Outhwaite watched his reaction like a hawk. ‘As Sophie mentioned, you had asked her to accompany you on that endeavour and is hopeful you will invite some of the other influential and upstanding residents of the village to come along.’ She smiled as if butter would not melt in her mouth. ‘Is that the case, my lord?’
‘I would be only too happy to introduce the potential buyers to some of the people of the village, Mrs Outhwaite.’ Although not this harridan who would likely scare them all off. ‘I shall confer with Sophie as to what she has planned, but alas, Mr Bassett will not be attending as he has already shown himself around the estate.’
The barricade nor the protestors had intimidated the intrepid Mr Bassett and Rafe still wasn’t certain if he admired that about him or if such a lack of regard for the obvious distress of others bothered him. He supposed, no matter how much he tried to ignore it, something about the owner of London’s most fashionable club did not sit right with him, hence he hadn’t invited him next Saturday and was eager to receive another offer in case his niggling gut feeling was correct.
‘Oh, that is a shame.’ If Mrs Outhwaite moved any closer, they would be intimate. ‘What can you tell us about the gentlemen we will meet next Saturday?’
‘There you are, Lord Hockley.’ The pretty blonde flirt he had been introduced to earlier—Arabella? Isadora? Or was it neither of those?—grabbed his arm and pulled him out of Mrs Outhwaite’s clutches. She hung onto his elbow proprietorially, her impressive bosom pressed against his bicep as she dragged him away. ‘You promised me the final dance.’
He hadn’t, because he hadn’t asked a single woman to dance, not even the bewitching vixen he had arrived with and desperately wanted to. The flirty blonde waited until they were out of earshot before she giggled. ‘Or at least you should have promised me this dance simply to escape that dour old battle-axe Mrs Outhwaite.’ Then she giggled some more. ‘No need to thank me for saving you. You can thank me by returning the favour at the next assembly when I am stuck with a dreary dullard. Or most particularly if I am stuck with Ned Parker which is always a fate worse than death.’
‘Thank you, Miss...’ While he searched his memory for the correct name she feigned annoyance.
‘You don’t remember, do you, Lord Hockley? I have made such a grand impression on you since you arrived in Whittleston that you do not know me from Adam.’ She rolled her eyes and snuggled his arm a bit more. ‘It is Isobel, my lord. Miss Isobel Cartwright. Not that you care one jot when your attention has been resolutely elsewhere all evening.’ Her eyes swivelled to the dance floor where Sophie was curtsying to Archie and his brother was bowing back. ‘If you had actually promised me this dance, I would be rightly peeved about that, but as you didn’t, I will let it slide.’ Bold as brass she led him to the floor as all the other dancers regrouped for the next number, then twirled before she dipped into an exaggerated curtsy.
‘And what dance did I not promise you, Miss Isobel?’
‘Why the waltz, of course, my dear Lord Hockley, as that is the one most likely to cause a splash. The Reverend Spears fears for the morality of his congregation and only allows one waltz per assembly and it is always the last dance. I make a point of always dancing it with someone dashing because it vexes Ned in the extreme and he never dances it because his feet are too big.’ She had mentioned him twice and both with an unconscious glance in his direction.
‘Are you and Ned...?’ Because if they were that was marvellous, as it hadn’t escaped his notice that Sophie had danced with her favourite human tree twice tonight already.
‘Oh, good heavens, no!’ Miss Isobel giggled again. ‘I have my sights set on greater things than a curmudgeonly, common or garden farmer, my lord, and he disapproves of me almost as much as I disapprove of him. We’ve been at loggerheads since the cradle. Can you believe he thinks me flighty?’ She arranged herself in his arms a tad too close, her green eyes dancing with mischief, and he could not help chuckling at her unapologetic impropriety.
‘I cannot imagine why.’ He slid his hand around her waist, trying not to care that Archie was doing the same to Sophie across the floor and wishing he could swap places with him. ‘There is a huge difference between fun and flighty, Miss Isobel, and you are a delight.’
