by Liz Carlyle
“She doesn’t know your diversions still involve mere children, I’d wager,” said Isabella. “Everett, why start this again? Why now? Just leave Georgina and Jemima alone.”
“Why now?” he echoed sarcastically. “Look at yourself, Bella. You’re just the downhill side of thirty, and so damned scrawny you’d be lucky to carry a child. You’re starving yourself to feed those two brats, when you could have one of your own.”
“Have . . . a child?” The thought of Everett fathering a child was beyond horrific.
Everett shifted his weight uneasily. “Well, I need an heir, don’t I?” he muttered. “Mamma keeps saying as much, and she’s right.”
“Get out,” said Isabella, jabbing a finger at the rusting garden gate. “Get away from this house, Everett! You are a cad and a despoiler of innocence and I have no idea what your mother’s fascination is with me, but I have never been willing to marry you.”
Something dark twisted his face. “Never? Quite sure, are you?”
“There is not enough depravation or starvation or any other sort of misery on this earth that would make me marry you. Good God, Everett, do you think people can’t find out about your proclivities?”
“I’ve done nothing against the law,” he said.
“Rape is not?” she challenged.
He laughed. “Find someone who will say I raped her,” he retorted. “Go on, Bella, try it. And perhaps I shall try my luck, too.”
Suddenly her blood ran cold. “What are you saying?”
“That those girls belong in their childhood home,” he said, seizing her wrist. “You were never meant to take them away from Thornhill.”
“What?” She gaped. “You never showed the slightest interest in having them—nor did your mother.”
“And we are both ashamed of that,” he said, “having seen what your life has come to. Do you think any reasonable judge would keep them in this hovel when they could go back to Thornhill? To live in their old home with Mamma and me?”
“A judge just might,” she snapped, “when I tell him what I saw.”
“And what better place for that conversation than the Court of Chancery?” he replied, backing her up against her own door. “Heavens, Bella, I wonder if your father-in-law would attend?”
“You bastard,” she hissed.
Something like alarm sketched over his face then, and he relented a little. “Come now, Bella, threats are foolish on both our parts,” he said. “We are cousins, and I have never done you the first harm. I adore you, and want only to marry you. My desperation makes me rash.”
“Your desperation makes you an ass,” she said. “And one more word from you or your mother about marriage and I swear, Everett, I shall take her up to that vile little house in Soho where you and your friends spend your evenings and make her look in the window for herself.”
At that, Everett went white, his upper lip quivering. “You ungrateful bitch,” he said, lunging.
Isabella jerked back so hard that she struck her head on the door.
Suddenly Everett was seized by a hand that clapped his shoulder and hauled him ruthlessly down the steps. Arms windmilling wildly, he tripped, collapsing backward onto the Earl of Hepplewood.
The earl stepped smoothly to the side and let Everett go sprawling across the moss-slick flagstone. “That third step looks a bit of a trick,” he said in his quiet, rumbling voice. “Baron Tafford, I presume?”
CHAPTER 8
Everett jerked himself fully upright, yanking his coat back to order. “And who the devil are you to interfere in family business?”
Hepplewood flashed his dark half smile. “The devil who’s about to haul you into that lane”—he pointed across the gate with his brass-knobbed walking stick—“and thrash you within an inch of your life for putting your hands on a lady.”
“Don’t I know you?” said Everett, narrowing one eye.
“No, but you are about to make my acquaintance,” said Hepplewood quietly. “Isabella, you will go inside. Now.”
Isabella knew that tone. Scrabbling at the wood behind her, she found the latch, lifted it, and stepped backward into the house, slamming the door behind. If it came to an outright brawl, her money was on Hepplewood.
On the other hand, Everett was just the sort of man who might keep a blade to hand.
Her heart in her throat, Isabella flew into the parlor and looked out to see the earl, true to his word, dragging Everett through the garden gate—well, propelling him might be a better description.
