"Let me show you how the books are organized, Lord Francis, so that you may search with ease today and as you recover, for works that are of interest to you." She walked past him determinedly, and he had perforce to follow her away from the desk and towards the shelves that ringed the room.
" A tour would certainly be welcome, as I see that the collection is quite large. Although a detailed survey would certainly be interesting, I may wish to find a book or two to entertain myself for the next few days with a bit less effort, " he replied.
"I’m surprised, but glad, to hear you admit that you still must take care of your injuries, Lord Francis. ‘T’is the best insurance that your cure will be swift." She walked towards a section of books, and waved a hand. "Here are the Greek and Roman classics in their original tongues, Plato, Socrates, Seneca, Ovid, Suetonius, Marcus Aurelius, Aristotle, Homer," she rattled off. Moving down the shelves, she continued, "And here you may find translations. There are also the works of the thinkers of the earlier centuries, "Meister Eckhart, Francis Bacon, Luther, Jansen, More, Newton, Locke, Hume, and the writers, Rabelais, Montaigne, Pope, Johnson, in their original languages and translation, as well as many others. We have also a collection of fiction for the idler hours, which you will find over there," she finished, waving a hand to a shelf farther away.
Lord Francis looked at her a bit strangely, "What an extensive collection," he replied. "Do you delve into all of these?" he inquired strolling closer to the volumes of more modern works.
"Some of them," Isobel replied, "although I miss discussing the works of philosophy and political thinking with my father, and spend less time with them than before."
Lord Francis was peering closely at one of the shelves. "Your father was a broad thinker indeed. Here are the works of Blake, Paine, Coleridge, William Godwin, and even Mary Wollstonecraft, how astonishing."
"What is so astonishing about my father’s thinking that women may have brains, wishes and indeed personal rights of their own, pray tell?" Isobel responded heatedly.
Lord Francis turned to look at her. "You seem very disturbed Miss Paley; have I said something to offend you?" he inquired.
"No, not at all," Isobel muttered, thinking it might be better not to engage her guest in a discussion of women’s rights. She pinned a social smile on her lips. "My father certainly read widely."
Lord Francis looked at her again, but said nothing. He turned towards the books, and waved an arm. "I can see that I will be well entertained, and well educated if I spend my recovery hours in this room. Thank you for making me free of it."
"You are very welcome," replied Isobel, doing her best to put real enthusiasm in her voice. Lord Francis removed a book from the shelf, then took her arm and drew her back towards the alcove housing her desk.
"I must not disturb your morning any further," he remarked, "I have selected a volume of Pope’s poetry to while away the afternoon. Now I will leave you to return to your letters." As they approached her secretary, he glanced at it and then looked more closely.
"What a handsome piece of furniture," said Lord Francis, indicating her desk. "I believe I detect the hand of Hepplewhite. There is a grace and lightness to his work that I find sadly lacking in so many of today’s craftsmen. It is also far more lovely than the current, and to my mind, lamentable fashion for the Egyptian style. It is a very suitable piece of furniture for a gentleman’s library."
Isobel wondered about a lady’s library, and couldn’t quite prevent her annoyance from showing. "Thank you, Lord Francis," she said. "It belonged to my father, and therefore you can be sure that he employed it as it should be; I have no doubt that my use of it is inferior."
There was another moment of silence as Lord Francis absorbed this statement, and then his eye dropped to the papers on the desk, most of which Isobel still clutched. Unfortunately, the title page remained on the open writing surface.
"'On the contents of a Roman fortification near Ballydendargan, Scotland; An inquiry into the nature of the campaigns of Hadrian,'" pronounced Lord Francis. "Upon my word, madam, this is heavy work for the forenoon. How does such a charming lady come to be troubling herself with such nonsense? Surely, there are fashion plates to be examined as you prepare for the Season, which must make a much better activity for such rainy morning as this."
