"Are you the Lady Isobel Duskwood?" the door to the manor swung open with a loud creak, the front doors nearly thrice as tall as Isobel. In the threshold stood a maid, her voice like a cawing crow, calling out to the stunned Lady. She stepped forward, squinting with an inquisitive eye at the new arrival. "Duskwood? The one s'posed to be meeting with the Lord Brighton? You don't look like much." Isobel gulped.
"I'm—" she tried to laugh awkwardly. "I'm... the Lady, Duskwood, yes, come to discuss certain matters of pressing importance about my estate and the people of Upton," Lady Duskwood curtsied for the rather rough-spoken maidservant.
"Well, are you going to come in quite quickly, then? The sun's setting, and there's still those damned Merry Bandits about the roads," the maid grumbled. "They'd take a shine to someone like you. Your carriage... ought to be fine, though," the maid gave a disgusted look back at what Lady Duskwood had rode in on.
"Oh, well, you know, the royal carriage, is—ours, is damaged, at the moment, so I had a subject in Upton bring me, he was kind enough, of course," Lady Duskwood lied, her cheeks blushing in embarrassment. The maidservant did not appear convinced, but silently beckoned the lady into the estate. Isobel followed, and when the maid pushed the towering front doors shut, Isobel's eyes took a moment to adjust before awe struck them.
The foyer looked like nothing she had seen before - plush-red wallpaper bearing flour-de-lis hung atop flawless wooden panels running the lower halves of the wall, trimmed impeccably with golden thread. On every well-carved, glossy oak table sat curios - trinkets, statuettes, gemstones, riches beyond anything Isobel had ever seen at the Duskwood Manor. The Lord Brighton clearly had wealth and class to flaunt, and he did so from the moment travelers stepped in to his home. Lounging lazily about the foyer sat well-upholstered couches, built of wood finished in gold-flecked paint; red, black and gold outlined every surface, giving a dark but opulent tint to the whole room.
"Here, you can sit here, wait, while I summon Lord Brighton," the maidservant gestured lackadaisically to a couch perched near a table adorned with a small model of the estate, crafted entirely of gold; so rich that it gleamed in the low, dancing lamplight from the walls. Speechless, Isobel nodded, setting herself quaintly atop the couch and taking a deep breath. The maidservant's footfalls echoed through tall ceilings, covered in stylized plaster and holding delicate chandeliers, with candles burning atop the strung, swaying glasswork.
Isobel's mind raced as she sat in contemplative silence. She couldn't imagine, now, what awaited her when she finally met the Lord Brighton. A man of this measure of style and wealth could, she reasoned, only be the very example of a true, noble gentleman. How could her father have thought otherwise? She began to question the warnings so often received from her father, from Father McConnell - now, even from Deaton. What issue did they have with a man so wealthy, with so well-appointed a home? She began to dream about him; the suit he must wear, clearly as opulent as everything in this foyer. She thought of his dignity; his fair and friendly tone. She sunk into the inviting cushions on the sofa, letting herself drift away, plaintive and sweet and comforted. With a yawn she imagined him, from head to toe, the image of class; maybe he'd even been to London, or abroad, and she could speak to him of her own experiences outside of the north, away from the Scots and the rolling fields and rural people.
Finally she heard footsteps trouncing down the stairwells. Her heart pounded hard; her voice caught in her throat as she thought on how to properly introduce herself. She stood up, her cheeks bright, her feet bouncing anxiously. The footfalls came slow and deliberate, and she waited to see the face of the man she imagined, wheeling around the corner. She smoothed her gown, put on a beaming smile, ready to fix all the ruinous trouble that'd befallen her sweet father as best she could, and save the people of Upton. And maybe even find herself a husband.
"M'lord," she murmured, curtsying preemptively, her head nodded in friendly deference to the man as he sauntered down the stairwell. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is—"
"I know your name. Of course I know your love. All that ceremony's not necessary, love. Chin up. There'll be plenty of time for lookin' down later," came a response from... the man she could only assume was Lord Brighton. His braying tone, his nonchalance, and that putrid little, lewd insinuation... shocked, Isobel huffed, lifting her eyes to meet the gaze of the man who held her in his pocket. She felt surprise bolt along her spine; she could scarcely believe it.