On the other side, he threw Everett off, disgust plain on his face. Words were exchanged—hot and swift—but Isabella couldn’t make them out. Then Everett turned and foolishly came at the earl. He got nothing but five hard fingers to the chest for his trouble, a shove that sent him hitching up against the door of his curricle.
Unfortunately for Everett, rather than regaining himself, he tripped one foot over the other and fell sideways into the mud.
Hepplewood extracted a silver case, flicked one of his thick ivory cards into Everett’s lap, then turned and came back through the gate, his hat still in place, his stick tucked neatly under his arm.
Isabella opened the door, deeply grateful and yet uneasy all the same.
“Precisely what was that about?” said Hepplewood, coming briskly back up the steps.
“Nothing,” Isabella said, shutting the door after him. “I’m very sorry, my lord. Are you all right?”
“Perfectly.” He looked at her askance. “But you are not; you’re white as a sheet, Isabella, and you are shaking.”
She held out her hands to see that it was true. “My temper, nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” His expression darkened. “Then what was all that shouting about marriage and your aunt? And a house in Soho?”
“Merely an old family quarrel,” she said more firmly. “I beg you to let the matter go. My cousin is an ass.”
For an instant, he hesitated. “Well, now the ass knows where to find me,” he finally said, “should he wish to seek satisfaction.”
“My cousin preys only upon those weaker than himself,” she said, taking his stick and his hat, “so I think you’re quite safe. Thank you for ridding me of him.”
Though he still looked suspicious, the earl apparently decided to let his questions go. With neat, swift jerks, he tugged off his leather driving gloves, his gaze sliding down Isabella’s length in a way that made her breath catch.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he murmured, draping the gloves over his hat brim.
Isabella flashed a smile. “I’m not, actually,” she admitted, setting the hat on the hall table. “Lady Petershaw told me you might call.”
“Did she say why?” His voice was unerringly polite, perfectly calm.
“She did.” Isabella felt her face flood with heat. “I assure you, sir, that you’ve no need for concern.”
“No need?” he pressed, dipping his head to better see her. “None whatever? You are certain?”
“As certain as nature can make me,” she assured him. “Yes, quite certain. May we leave it at that?”
Stiffly, he nodded. “May I sit down, Isabella?”
Her embarrassment deepened. “Yes, certainly.” She motioned at the open parlor door. “Do go in.”
He did so, his gaze sweeping the small and desperately ordinary room. But it was clean, and furnished with a few lovely things she’d been able to take before handing over Thornhill to Everett forever; things that had been her mother’s, and thus not entailed to the estate. Her mother’s will had been very specific in that regard; her every possession was left to Isabella.
The trouble was, there had been so very few of them. And most had been sold already, to keep the girls in shoes and schoolbooks, though Isabella could not have borne to confess it.
Not to a man like Lord Hepplewood, who could have no idea what poverty was.
“Those are lovely portraits by the window,” he murmured, taking the chair she offered
. “Small, but superbly done. Your parents?”
“Yes, Mother’s was commissioned in Liverpool just days before she met Papa,” said Isabella wistfully. “It was a frightful luxury for my grandfather, but he lived in the Ottawa Valley—in Canada—where such things weren’t easily had.”
“And it found its way back to you?”
She shrugged. “It was shipped to Thornhill,” she said, “two or three years ago. No one else wanted it, so Everett brought me the pair at Christmas. It was a kindness of sorts, I suppose.”
And he had brought with it yet another marriage proposal—an especially obsequious one—though Isabella did not say as much.
“Your father, if you’ll pardon my saying, looks a bit older than she.”
Isabella smiled. “A dozen years.”
“Ah. An arranged marriage?”
“Far from it,” Isabella replied. “Her family never really forgave her for staying behind, and they were more or less estranged ever after. But Canada was lonely for her, Mamma said, for they lived much of the year in the wilderness.”
“The wilderness?”