Isobel bit her tongue this time, and counted to five mentally before taking a deep breath. "I make fair copies for my cousin, Alexander Paley," she replied. "He is very much interested in the archaics of Scotland, but has no income to pay for a clerk to copy his manuscripts, and no patience to do it himself. We have been close ever since childhood, and I do this small favor for him over the winter of preparing his papers for submission to the Royal Academy. Although I am a lady of fashion, my life is not wholly given up to frivolity, sir." She spoke rather tartly, and Lord Francis’ sleepy eyes opened wide.
"My apologies, ma’am" he said blandly. "I had no intention of insulting you. ’T’is merely an unusual topic for just after breakfast. I am sure that your cousin and the Society of Antiquaries are both very grateful for your assistance." His face returned to its customary good humor, and she failed to notice a spark of curiosity lurking in the depths of his eyes.
"I hope they are. It is tedious work on occasion, but I find the information of interest. The Romans were fine builders you know, as well as--" She hesitated, and reined in her enthusiasm before continuing in a more languid tone. "As well as providing us with inspiration for some of the sillier fashions of the last few years. I believe that the work I do with my cousin has led me to a greater appreciation of the fashionable in clothing and furnishings in this classical era. For example, another cousin, Lady Grosbridge, has recently had built a charming folly at her summer home in Kent. The work I have done with Mr. Paley allowed me to assist her and her architect in identifying suitable models in antiquity for her folly and grotto. However, I must suspend my thinking when I look at a Roman sandal, or a Grecian gown." She laughed rather stiltedly and swept up the papers.
Lord Francis had been knitting his brow while she talked. "Alexander Paley, your cousin," he said, thoughtfully. "Surely you do not mean the Alexander Paley of Balliol College? I was at Oxford with him, but I thought that he was a scholar of Grecian antiquities, not of the Roman period in Britain."
Isobel wished his lordship at the devil for the second time in as many minutes, but replied, "I believe that his primary body of work has involved Grecian antiquities. However, he has also made some researches in this area, with which I enjoy assisting him, so that it will not distract him too greatly from his principal focus." She paused. "Are you well acquainted with my cousin, Lord Francis?" she asked, attempting to keep her tone light.
"Lord no, I haven’t seen him these seven years, I suppose. But we did kick up a few larks together during our undergraduate days. I recall--" His lordship paused, the guilty look on his face clearly indicating that his memories were quite unsuitable for discussion with ladies. "I recall any number of afternoons spent swotting in the library," he finished lamely.
Isobel had perforce to laugh at this. "Liar," she commented without heat. "I really must be getting on with my preparations for our removal to London. My cousin’s work will have to wait for another day."
"Must you?" Lord Francis was suddenly aware that he was alone with Isobel; perhaps for the first time since the day of his unfortunate accident. "I would enjoy your company if you cared to finish your work. I promise to not disturb you."
Isobel’s green eyes met his grey ones briefly and then dropped, as his gaze had changed from lazy to intense. Unbidden, the thought of the kiss they had shared popped into her head. She too was suddenly aware that neither Harriet nor any of the servants were nearby.
"I must," she said in a small voice.
Lord Francis reached across the desk and took her wrist in his hand. He marveled at its delicate slenderness and carefully stopped himself from gripping her too tightly. "I know I cannot insist," he said softly.
"But I wonder what I can do to persuade you."
Isobel gingerly set the papers on the desk. She knew she should leave the library immediately, that she was treading on dangerous ground, but somehow she could not summon the resolve to do so. "Perhaps for a few moments," she murmured.
Lord Francis, still lightly holding her wrist, moved around the desk until he stood at her side. His hand slid up her arm, one finger gently caressing her soft skin. "Thank you," he said softly. "It’s very kind of you."
Isobel stood transfixed, allowing the sensation that his hand provoked to wash over her. Lord Francis was a very persuasive gentleman, she reflected. His fingers floated gently up until his hand cupped the side of her face."
"You’re so lovely," he said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the room. Isobel looked over his shoulder at the sunbeams playing across the books. She barely started when he pressed his lips to her shoulder; it seemed the most natural thing in the world. His lips traced a trail of fire up the side of her neck, and she leaned towards him, not at all sure of what she wanted.
