Then an image if the two kissing at the end of the play came to mind. Did Miss Miriam enjoy the act? More importantly, did Lord Charmain? Miss Miriam was pretty and Isabel could understand if the man might be attracted to her. Well, understand was a strong word; perhaps she could see the reasoning of any attraction, even if she could not fully comprehend it.
Somehow, her thoughts went to imagining it was she who stood on that stage opposite the Baron, his hands wrapping around her and his lips pressing against hers. The kiss would last forever, and the applause from the audience would be thundering. And yet, she would not hear any of it, for he would gaze into her eyes…
“Isabel?” her mother said, breaking Isabel from her thoughts, “are you ill? You have been staring down at your embroidery and completing no stitching for some time now.”
“Oh, no mother, I am not ill. I was just thinking is all.”
“Thinking about what, my dear?”
“How lovely it is to be here.”
“Yes, it is lovely,” her mother replied. As the woman continued on about the virtues of being in London for the Season, a thought occurred to Isabel. She had just lied to her mother, and though she did not like to, she had felt the need to do so. If she had told her mother the truth, it would have brought about shame and scorn. And yet, she herself had chastised the Baron for lying, telling him the truth was far better than falsehoods.
What a hypocrite she had been. She had judged the man unfairly, and to his credit, he had not lashed out at her in anger but instead had agreed with her. Isabel looked over at her mother and smiled at whatever it was she had said, and the woman returned to her embroidery. If her mother knew of that which Isabel had done—drinking in a pub and arriving in an inebriated state at the theater—she might consider selling Isabel to work in a tavern herself. The idea almost made her giggle.
Sighing, Isabel returned to her work, wondering what to do. Lord Charmain somehow intrigued her, there was no doubt about it, and she wished to see him again—even if he had lied—perhaps if only to apologize for her judgment of him. Yet, how could she make such a thing happen? If she were to speak to her mother about it, she would have to explain why the man was in London, thus revealing the secret she had promised to keep.
Then a smile came to her lips. She had plans to return to the home of Elizabeth on Saturday. That would give her the chance to see him again. Elizabeth most assuredly would find a way to set up a meeting between her and the Baron.
“Ready yourselves.” The voice of her father made Isabel jump out of her chair as he hurried into the room. Even her mother brought a hand to her breast in surprise as she also stood. “We have an honored guest.” He directed his smile at Isabel.
“Really, Peter,” her mother admonished breathlessly. “Must you enter the room without announcing yourself? When did you arrive? And who is this guest?” The woman’s onslaught of questions magnified how agitated she was.
A man entered the room, a well-dressed gentleman who could never be mistaken for anything but nobility. His square jaw was strong, as was his nose, and though he was by no means horrible-looking, he would never be considered handsome. However, it was the way he held his head—his chin jutting forward as he glared down his nose—that made Isabel want to return to her work and ignore him.
“Isabel, Martha, allow me to introduce Lord Alfred Smythe, the Marquess of Oistermand.
The man gave a polite bow, and when he straightened himself, his gaze fell on Isabel, sending a shiver down her spine.
“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, his tone nasally, though he kept his eyes on Isabel as he spoke.
“Lord Smythe is a strong man of business and is quite acquainted with the ways of the ton. At twenty-seven, he has done more than both his father and grandfather combined.”
“You are too kind,” the man said. The open manner in which he stared at Isabel made her uneasy. “It is I who look to you to learn.”
Her father beamed. “I must attend to a few things in my office. I am sure Isabel will be able to engage you in conversation in my absence.” His words came so rapidly he ran out of breath before he finished his sentence. Isabel did not miss the command behind the words directed at her. So, she was to entertain this man? The idea made her want to run away.
However, she did not run. Instead, she did as her father bade. “Yes, Father,” she said, offering a smile she had to force. She retook her seat, and her mother offered her the place beside Isabel on the couch. Her mother knew exactly why the man had come calling. Isabel wanted to sigh, but she stifled it. Perhaps he would not be all that bad. Plus, he did seem a true gentleman. She would give him the benefit of the doubt.
“The tea should arrive in a few moments,” her mother said as she took a seat across from them. “My husband would have sent for it.”
“Thank you,” Lord Smythe said.
He turned his attention to Isabel once again, his eyes moving over her in a greedy fashion, and Isabel had to keep herself from shuddering. Even with her mother in the room, she did not feel safe in the presence of this man.
“Miss St. Clair, do you enjoy embroidery?”
Isabel glanced at the handkerchief on which she had been working, which she had thrown aside in her startlement. “Yes, I find it…relaxing,” she said, though it was not entirely the truth.
“I enjoy a good hunt,” he said as if she had asked. “Unfortunately, I find myself caught up in my work more and more as my business expands.” The man continued without stopping, even when the tea arrived, and Isabel found it difficult to maintain her attention on what he had to say. He possessed a voice monotone in nature, and he could not be described as anything other than boring. What woman wanted to hear of the misdeeds of the draw boys who helped the weavers while working the looms? He termed it as laziness, though if she were to ask more questions, she imagined she would learn that the boys were being overworked rather than that they were lazy. What young boy of ten wanted to stand holding string for hours on end? Not one she knew even among the families of the servants.
