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She yearned for him now more than ever—almost more than she had ever pined for the baron.
Isadora clenched her fists at her sides in irritation. She didn’t need to be going down such a dangerous path. Remington and Udell were as different as night and day. Not only were their ages a factor, but to imagine that she might actually care for someone more deeply… it was unspeakable. She would feel as though she was betraying the baron by giving her heart over to another man, when she’d always told herself that he was irreplaceable. She had given herinnocenceto him, for goodness’ sake. That wasn’t something she could ever take back.
For some reason, Isadora found herself in the kitchens. It wasn’t yet mealtime, but the servants in such a large household were always busy doing some sort of preparation for the staff. Most generally, there were also a sizeable amount of family members to wait upon.
Nevertheless, the moment Isadora appeared, nearly all activity ceased as several pairs of eyes turned to her, and then directed their attention to the housekeeper. The lady immediately got to her feet and walked over to her with a light bow. “My lady? If there was something ye required, ye could have rung forone o’ us t’ attend t’ ye, rather than make a special trip downstairs.”
“Actually,” Isadora admitted. “I was feeling restless, a bit like a fish out of water, as it were. Is there something I might do to assist?” When her query was met with silence, she added, “I saw the herb garden outside. I’m quite familiar with various cooking spices or those for poultices.”
“Are ye?” the Cook piped up from where she stood behind a flour covered counter.
The housekeeper shot her a condemning look, and then looked back at Isadora with a placating smile. “My lady, ye are a guest at Dalkeith Palace. I’m no’ sure Lady Grace would approve o’ ye toiling in th’ soil like a servant.”
Isadora clasped her hands calmly before her. “I can assure you that I’ve done my fair share of ‘toiling’ in a garden. I generally take care of my own in London. I find that it’s quite soothing for my peace of mind.”
“There now, ye hear that?” the Cook spoke up once more. She wiped her coated hands on her apron and moved around the counter. Her hair was a gray-lined, strawberry blond and freckles covered her plump, aged face. “Ye come with me, my lady. I could use a bit o’ help around ’ere. My kitchen maid isna feeling well at the moment and it’s put me a fair bit behind when it comes t’ gathering things from the garden. If ye were t’ assist me, I promise tha’ I’ll reward ye by making something extra special.” She grinned broadly as she led her toward the back entrance.
Isadora waved off her offer. “Truly, that’s not necessary. I am glad to assist. It gives me something to do while I’m here.”
Cook gave a chuckle. “Is being with tha’ ’andsome marquess no’ enough to keep ye occupied?”
Isadora’s cheeks heated traitorously, although she kept her tone level when she replied, “Lord Osgood and I are business acquaintances, although I suppose you could say we have become friends.”
The lady snorted. “‘Friends’dinna generally travel so farwithout some sort o’ understanding.”
“I suppose I’m an exception to the rule as an independent woman, then,” Isadora noted.
“Are ye now?” She clucked her tongue. “What a pity that ye willna be trying to win th’ affection o’ such a man.” She glanced at Isadora knowingly. “If I were ye, I might reconsider, or some other lady might turn ’is ’ead.”
Isadora smiled tightly. She told herself it didn’t matter if Remington’s attention was diverted by another woman. And yet, the claws of envy wanted to reach inside of her. She lifted her chin. “He is free to entertain whomever he chooses. I have no claim on him.”
The Cook shook her head, as if the very thought was unfathomable, but then, she wasn’t as devoted in her cause as Isadora was.
Remington tried notto tell himself that the clock’s chime to announce the hour wasn’t the death knell that preceded the ferryman, although he had been told his great-grandfather was coherent just shortly before his anticipated visit. He hadn’t asked Lady Grace if her father had been told of his arrival, although Rem assumed by now that he had.
Either way, he was about to find out.
Rem didn’t know what to expect when he walked into the bedchamber—perhaps a withered old man who no longer cared to live. However, he found a white-haired man propped up in his bed and wearing a dark gray, banyan robe. He was certainly far from the ill picture of health that he’d imagined he would find, as those sharp, keen eyes pierced him the moment he walked inside behind Lady Grace.
“Father,” she announced softly, but firmly. “I’d like ye to meet—”
His hands were folded over his midsection, as he snapped, “I ken who he is.”
Lady Grace sank down into the chair beside his bed with a sigh, while Rem remained standing at the foot. The old man’s gaze never left his face. “Then ye’ll understand why I didna tell ye aboot my letter asking him to come. I wasna sure ye would meet him.”
“It doesna look like I have much choice in the matter seeing as how he’s already standing in my room,” he snapped.
His daughter sighed again. “I was hoping that ye might make amends with Mary’s grandson since fate didna allow ye to do so with Mary, or her son.”
“Why would I want to do that?” he growled almost menacingly. “I wasna the one who defied my orders and married an English bastard!” His face turned red with his rage, which caused him to fall back against his pillows with closed eyes and heavy breaths.
It was the first sign of weakness that Rem had noticed, although it had nothing to do with his body’s physical demands. It was the fact he had yet to forgive his family for any such wrongdoing he felt was done against him. He steeled his jaw. “I’m not sure this was a good idea after all, my lady.”
Lady Grace looked crestfallen, but Rem couldn’t allow her upset to sway him to stay there and feel as though he was the one responsible for this man’s demise. He might already be dying, but he wasn’t in the ground yet.
He started for the door, but a gruff voice stopped him. “Ye look like her.”
Rem reluctantly turned back to face his great-grandfather, who had mostly recovered. “Your daughter said the same,” he concurred. He crossed his arms. “I daresay for someone who seems to despise the English so much, you carry an English name yourself.”