“Well, perhaps that’s an overstatement,” said Isabella, “but her father and brother were in the timber trade—simple people, really. Papa said he’d meant to remain a bachelor all his days—that he was too entrenched in his books and his gardens to take a wife—until he saw Mamma standing in the lobby of the Adelphi Hotel in a pair of shabby brown boots.”
“Love at first sight, hmm?”
“That’s what Papa called it.”
“She looks beautiful,” said the earl, still gazing at the painting, “and so much like you it steals one’s breath.”
And in an instant, the awkwardness between them returned. “I beg your pardon,” she said a little stiffly. “I am out of the habit of entertaining. May I offer you a glass of sherry?”
His gaze flicked toward her, sharp and knowing. “May I not speak of your beauty, Isabella?”
“I wish you would not,” she said honestly.
He studied her for a long moment. “You once said to me that beauty could be a curse,” he finally replied, “and that surely I, of all people, must know it.”
“I remember,” she said.
“What did you mean by it?”
She lifted her gaze from her lap. “I spoke wrongly, I suppose,” she said. “It’s true of women. Beauty for a woman is often a curse. But for men like yourself, who are both wealthy and beautiful—no, I suppose it does not matter. It’s just icing on the cake of life.”
He shrugged and looked away. “I’ve wondered lately if that’s entirely true,” he mused. “I wonder if it doesn’t worsen a man’s sense of entitlement and make him more quick to assume what he wants will be his. That he will, in the end, have his way.” He stopped for a heartbeat. “But in the end, Isabella, I will not have you, will I? I knew it the minute I laid eyes on you. And I knew, too, that it would be better for both of us if I did not. I should never have allowed Louisa to tempt me with that damned letter.”
Isabella drew a deep breath. “I cannot speak to your assumptions, my lord. We must all wrestle with our own conscience.”
“I wonder if you ever have to do so.” He turned to look at her again, his glittering blue gaze searching her face. “Well, Isabella, I have asked my question, and you’ve answered. I can ask nothing more from you.” He set his wide, long-fingered hands over his thighs, as if to rise. “Shall I go, then? Shall this be the end of it?”
Did she wish him to leave?
Lord, she didn’t know. She didn’t understand anything, least of all the feelings that stirred in her treacherous heart as she listened to him. There was something about his deep, beautifully modulated voice that melted over her like butter, warming her to the bone and weakening her resolve.
She dropped her head, her hands twisting in her lap. “I do not know, my lord,” she admitted, her voice threading a little. “I no longer know what I wish or think or even feel. Since I returned from Greenwood, I . . . I haven’t understood anything. Not myself, and certainly not you.”
“Come, Isabella,” he gently pressed. “Can we not try and build a friendship between us, at the very least? Have I treated you so ill that I am beyond the pale?”
His letter had, in fact, said precisely that; that he would always feel a fondness for her and be a friend to her should she ever require one. Isabella had assumed the words to be mere platitudes born of guilt and the wish to be rid of her. But there was no denying that, inexplicably, she saw in him much to respect and yes, even to like.
Nonetheless, she was also a little obsessed with him; obsessed in a way that frightened her and had begun to disturb her sleep. Not a fear of him—no, strangely, it was not. It was something far, far worse—an almost dark craving—a fear of herself, perhaps. And it was the reason she would as soon not see him again.
“Yes.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Yes, we may part as friends.”
“Part as friends,” he echoed, “but not remain friends?”
Confused, she opened her hands, palms up. “We will not see one another after this. We are not of the same world, you and I—not now, if we ever were.” She let her hands fall back into her lap. “I’m sorry. You are kind to come; most men would not have troubled themselves.”
“I am not,” he said quietly, “most men.”
“And this is awkward for us both, I’m sure,” she went on. “Perhaps I’ve been alone and away from society so long I’ve forgotten what friendship is. Moreover, this cottage . . . it cannot be what you are accustomed to.”