Isabel listened, but only because it was expected of her. After a only a short time, she felt as if she wanted to run as far away as she could possibly get from this man. The fact that his entire focus was on himself—for never once did he ask for her opinion or allow her to comment anything beyond an “I see” and “Oh, my!” in response to some outrageous claim he had made—or he was complaining about those who were in his employ.
“I cannot imagine how you put up with it, my lord,” Isabel said.
Her mother glared at her, more than likely for the sarcastic tone she had used, but Isabel did not care. The man was self-absorbed and pretentious with little or no care for those who were the reason he had the wealth he possessed.
Lord Smythe did not seem to notice Isabel’s tone, however. “Indeed,” was his response. “I should dismiss the entire lot. I have my pick from any number of young boys who would give his right foot for such a position.”
Isabel panicked. She had not intended to lead him to believing he should dismiss the poor souls who worked for him! “Oh, no, my lord!” she said quickly. “You would then only have to train an entirely new group of children, and think of the loss of funds you would have if you had to do so.”
The man harrumphed. “Well, that is true. I suppose I will just have to put up with their nonsense.”
Isabel sighed with relief. At least she had prevented one catastrophe.
However, Lord Smythe then turned to conversation to his other businesses, with no kind words for those workers, either. Isabel chose not to comment this time; she had learned her lesson!
When the man paused with his tirade, Isabel took that moment to change the subject. Perhaps if she spoke of topics men typically found boring, he would want to leave sooner—or even find her much too dull to pursue. “I find pillowcases to be my favorite item on which to apply some embroidery,” Isabel said. “Though I have completed a number of handkerchiefs, as w
ell. In fact, since I was a child, I have taken to embroidery.” The words tumbled from her lips as easily as a waterfall flows over a cliff, and her only hope was that she could come up with enough to make the man want to leave and never return. “I can spend hours doing nothing more than stitching flowers and whatnot on a piece of cloth. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than to add colorful pictures on whatever I happen to find.”
Finally, however, her mother cleared her throat and shook her head at Isabel, and Isabel returned to being quiet. The man made no motion to leave, and when her father came back into the room, Isabel knew she had failed.
“Will you stay for tea?” her mother asked. “I’m sure we can have another place set for you. I believe Cook is preparing some lovely sandwiches, and her cakes are very tasty.”
The Marquess stood. “I’m afraid I must be on my way.”
Isabel felt like a child at Christmas the way she was smiling. Perhaps she had not failed after all!
“Business calls, though I thank you for the gracious invitation.”
Isabel felt relief wash over her, though her father appeared disappointed.
“I understand,” replied her father. “Will you call again?”
The man smiled at Isabel. “I am able to call on Saturday, that is, if Miss St. Clair is not already otherwise engaged.”
“She will be here,” her father said before Isabel could speak. “Come, I will see you to the door.”
Isabel stared after the two men, her heart in her throat. How could the Marquess have chosen the one day she did not plan to be home? What of her plans to speak to Lord Charmain so she could apologize for her behavior with him?
She had no time to think on this, for her father returned, his voice booming with excitement. “Such a fine man,” he said. “Isabel, do you realize how taken he is with you already? This is the man you should marry! Think about it! A marquess has his eye on our daughter!”
“Peter,” her mother said as she shook her head, “we both want Isabel to wed, but I do not believe we should make plans for it so soon. The two have just met and things could easily change.”
“Nonsense,” her father replied with a wave of his hand. “I believe it was meant to be. If I had not run into him in town today…”
The room swirled around Isabel, and she realized that, if her father had his way, she would marry Lord Smythe next week. Scared and unsure as to what to do, she blurted out, “I had plans to visit Elizabeth on Saturday. Did you forget?”
Her father sighed. “Of course I have not forgotten. You are of age, Isabel, and it is our responsibility to see that you have a man to marry, that is much more important than a visit with Elizabeth, which you can easily schedule for another day.”
“Now, Peter, I’m sure we can work out something to assure Isabel that she can see her friend. She does not need to be here the entire day.”
Isabel gave her mother a grateful smile.
“Oh, very well,” her father sighed. “You can entertain Lord Smythe and then go to see Elizabeth. And since you will be staying there for the night, you will have plenty of time to spend with your friend. Just hope that Lord Smythe invites you to the party he will soon be hosting. It will be an indication of his intentions, if he does not make those intentions clear before then.”
Isabel nodded and excused herself. Her parents continued their conversation about her future, but she was much too stunned to stay and listen. Her world was quickly breaking apart, and unless she did something, it would only get worse.
***
That night, Isabel dipped the nub of her pen into the ink and considered the words she would write on the page. Her feelings, much like her mind, were confused. Her parents had gone to bed hours earlier and she could hear the snores of her father down the hall. The candlelight illuminated the blank piece of parchment before her, mocking her for not knowing the words which would ease her mind.