"So lovely," repeated Lord Francis. His lips moved across her cheek and captured her lips. Isobel gave a tiny gasp, but then responded eagerly. Her curiosity had been aroused by their first kiss, and now she had some idea of what to expect. She parted her lips in response to his urging and felt her knees give way slightly as he took full possession of her mouth.
"I have you, darling," said Lord Francis, he arm moving around her waist to steady her. He again felt the banked fire that surged inside Isobel and he kissed her more deeply. She responded with fervor.
Lord Francis eyed the couch against the wall, and slowly drew her in that direction. But from the hall came the sound of Harriet’s voice.
"Isobel!"
She started as though she had been pricked by a pin, and hurriedly pulled away. She pushed at his chest, and he reluctantly released her waist.
"Lord Francis, this is most improper! Your take advantage of my good nature and hospitality!" Isobel’s voice was shaky with emotion.
He smiled down at her, annoyed that they had been interrupted, but sensitive to her confusion. Although Isobel was not a young lady in her first Season, she was still very inexperienced, he reflected. But she was also very lovely.
"Please accept my apologies," he said. "But I can hardly regret what has occurred."
Isobel shook herself, snatched the papers from the desk and shoved them into her secretary, locking it and pocketing the key, and swept out of the library, leaving the field to the victorious Lord Francis. He gazed after her contemplatively.
Chapter 5
Late the next forenoon, Isobel sat in the morning room, perusing a volume on the architecture of the Romans. It was still another grey day, and the rain beating relentlessly on the windows prevented her from taking her mare out to ride. Lord Francis' unwelcome presence in the library had driven Isobel to this sanctuary with her research. It was a nuisance, no doubt, but his lordship would be leaving in a week or two, a fact that Isobel took less pleasure from than she felt she should. She told herself that doubtless it was her concerns for his health that made her wish he would stay just a few days longer; she had no desire for her hard work nursing him to come to naught because he had proceeded on his journey too soon.
She put down her book and paced up and down the room. The thought of Lord Francis had interrupted her concentration, and she now found her book to be a shade dull. The author did not write with sufficient vigor about his subject. She stood gazing out the window, her mind wandering to the library where Lord Francis was doubtless taking his ease among Isobel's books, many of which would no doubt be much more engaging than the one she had in her possession. What an annoying man. She sighed.
The butler entered the room and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Miss Isobel," he said. "Your brother is here."
Isobel looked up, surprised, but pleased to see her brother. She was very fond of him, despite his pedantic ways. He was a good husband and father, took pride in his estates, and was kind to his sister, despite what seemed to him to be her unfathomable interest in Britain’s past. As was his wont, he was dressed formally, even for a visit to his sister in the country, and his heavy step matched his florid person and conversational style. Isobel was accustomed to his solemnity, and as usual she spoke to him in a rallying tone.
"Frederick, how delightful to see you. What brings you visiting on such a raw day? Surely ‘tis not my charming company. The weather must have prevented you from doing the farm work, or meeting with your agent, or perhaps the effect of several days confined indoors on your active brood has driven you from Wereham Place to find a respite here?"
Frederick smiled slightly at her lively tone, but then looked grave. "No, sister, it is duty which brings me here, my duty to prevent you from making a grievous error," he pronounced heavily.
Isobel looked surprised, and raised her eyebrows discouragingly. "Well Frederick, I am long past the age where I thought I needed advice on conducting my affairs, so I hope you will think carefully before you try to order me about."
Frederick looked sheepish. "I thought of that, but Honoria assures me that I must speak to you."
"Your confirmation of Lady Wereham’s involvement makes me certain that I will not be pleased with your comments, but since I am equally sure that there is nothing I can do to prevent you from making them, I beg you to say your piece quickly and be done with it."
The Viscount stuffed his hands in his pockets, rolled on to the balls of his feet and cleared his throat.