She knew that face. Piercing eyes of jade, skin a deep tone of olive; wild and stylish dark hair, with only a coating of virile stubble along his chin. An ostentatious suit, appointed with gemstones; tailored custom and perfectly. She exhaled sharply, her nerves rattled when she saw his face. She recognized him, even without the chortling Lady Brittany at his side; even without the wine bottle held crassly, guzzled deeply from in the solemnity of a funeral. She couldn't believe it.
"Y-you're the... you're the Lord Brighton?" she asked, her words startled, hoping perhaps she'd become confused. He grinned a completely imprudent grin, and she silently seethed.
"Did you expect somebody else? I bet you did," he said, his words cutting and coy. "Didn't I get a spy of you crying at that funeral, not long ago? Isobel? Your father," he commented crassly, "was a good man. Bloody hated me, though I don't rightly know why. Never wanted to let me court you. Kiss you, or even look at you. Too bad, wouldn't you agree, love?" Isobel smiled weakly. She knew he had her at his mercy, and so she tried to remain friendly. She could scarcely deny this improper lord was indeed astoundingly gorgeous, she couldn't quite stand his manner.
"You... yes, I did see you at my father's funeral. Braying with laughter, drinking wine on sacred ground," Isobel hissed, flustered. Lord Brighton smirked.
"Gotta lighten up the mood at least a little bit, huh? Death, sadness, that's not really my sort of thing, love," he commented wryly. "Would you have rather I lied and cried, the way the others did? The sycophants and liars, biting at your father's will and testament like brainless fish? Snap, snap," he imitated the noise of jaws clamping. "I don't think that's what you want, love."
"I... I came here to discuss an important matter, about m-my estate, the village of Upton," she stammered, thrown off by how painfully frank the young lord spoke. "About... my father's estate..."
"What's got you, love? The fact that your manor and village are deep in debt to me, and that if I could I'd have all of it, and the Duskwood family'd fall off the map? Am I guessing in the neighborhood or there'bouts, love?" Lord Brighton grinned wolfishly. Isobel's heart sank. God, it had to be him, didn't it? All of her dreams of saving her people, of saving herself, began to wash away. One could only guess what a man like this would want, but she tried to maintain some sense of hope.
"M'lord," she said, her voice wobbly from the shockwaves of her astonishment, "if... if you could... just take, what I say into consideration," she murmured. "The people of Upton, they're poor, and we're quite in need. My majordomo, Deaton, he tells me—"
"Deaton? The little, nipping squirrel, used to bite at Lord Reginald's bare arse? He hated me too, heh," Lord Brighton guffawed roughly. She felt this magnetic need to watch his face, even as she was repulsed by the words he brayed on with. He looked so handsome. But why did he have to have a manner more befitting a fattened cow than a lordly gentleman?
"Deaton, has suggested, that I withdraw the debts owed from the people of Upton. But, the people of Upton, they have little money, and they've relied on my father for years to provide," Isobel tried to ignore the impropriety and plead her case, sticking to the plan she'd had in her head, in the carriage, even as she saw it all derailed so quickly. "Lord Brighton, your father and my father had a longstanding relationship. Please, if you have an inkling of worry or care in your heart, will you please consider discussing the debts my house owes yours? If you would take under consideration—"
"You can stop right there, eh, love?" Lord Brighton quipped. "And, by the by, it's Elle
ry. I hate hearing 'Lord Brighton'," the dissolute man scoffed. "There's a pretty simple solution t' all this. How about we discuss it a little more... intimately, over a dinner?" Lord Brighton purred. "Deep in debt the way you are, I'd doubt you'd be able to find a dinner like I have ready anywhere else. What's to say, hmm? Sound fair?"
"M'lord, I... Ellery," she struggled to say the first name so casually, shuddering as she spat it out. "I... I can't stay long, the people at the manor, they need leadership in trying times—"
"C'mon now, what good are you back at the Duskwood Manor, love? Are you going to spend the night counting just how deep into debt you are to Norbury?" he joked coarsely. "Besides, I've already summoned my entire staff to prepare a meal for the both of us, the likes of which I'd doubt you've seen in quite some time. What do you say, hmm, lovey?" The incessant pet-naming made Isobel squirm; it felt so scandalous. She looked at the Lord Brighton, his face so handsome - but so... lewd, so full of insinuations. Now she began to see that she had not walked into the manor of a gentleman. She began to see precisely what her father, Deaton, Father McConnell, and doubtless others, had warned the prim young Isobel about.