Perhaps her reasons for wanting to see the Baron again were selfish. She wanted to cleanse her conscience, to ease the pain she had put on him. The manner in which she had conducted herself, portraying herself as if she were some sort of saint who had never spoken a falsehood, was reprehensible. Never in her life had she ever acted in such a judgmental manner! Even with her closest friend did she ever point a finger and accuse her of wrongdoing, even if what she had been doing was wrong.
Yet, there she had stood, pointing an accusatory finger at Lord Charmain as if she had never told a lie herself. She had been a hypocrite, and it was up to her to set things straight.
With a sigh, she put the pen to the paper and began to write. The letter was to Lord Charmain, and she poured her heart out to him, sending him her apologies for her previous actions and asking him to meet her once again. Something tugged at her heart whenever she thought of the Baron, and being in the presence of Lord Smythe had only increased that pull.
When she completed the letter, she read it over and sighed again. What rubbish! Well, she could not turn back now, and she was not about to make another attempt at writing. She would simply have to send it as written and hope for the best.
Chapter Thirteen
By Saturday morning, Isabel had still received no word from Lord Charmain, and she began to believe that he had no intention of responding to her letter. She even hoped that Miss Miriam would have replied or appeared at the door to have words with her—not that the woman would have been Isabel’s first choice, of course, but at least then she would know that the letter had arrived—however, that did not happen, either. It was as if her letter had been left unread on some table somewhere unknown, and Isabel fretted over it. Was he that angry with her? She was not sure she could take it if he were. Yet, the need to apologize made it distinct possibility, did it not?
Her mother ran a brush through Isabel’s hair as Isabel sat at the vanity table in her room, and the worry only grew. Her father was no longer the only person to have changed his tone with her, but now her mother had as well. The woman was so apprehensive with whether or not Isabel would ready herself properly that she had sent Caroline away to tend to Isabel’s hair herself, and she did that only when her concern was severely high.
Her mother gave her a distracted smile in the mirror. “Lord Smythe would be quite the suitor; would you not agree?”
“Yes,” Isabel replied in a whisper. “I suppose you are right.”
Her mother clicked her tongue. “There is no supposing,” she said as she placed another pin in Isabel’s hair. “He has title, wealth, and numerous land holdings. His home here in London is among the largest, and he would make a wonderful suitor. Every young woman your age would be blessed to have his eye on her. Just think! You will be a marchioness if he asks for your hand! A marchioness!”
Isabel wrung her hands in order to build her courage to speak. If she did not do so at this very moment, her entire future may be set for her before she could blink. “Mother, what if I do not like the man?” she asked. “It would not be fair of me to lead him to believe I enjoy his company if I did not, would you not say so?”
Her mother set the brush on the table, her face drawn tight, lips pursed.
Isabel stood and turned, her heart flickering. “I do not mean to upset you.”
“And yet you do,” her mother replied. “Lord Smythe is a very important man, and your father enjoys his company. Have you not thought of the benefits your father could earn of having a man such as he in our midst?”
Isabel shook her head. She had not thought of anyone but herself, and the shame of that was overwhelming.
“No, of course you have not,” her mother snapped. “What has come over you? You have never been this disagreeable. Never have I been so ashamed of you in my life.”
Isabel looked down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
Her mother raised her hand to stop any further remarks. “Enough. You will entertain Lord Smythe when your father and I say and will do so for as long as we deem right. I will not have you argue with me, either.
You know how angry that makes me.”
Isabel nodded, deciding silence would be the best response, for pleasing her parents had been of the utmost importance all her life. Never had she been blamed for displeasing them or shaming them, and her own shame overwhelmed her.
Her mother went to leave but turned when she reached the door. “You are at the age to be married,” she said. “Be thankful that, unlike myself, it is not a marriage of convenience that is thrust upon you. Your father and I did not even meet before the day of the wedding, so you can see what a privilege it is that you are able to spend time with Lord Smythe beforehand.” She did not wait for Isabel to respond before leaving the room, but Isabel had no words with which to respond.
She knew the marriage of her parents had been arranged, they had spoken of it often, and on good terms in general. They had learned to love each other, or so they had said, and seemed predominately happy. However, when they did argue, which was not too often as luck would have it, the happenstance of their marriage came into that discussion.
“You realize that I could have been wed to an earl,” her mother would say.
Her father would laugh and reply, “Yes, I know all about your earl. I believe he died some ten years ago…of old age!” He would then add, “Plus, I held the eye of a fair maiden myself back in my day.”
Then her mother would give him a derisive sniff. “Oh, I know all about your ‘fair maiden’. Was she not a tavern maid at that horrid place you frequented with your friends, the Helpful Hen?”
“She was no tavern maid!” he would shout back at her. “She was the landlord’s daughter.”
The ‘conversation’ would end with her mother storming out of the room in a huff. Later in the day they would apologize to one another for their angry words and all would return back to normal.
“You never go to bed angry,” her mother always counseled. “If you do, that ire will fester and life will be insufferable. Many a marriage has been made unbearable because neither party wanted to be the first to apologize. Never be afraid to be that person, Isabel, because it is we women and our steadfastness that keep a marriage happy. Men have no head for such things.”
The Baron's Charade (Regency Stories Book 3) Page 9