Isabel: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  Isabel

  A Regency Romance

  Martha Keyes

  Isabel: A Regency Romance © 2019 by Martha Keyes. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover design by Martha Keyes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Martha Keyes

  http://www.marthakeyes.com

  First Printing: August 2019

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Other titles by Martha Keyes

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  London, England 1813

  Isabel Cosgrove fanned herself rapidly, lending only half an ear to the gossip being relayed by her friend Mary, who stood at her side.

  A long queue of people stood in the entry hall of the Rodwell’s London town home, waiting to be announced—waiting to intensify the oppressive heat which made Isabel’s gloves cling to her arms.

  Her younger sister Cecilia stood at her other side, listening intently to each morsel of hearsay transmitted by Mary.

  Whatever her own indifference to ton gossip, Isabel could never have avoided it, surrounded as she was by people who thrived on it. She forgave Mary the weakness, as she knew she had acquired the habit from her mother.

  Cecilia had less excuse for indulging.

  “So, he did follow her to town,” Mary Holledge said with a self-satisfied smile. “I expected as much.”

  “Who?” Cecilia said, turning and craning her neck to follow Mary’s gaze.

  Mary shot a sideways glance at Cecilia and pursed her lips. She clearly hadn’t been speaking to Cecilia. But as Isabel rarely paid her gossip any attention, it was unclear to whom she had been addressing herself.

  Isabel smiled at her friend’s reluctance to enlighten Cecilia. In another world, Cecilia and Mary might have gotten along quite well.

  But Mary was not fond of Cecilia, despite their shared love of gossip. She tolerated her for Isabel’s sake, but Isabel stood in little doubt of her true feelings. Mary often referred to Cecilia as “the minx” when she was not around.

  “Charles Galbraith,” Mary finally answered in a reluctant tone.

  Isabel stilled and her pulse quickened, her eyes moving about the room. They landed on a dark-haired gentleman with an ethereal beauty on his arm.

  She hadn't seen him in years, but she had no trouble at all recognizing the brooding countenance—it was more rather than less pronounced than it had been during his childhood. And yet somehow it enhanced his attraction.

  She had wondered time and again over the years what it would be like to finally be introduced to Charles Galbraith during her Season; what it would be like to encounter the gentleman rather than the callow youth who had been an infrequent visitor to her family’s home in Dorset years ago.

  True, Isabel had not then anticipated that he would be absent from every gathering she attended, or that her own Season would be delayed a year in order to bring out Cecilia at the same time. As it was, Isabel had been introduced to the ton in the shadow of her sister’s unrivaled beauty and charm. And Charles Galbraith was nowhere to be found.

  Until now.

  “Julia Darling is a vision, isn't she?” Mary sighed. “Effortlessly reminding us all that we stand no chance at all against her in the struggle for Galbraith’s hand.” She raised her brows and inclined her head. “Not that there ever was any chance for the rest of us.”

  Cecilia made a noncommittal sound. “Mr. Houghton only said the other night that I am the better favored between Miss Darling and myself.”

  Mary sent a forbearing look at Isabel. “Your humility is affecting, as always, Cecilia.”

  Cecilia’s head whipped around, an affronted look on her face. “Surely it is not prideful to simply relay someone’s stated opinion.”

  “Oh,” Mary said with a look of faux-interest, “do you also relay opinions that are less than complimentary? I could enlighten you if you stand in any need.”

  “Please don’t, you two,” Isabel said, feeling unaccountably irritable.

  Cecilia’s chin came up, and her eyes went back to Galbraith. “He is very handsome, isn’t he?”

  Isabel felt her jaw tighten. Cecilia often spoke of the gentlemen she admired, and she always managed to contrive an introduction not long after. It had never bothered Isabel much. Until now.

  What was this silly possessiveness she felt for Charles Galbraith?

  “I am determined that he shall ask me to dance tonight,” said Cecilia, the self-extended challenge sparkling in her blue eyes. She sent a sideways glance at Mary. “If only to prove you wrong, Mary.”

  Isabel gripped her lips together. If it was what Cecilia wished for, she would likely find success.

  A gentleman approached the three of them, bowing and then requesting a dance with Cecilia.

  Mary let out an annoyed sigh once she was gone. “Is it wrong that I very much hope Mr. Houghton treads on her dress during the set?”

  Isabel suppressed a smile. “I think it is wrong, Mary.”

  “She is maddening, though, you must admit.”

  Isabel said nothing, but the way her body felt tight was a testament to Mary’s statement.

  She had watched Cecilia gain the attention and affection of countless men during the Season. But to think that she might succeed in doing so with the one man Isabel had been watching for in vain at each and every social event …it provoked uncharitable thoughts within her that she thought she had succeeded in ridding herself of.