He flicked another gaze round the room. “I rather doubt it is what you are accustomed to,” he said a little dryly. “You were born at . . . Thornhill, I believe, your father’s seat?”
“In Sussex, yes,” she said quietly. “But I have not lived there in years.”
“Since your father’s death?”
“No, before that,” she said. “I left when my father remarried. I was . . . nineteen, I think.”
“Ah,” he said quietly. “And then you became a governess?”
“Because I wished to,” she said swiftly. “I love children. My stepmother brought a child to the marriage—my sister, whom I adore—but they were newlyweds. I thought it best I go. So I did.”
“So you did,” he said in that faintly acerbic tone. “And your father did not forbid it? He should have done. He should have been watching over you.”
“You have such charmingly old-fashioned notions,” she said.
“Do you really believe, Isabella,” he asked very quietly, “that it is old-fashioned for a man to guard what is his?”
She shrugged. “Having never been guarded,” she said, “I shall reserve judgment. In any case, Papa could never forbid anyone anything. He was the most lenient and forgiving of men.”
“I’m not sure leniency and forgiveness are the best qualities in a man who must steward an estate and a family,” Hepplewood replied. “Resolve and discipline are sometimes more useful.”
Isabella flashed a wry smile. “Yes, I comprehend your views on resolve,” she murmured, “and discipline.”
He gave a bark of sarcastic laughter and looked away. “Damned if you can’t put a man in his place, Isabella,” he said, “for all your quiet ways.”
“Do you realize, sir, that a few moments ago you ordered me inside my own home in a most high-handed fashion?” she said. “And called me by my Christian name whilst doing it?”
“No.” His mouth twitched into a mordant smile. “I did not realize. That will garner some interest, I daresay, at Tafford’s dinner table tonight.”
Unease must have shown in her expression.
“Forgive me,” he added. “I didn’t mean to cause you any embarrassment.”
“It is Everett who is the embarrassment,” she said tightly. “And I care very little what is said of me at his table. It will be nothing kind, I assure you.”
The earl seemed to ponder this a moment, his long, thin i
ndex finger tapping lightly upon the arm of his chair. “Is anyone else at home, Isabella?” he said after a time. “May we talk freely? You have young sisters, you said.”
She was touched he remembered. But then, he likely remembered each and every time his will was thwarted. “Yes, Jemima and Georgina,” she said. “They’ve gone down to Brighton with Mrs. Barbour, who helps look after them.”
“Jemima and Georgina,” he echoed softly. “So I’m permitted to know their names?”
“Have I any means, really, of keeping them from you?” she asked a little stridently. “You know where I live. You are already in my home—and you look very much at home, if you don’t mind my saying. And you have known me in the most intimate of ways. So let us be realistic, my lord. There is nothing I could hold back from you—nothing—and I wonder I ever tried.”
He surprised her then by jerking from his chair and striding to the window, one hand dragging through his mass of unruly curls—the only thing about the man that did not reek of tightly leashed control.
It was dusk now, the lane empty. She wondered, fleetingly, how he’d managed to appear out of nowhere. He was dressed for driving, in snug charcoal trousers and an elegant frock coat of the finest black merino. But she had seen no carriage.
After a time, he set a hand flat on the low sill and the other at his hip, pushing the fall of his coat back to reveal the lean turn of his waist. “Isabella,” he rasped into the glass, “would this have ended differently for us if . . . if I had been a more tender lover?”
“That is a question you must ask yourself, my lord,” she whispered, “because I did not end it.”
He cut a look of surprise over his shoulder, then his hand fell. “Yes, but that’s not what I meant,” he said, “and I think you know it.”
She shook her head. “No. I do not. I very often find I do not understand you.”
He turned from the window and crossed the room in two strides, dropping before her on one knee, capturing her hands in his. They were warm, long, and surprisingly gentle. “Could you feel some small affection for me, Isabella,” he rasped, “if I were a different man? Could you? If I tried?”