"Y... yes, let's discuss our issues over dinner," Isobel broke down, the memory of her father - and the people of Upton - in her mind. She knew it was a bad idea, but she didn't have much of a choice.
"Dinner's this way, love," Lord Brighton beckoned her on. "Though I'd much prefer if you led the way," he winked cheekily. Isobel blinked.
"But... it's your home. You're the gentleman, after all," she naively added. "I'm not certain why..."
"I'd much rather look at the back of you on the way," he purred, getting in close enough she could feel his breath. It felt so good, but so wrong.
What had she gotten herself in to?
CHAPTER FOUR
He certainly had not simply been bragging about the nature of his wealth. There was a dinner, and it was a grand dinner - and she was not disappointed.
In Lord Brighton's expansive dining hall, she sat on one end of the table, as her manners properly dictated; but with his incorrigible swagger, Ellery sauntered down from the other end and sat himself closely, intimately closely, right next to Isobel, pulling the chair up tight, grinning full of lewd confidence the entire time. Servants bombarded the pair with dish after dish - first came a whole roasted pig, and then two roasted game hens; then came a grand salad of greens, two entire loaves of fresh-baked bread, sides of Welsh rarebit; boiled and seasoned potatoes. Lord Brighton paraded in front of her more food than half of the village of Upton could eat in an entire week. Casually he plucked bits and pieces from each entree as they arrived at the table; he watched her with a grin as he chewed bread, gnawed on smoked meat.
Isobel ate with quiet, shy grace; she cut away bits of pork and chicken, tiny bite-sized chunks, and ensured her chewing made no noise. Proper and mannered, she kept her eyes away from the brazen lord. She could scarcely believe such a man could hold a title as prestigious as he did.
"You've no need to keep those ridiculous manners and lies up around me, love," Ellery Brighton scoffed, reclining in his chair and watching her closely. "It's all a sham, after all."
"A sham?" Isobel dared to question such curious wording. In truth all she wished was to negotiate her debts and escape as quick as she could, but her eyes met his emerald gaze and she took a deep breath, so confused yet so curious.
"You, looking for a husband. Me, looking for a wife. Eating in little bites. Nodding, bowing, curtsying; empty gestures. Like those pretenders at your father's funeral. Laughing one minute, crying their eyes out the next. That Duke of Thrushmore, perfect example. How long's he been trying to undo your garters, lovey?" Lord Brighton smirked. Isobel scoffed, lips wide in shocked embarrassment. He had a point about much, and his distaste for the Lord Miller intrigued her, but she couldn't think of expressing such sentiment aloud. It clashed with years of custom she'd been taught.
"I beg your pardon?" she squeaked in quiet outrage. The duke perked up, finishing his piece of bread.
"I'd wondered how far I could get before you'd start to put on the facade," he snorted. "You're telling me you've never thought about a man stripping down your gown, love? Never crossed your mind? A man pushing you onto a bed, telling you dirty words in your ear and spanking you until you couldn't breathe, it felt so good?" Isobel's cheeks grew brighter and brighter.
"H-how da... how dare you speak to me that way?" she managed, her voice wobbling in confused rage. She began to see quite well why her father had kept the Lord Brighton out of her reach for so long.
"Darlings like the Lady of Brittany, now that's a real woman. She knows what she likes," Lord Brighton sighed wistfully. "And she's not ashamed to admit it."
"She likes to drink wine and romp at funerals!" Isobel exclaimed with all the might her meek and innocent voice could muster, letting her fork and knife clatter onto her plate in exhausted shock. "Just as you do! I should have listened to Deaton, and to my father. I had such high hopes, putting aside my doubts for this," she exclaimed haughtily, unable to believe someone could speak so crudely to a woman of her stature. The more she protested, though, the more delight crept across the Lord Brighton's face.