  It was all silly, anyway, and she knew it well. To spend years reflecting on a simple interaction that happened when she had been six years old?

  Of course, it hadn’t felt simple at the time.

  Izzy sat on the stairwell, her arms folded on top of her bent knees, hot tears streaming down her face.

  It wasn’t fair, of course. The doll was hers, not Cecy’s. It even had brown hair and white lace around the neckline to match Izzy’s.

  But Cecy’s tantrum had been effective—they always were—and Papa had insisted that Izzy give her the doll to play with.

  Cecy would likely set the doll down and forget about it within five minutes in favor of some other shiny toy.

  But Papa had wanted Cecy’s whining to stop, whatever it took. He was busy transacting business with Mr. Galbraith and wanted no further disruptions.

  Energetic footsteps soun
ded on the stone steps behind Izzy, slowing as they came closer and finally stopping altogether.

  “What’s the matter?” It was Mr. Galbraith’s son, Charles, who had accompanied his father on his business at Portsgrove House.

  Izzy brushed at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand. She didn’t want him to see her crying like a silly little girl—no different than Cecy, really.

  He was older, after all. At least nine.

  “Nothing,” she said, trying not to sniff.

  He sat down beside her. “I don’t believe you.”

  She looked at him with a sidelong glance. He didn’t look very agreeable, with his dark features and caterpillar brows.

  “You’ll only laugh at me,” she said resentfully as another tear escaped.

  He put his hand over his heart. “I won’t. I swear it.”

  Her mouth twisted to the side as she regarded him suspiciously. There was no hint of a smile on his face, though.

  She related the events of the morning, annoyed to find that she had begun crying again by the end of the tale.

  She avoided his eye as she sniffed, wondering when he would begin giggling at her silly reason for weeping.

  He scooted closer to her and put his arm around her.

  “Well,” he said prosaically, “if you can’t have your special doll, we shall have to find something else to do, shan’t we? Something to make your sister mad with jealousy.”

  A small smile threatened at the corner of Izzy’s mouth. “Like what?”

  A mischievous grin spread across his face, and he stood, taking her by the hand. “Follow me.”

  No, it hadn’t felt simple at all then. Charles had made her forget the doll and Cecilia’s selfishness. He had taken her outside where they had rolled down the hill, until their stomachs hurt from laughing, and then they had thrown rocks while sitting on the big fallen tree which spanned the width of the stream—all until Izzy’s governess had found them and scolded them.

  But the scold hadn’t dampened her spirits, and she hadn’t even minded when she saw Cecy pick up the doll again when Izzy walked into the room.

  Did Mr. Galbraith remember his kindness toward the young Isabel? It was unlikely. He hadn’t even seemed to notice her on his next visit to Portsgrove, two years later.

  But Isabel had never forgotten him.

  She looked at Mr. Galbraith across the room, coming down the set with the utterly perfect Miss Darling beside him.

  She swallowed and averted her eyes. A six-year old’s admiration was a silly reason to feel jealous at the sight of him with another woman, be she ever so beautiful.

  If Isabel ever had the chance to repay him for his thoughtful action, she would be grateful. But more likely than not, they would have no reason to cross paths. Whatever their fathers’ business had been, it had long since ended.

  She would accustom herself to seeing him from time to time, an announcement of his engagement would be forthcoming, no doubt, and that would be the end of a long, silly girlish fancy.

  2

  “Your luck is not in, Cosgrove."

  There was only a slight slurring of Charles Galbraith's words, despite the various empty glass bottles next to the table. Charles stifled a yawn as the hands of the mahogany clock struck the hour of two.

  "Nonsense." The older man grabbed at a piece of paper, hands fumbling.

  Charles shook his head, and the crease in his black brow deepened. He tossed what remained in his glass into his mouth. "I won't take any more of your vowels. I have plenty as things stand."

  Cosgrove looked up, eyes as alert as his wine-laden lids would allow. "Some other stake then."

  Charles blinked lazily as he raised himself from his chair and reached for his coat.

  It was a nuisance having to tread carefully around Cosgrove. The man wasn’t likable by any means, but as he was somewhat of a lynchpin in the new investments Charles’s father was pursuing, Charles had done what had been necessary to avoid offending the capricious old man. He would much rather have continued the night at Brooks’s, but here he was, indulging a man who seemed entirely unable to win a hand at cards.

  At least Cosgrove’s cellar was well-stocked. It hadn’t completely distracted Charles from the miserable prelude to the evening, but it had helped.

  “Perhaps another time, Cosgrove,” he said.