‘That is the correct answer, my lord.’ His effervescent partner beamed at him. ‘I can see why Sophie likes you.’
‘Does she?’ She liked aspects of him rather than the whole package, and that was the main problem. She liked his body, there was no denying that. Or rather what his body could do to hers, but apart from the ‘discreet comfort they took in one another’s arms’ when the rest of the house slept, she showed no particular partiality towards him beyond friendship. Once the deed was done and their bodies sated, she skipped off to her own room without a backwards glance. He was too proud to ask her to remain in case she rejected him, and as she had never shown any inclination to stay anyway he always bit his tongue. Outside of the Bewitching Hour as he had taken to calling it, he supposed they were friends. Usually. Which was hardly the gushing declaration of what his foolish heart increasingly wanted. ‘I think tolerate would be a better word, especially given the unusual circumstances.’
She laughed at his failed nonchalance. ‘Oh, my dear Lord Hockley, what a silly pair you are. Surely you must know that despite avoiding one another like the plague all evening, she watches you as much and as covetously as you watch her?’ And there he was thinking he had been subtle. ‘I’ll wager she is watching you right now and pretending that she isn’t.’ She offered him a knowing grin when his eyes instantly flicked across the room. They caught Sophie’s a split second before hers flicked away.
‘I am right, aren’t I?’ Not that Isobel waited for a response. ‘I have known Sophie for ten whole years, my lord, and in all that time she has never looked at any man in the way she looks at you. She looks, of course, because she is human and much too passionate in nature to be immune to their charms.’ Something Rafe knew first-hand. ‘But there is looking and looking, my lord, as you well know, and as her friend I demand to know what you intend to do about it.’
‘Do?’ And there was the rub, for he could do nothing. She was headed in one direction, still wedded to the imposing shadow cast by her beloved Michael, and him in another. Alone as usual, if he didn’t count Archie. ‘I have no plans to do anything, Miss Isobel, for you are mistaken. There is no looking. Sophie and I have called a friendly truce to hostilities, that is all.’ Or at least they had up until their argument yesterday which still wasn’t resolved.
Blasted woman and her blasted unwanted opinions. Thanks to her he had been second-guessing himself since yesterday. Reorganising the furniture and redecorating the mausoleum in his head. Seeing the potential of the albatross around his neck rather than the weight of it. Was he using Archie as an excuse to hide from the world? If actively avoiding the bitter sting of rejection and the blunt hammer of ignorance was hiding, then he supposed he was. Experience had taught him to always expect the worst from people but that wasn’t always the case. In his army days there were men who would have died for him. Friends he had allowed himself to lose contact with since his return because...well, keeping himself separate was what he did and, despite all their loyalty, he still feared they would let him down. People wounded you less if you were detached from them. His detachment was self-preservation.
But was he holding his brother back as a result? He had been convinced tonight would be an unmitigated disaster which would prove all his ingrained fears entirely right, but watching Archie having fun and being welcomed into the fold exactly as Sophie had predicted, he wasn’t sure what to think any longer.
Her again. Playing with his head as well as his emotions.
‘Then you disappoint me, my lord.’ Isobel released a theatrical sigh. ‘For I had high hopes for you. I was convinced if anyone could turn her head away from her past then it would be you as she is as suited to a life of dull and determined spinsterhood about as much as I am. But if you are not up to the task, lack the necessary gumption to woo her and are prepared to give up so easily...’ She sighed, then lent closer and gazed at him in convincing adoration. ‘Indulge me for a moment. Look upon me with keen male interest even though you do not feel it, twirl me their way, and if her eyes do not shoot daggers in our direction I will acknowledge you are right and there is nothing to be done. But if they do, and I am right, then you really do need to do something about it, as I can promise you that that stubborn wench won’t and she’ll wave you a stoic goodbye without a murmur—even if it breaks her heart to do it.’