"I should feel hurt, I suppose, but I do what I like, love," Ellery shrugged coyly. "What's the harm in that?"
"There's a lot of harm in it. For one, it causes scandal," Isobel argued, "scandal that my name need not suffer from."
"Sex is scandal, is it? Enjoying oneself, that's scandal, is it?" Lord Brighton challenged her. His attitude perturbed her training, but it poked at her instincts. She remembered the revelers at her father's funeral - the feeling of how empty all the emotion felt. The world tuned out, where she could feel nothing genuine about the gathered lot of them. While she resented so raucous a display as wine and laughter at her father's funeral, she could at least begin to fathom perhaps, Lord Brighton had been the only soul in the whole of the graveyard to express real emotion that day.
"Y-yes," she hesitated to answer. "Of course they cause scandals. They're scandalous things to do. It's... not acceptable for a woman, particularly a woman of my stature, to be so fruitlessly indulging in these sorts of things. It's not proper," Isobel explained.
"Listen to you, you don't even believe that yourself, do you? Somebody told you that, and you just accepted it," Lord Brighton derided her. "I saw the way you were at the funeral. I saw that stiff, the Duke of Thrushmore. Filthy Eugenius, that's what dad used to call him," Ellery laughed. "You pretend you could stand his company at that funeral, because society says you should, don't it?"
"I tolerate his company because it's what's expected of a woman in my position," she stammered, "and because he is a proper gentleman. He's beloved! And his poor, poor wife," she recalled the arguments the old chirping women used to make about the duke, repeating them verbatim to try to prove her case. "He's far more a proper man than someone like you, Lord Brighton."
"How d'you know? I could show you a man if you followed me up to my bedroom, love," Lord Brighton growled, leaning in close with a devious grin on his face.
"E-excuse me?!" proper and prim Isobel responded in outrage. He was gorgeous, but she couldn't bring herself to even believe he could dare say something so brash to her.
"I think you heard me fine, love. And I think you liked what you heard," he purred. His voice felt like hot honey in the air but the outrage flowed hot in Isobel's veins.
"I came here to eat a fine dinner with you, and to discuss the nature of my house's debt to you, not to be insulted and spoken to so crudely," Isobel fumed.
"Insulted? Love, I've been nothing but cordial," Ellery scoffed.
"Cordial?! You propositioned me!" Isobel exclaimed.
"Do you think it's an insult to be propositioned? If I proposition you, doesn't that mean I've taken quite fancy to you? How's that an insult?" Lord Brighton smugly commented. She couldn't fathom him. How dare he?! She had grown up a proper lady, schooled in the proper w
ay to handle society. How had a man born in such privilege become such a lewd lout?
"It's quite inappropriate!" Isobel exclaimed, not getting to the heart of his claims.
"But that doesn't tell me whether you think it's insulting or not, to be propositioned. Do you want to know a little something?" Ellery asked smugly. "My father is the one who wanted us to wed. When your father turned him down, it caused a falling out between our families. I don't know what business came up between the two of them, but it affected me more than it did either of them. And now, I've become public enemy of the Duskwood estate," Lord Brighton scoffed. "And why? Because my father and I spoke our minds? Was your father too afraid of scandal, the same way you are? Because I'm free to live life as I see fit?"
"Free? You call this embarrassing way that you act, freedom?" Isobel couldn't believe him.
"You'd rather have old smelly, filthy Thrushmore on top of you instead, because it's what's expected of you? Is that freedom?" Lord Brighton needled at her.
"That's enough!" Isobel shouted, flustered. "I came here to discuss the matter of my debts, not the matter of my bedtime behavior!"
"It's amusing, you ought to mention both, m'lady," Lord Brighton smirked. "There's quite a simple way to solve both of those problems."
"The nature of my bedtime interactions are not problem!" Isobel shouted.
"But perhaps mine are. Because a fine woman like yourself isn't present in them," Ellery smirked that devil's smirk. She looked away, finding it harder and harder to deny him - not just how absolutely handsome he was, but she couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere deep underneath all of his words of idle rebellion, lay a core of some measure of truth.
Satisfying The Duke & Her Debts (Regency Romance: Strong Women Find True Love Book 1) Page 3