"Dear sister," he began, "I cannot believe that you have thought carefully about the continued residence of Lord Francis Wheaton here at Kitswold House. From the local talk, I apprehend that he has the run of the place, and lives in your pocket. It presents a very peculiar appearance and you lay yourself open to all manner of gossip. I must ask you to consider ensuring that he leave this place as soon as you can arrange suitable transportation to restore him to his family, where he can more appropriately convalesce." His lordship had all the appearance of a man more than prepared to continue his peroration, so Isobel held up her hand to stall him.
"Upon my word, brother, you are making some very unattractive insinuations," responded Isobel. "Lord Francis was severely injured on my doorstep in foul weather. Would you have had me send him elsewhere, at grave risk to his health, out of missishness? I can assure you that my attentions to him were confined initially to those of a nurse, and now that he is able to get about the house, they are those of a gracious hostess to an invalid guest."
"Yes, but he is an eligible gentleman, while you are a young and beautiful single woman. The county is full of wagging tongues who will make hay out of a single man living in the house of an unmarried woman."
"Allow me to correct you, brother. Lord Francis is convalescing in a house owned by a single woman. You are well aware that Cousin Harriet chaperones me, and this house is full of my servants. Surely you do not believe that with a broken collar bone and his right arm in a sling his lordship is capable of compromising me against my will? Or do you believe that I am a lightskirt who would consent to such a thing? I wonder who or what can have given you such a pretty notion of my character." Isobel’s voice had grown annoyed, and her eyes flashed at her brother.
The Viscount sputtered at her and dropped his pompous manner for a moment. "Don’t rip up at me, Isobel," he snapped. "I have accused you of no improper conduct, nor Lord Francis. I asked you only to consider your reputation and the wagging tongues of the old tabbies in the neighborhood."
Isobel bit her tongue on a swift rejoinder that Lady Wereham could not be described as an old tabby, but fortunately thought better of it.
"If the ladies of the neighborhood are gossiping it should be of my graciousness in doing my Christian duty in opening my home to an injured gentleman, and tending him with my own hands during the most dangerous part of his illness, nothing more."
"Well, dash it, I know that you have no interest in fl
irting with him, because you’d rather have your precious books than a husband, but your guest had quite a reputation in the petticoat line before he became involved in the wars, and people remember," said the viscount spiritedly.
Isobel sighed. "Frederick, I really feel that we must change the subject if you wish to remain on amicable terms with me. When do you and Lady Wereham contemplate removing to London for the Season, I wonder?"
Lord Wereham recognized that he had nothing to gain by continuing the conversation, and left the issue alone. At the end of his visit, however, Isobel took pity on him and informed him that Lord Francis planned to leave within the se'ennight, and invited Lady Wereham and him to join Dr. Alvey and the inhabitants of Kitswold House for dinner three evenings hence.
The night of the dinner party soon arrived. Cook had been instructed to prepare a truly elegant repast. Isobel, still slightly peeved with her brother and his wife, and obscurely wishing to entice Lord Francis so that she might illustrate to both him and her brother her seriousness of mind, determined to wear quite her most stunning dinner ensemble.
A full-blown ball gown would be quite inappropriate, of course, but she removed from her closet an elegant heavy silk evening dress of a shifting blue-green color, that drew out the depth of color in her hair and eyes. It sported a décolletage about which the highest stickler could not truly complain, but which must draw attention to her fine shoulders and bosom. The gown was not lavishly trimmed except around the hem, where a heavy drape of embroidery and a tiny hint of a train pulled the dress against her as she walked, offering the occasional tantalizing outline of her long slim legs. A thin silk shawl in an elegant print was draped over her arms, while her hair was dressed dashingly, with ringlets falling from a beaded headdress. Diamond drops flashed in her ears and around her throat was a matching necklet. Altogether a most attractive picture, she thought with satisfaction as she examined herself in the looking glass. Her brother would disapprove heartily, she mused, as she smiled at her reflection with a hint of smugness.
A Lady of Passion: Isobel's After Dark Regency Romance Page 4