  Cosgrove reared his head back in an unsteady motion of displeasure. "Come, Galbraith. The night is still young! Plenty more brandy below stairs. If you'll just sit down a moment—" he made a motion to pull Charles down into his seat again but was forced to steady himself on the table instead "—I'm sure we can agree upon new stakes. Surely there's something you want besides money?" His slurred words held a hint of desperation.

  Charles's jaw tightened. "The only thing I want is to forget this night."

  "Well you've not drunk near enough for that," Cosgrove said, pouring more brandy and offering the glass to Charles.

  Charles looked at it for a moment and then reached past it to the decanter, drinking its contents in a few swift gulps.

  Cosgrove's eyes widened, and he blinked rapidly. "Good heavens!" He eyed Charles with misgiving. "I don't grudge a man some drink, but I draw the line at him being sick on my floors, you know."

  "Don't give it a thought," Charles replied, setting the bottle down with a small clank. "I am not known for having a weak stomach."

  Cosgrove nodded but glanced at the empty bottle of brandy uneasily. "Forget this night, you say? You may well." He moved the glass of brandy he had poured further away from Charles and looked at him warily. "You’re put out. I trust I've given you no offense?"

  Charles shook his head.

  Cosgrove thought for a moment, and then cocked an eyebrow. "Troubles with the fairer sex?"

  Charles's jaw shifted back and forth. "Fair is hardly the word I should choose. Fickle seems more apt."

  Cosgrove wagged his finger, shaking his head. "Ah! Haven't met the right one, that's all."

  Charles's sardonic brow went up. He reached for the glass Cosgrove had moved away from him and swirled it in circles. "And where might I find such a paragon?"

  Cosgrove considered for a moment. "Can't say. I never did meet the right one myself. I married for money. But I should've married a beauty. They both run out, but the money runs out faster, you know, and she'll hold it over your head til it's gone." He shuddered.

  Charles tossed back the brandy, uninterested in his host's ruminations. Cosgrove was very near the last person whose advice he cared to follow. His father needed Cosgrove’s influence and good will, not his pointless counsel.

  Cosgrove sat up in his chair. "Take one of mine! That's the ticket. Got more daughters than I know what to do with. And my Cecilia is devilish pretty. Just look!" He got up from his chair and tottered over to a painting on the wall nearest Charles.

  Charles breathed in deeply, summoning patience for the old man, and then turned toward the portrait.

  It was a family portrait and demonstrated the accuracy of Cosgrove's statement—he had plenty of daughters. He was seated in the middle of the portrait, his tall and sturdy wife looming over him, and six children surrounding them, only one of whom—the oldest—was a boy. Charles had met some of the children in his younger years when he had visited Portsgrove House with his father, but despite that, he couldn’t say that any of them looked particularly familiar.

  Cosgrove pointed at one of the girls.

  "That's my Cecilia. She's something to behold, ain't she?" He cast a knowing glance at Charles.

  Charles swallowed, blinked rapidly, and moved closer to the painting.

  Cosgrove patted his shoulder appreciatively. "Yes, yes, my boy. And she's yours for the taking. Provided you win! Which is no sure thing, mind you. My luck often turns with the rising sun. But there. No need for any more IOUs, aye? What do you say we play a hand for her?"

  Charles stood transfixed, willing his eyes to focus. What he thought he was seeing was not pos
sible.

  "Curse this brandy," he said, squeezing his eyes shut.

  The effects of his foolish drinking were finally manifesting, his eyes becoming bleary and his thoughts a muddle. As his eyes focused on the girl, though, it was clear that his first impression had been wrong. The similarities were remarkable, though.

  The girl in the portrait was fair, with flaxen hair, a pair of perfectly pink lips formed in a near pout, and a figure wispy enough to suggest the need for protection. But on closer inspection, there were obvious differences. She had eyes that were a paler blue, her cheekbones were not as defined, and her face was slightly thinner. She looked enough like Julia though, that for a moment he wondered: what would it be like to marry someone so like the woman who had spurned him?

  He looked at the blue eyes again. The artist had managed to capture a glint of caprice and coyness. It was the same look he had seen on Julia's face earlier that evening. Though the affectation had been completely absent during their years of friendship, London had changed her.

  Her teasing smile swam before him again, and her words reverberated in his mind.

  “Well, of course I shan’t dance with you when you wear such a positively miserable expression!”

  Charles didn’t want to be forever frowning in Julia’s company, but he couldn’t help himself. Not when he feared more every day that he was losing her.

  “I am not miserable,” he said, exhaling in frustration. “I simply don’t understand. It seems that you have changed your mind about what you want. I thought that this Season was a mere formality—a means of appeasing your parents. But your attentiveness to other gentlemen—” his muscles tightened as he pictured the small gestures of intimacy he had witnessed between Julia and a few of the gentlemen in the room “—it tells a different tale.”