by Liz Carlyle
“I know that,” he said quietly.
“Furthermore,” Anne continued stridently, “there were just as many people who thought she was chasing your title, my dear, as believed you were chasing her money. Did you never wonder if, perhaps, she might have been?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “No,” he finally said. “I didn’t.”
Anne heaved a great sigh. “I know, Tony, that Mr. Willet settled a ridiculous sum on Felicity, but that was his choice,” she went on, gentling her tone. “He wanted an earldom for his grandchildren, and he was willing to pay for it. But you have invested that money, Tony. You have made all the changes and improvements—to all the properties—and made them slowly enough they did not drain the coffers.”
“Ah, a great humanitarian now, am I?” he said acerbically.
“No, but you tried to be a decent husband,” she said, “and for all your bad habits, you’ve the makings of a good father. You’ve tended the earldom’s fires with utmost care—well, in between your saturnalia—and when it is time for Lissie to marry, you’ll be able to ensure her future. Isn’t that, in the end, what Felicity would have wanted?”
“I could hardly say,” Hepplewood muttered, “since our entire marriage was spent on opposite ends of Loughford. I didn’t really know her, Anne, because after that business with Diana, Felicity was . . . disgusted by me.”
“Felicity was traumatized,” Anne corrected, “—by Diana, who was deranged. Moreover, Felicity was expectant, which brings its own sort of madness, trust me. Given time, she’d have been fine. Tony, I’m the first person to call you out when you bollix things up—you know that—but I hope I’m quick to say so when you are not at fault.”
Hepplewood stretched out his legs on the blanket and covered Anne’s hand with his own, giving it a quick, hard squeeze. “Thank you, my dear, but this is a rutted road, and I don’t care to go down it again,” he said. “Just finish telling me about the late Lord Tafford—and Richard.”
“Well, after Isabella’s pittance of a dowry was spent, the poor man beggared himself paying the rest of Richard’s bills,” she said, “that’s all there is to tell. And honestly, it was a frightful thing for Uncle Fenster to do, turn his son off merely for marrying a girl who had no money to speak of. And then to . . . to say such vile things. Philip has hardly spoken to him since.”
Hepplewood found the entire business vile. Yes, now that Anne had jogged his memory, he had a vague recollection of a tragedy, followed by a bitter row within her husband’s family. But having lived those years in a haze of gaming, womanizing, and brandy, he was less sure of the particulars.
“And so what became of Isabella after her husband’s death?” he asked as nonchalantly as possible.
Anne shrugged. “It was rumored she was to marry her father’s heir,” she said, “but that was said during her come-out, too, and it never happened. No, it seems to me, looking back, the poor girl just disappeared. Until today, I hadn’t laid eyes on her.”
“Yes, I imagine she might prefer to disappear,” he mused. “She is a very private person, I think.”
“And this is a longer conversation about a respectable female than you and I have had in . . . well, forever,” said Anne, looking at him curiously.
“Is she thought respectable?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” asked Anne.
“Not to me,” he said quietly, “but to her? Yes, it matters greatly, I think.”
“Well, I hope the trouble with Lord Fenster is forgotten,” said Anne, “but it did linger, I will admit. But he’s bedridden now—an apoplexy, I gather—and past speaking of anything.”
Hepplewood was not displeased to hear it. Oh, he didn’t wish Fenster ill—the man had had a difficult life, settled as he’d been with an unfaithful wife and an erratic son—but nothing could justify blaming an innocent young girl for one’s misery.
No wonder Isabella had chosen to disappear into a life of servitude.
But whatever money Isabella had begun with—precious little, it sounded—she was definitely on thin financial ice now. It told in a hundred little ways: the dreadful cottage in Fulham, the darning on Georgina’s gown, and Isabella’s rail-thin frame that, as Anne had just pointed out, was not her natural state. Though she had put on a little weight, perhaps, since he’d first met her.
Still, Isabella was struggling. Had it been otherwise, she would never have contemplated selling herself to a man like him.
It made him all the more furious with the present Baron Tafford, who, Hepplewood was increasingly certain, was hiding something. With every little stone Jervis had turned over, Hepplewood’s suspicion had deepened.
Tafford, however, hadn’t the brains—and likely not the initiative—for such a deception. Yes, he was a nasty piece of work, and not to be trusted. But his mother was more likely at the rotten core of it, and Tafford merely her worm.
“Mrs. Aldridge worked for Lady Petershaw as a governess,” he said quietly. “Did you know that?”
“Why, I did not know that,” said Anne, clearly intrigued. “But I begin to wonder how you do.”
He laughed. “I decline to answer,” he said. “I have the right to avoid self-incrimination, don’t I?”
Anne looked askance. “Let me guess,” she said. “Mrs. Aldridge is the one who finally slapped you, isn’t she? Dear God, Tony—tell me you didn’t go to one of La Séductrice’s orgies and get your hands on the governess by mistake?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Anne,” he said. “I met the lady quite by accident. Besides, she hasn’t worked for Lady Petershaw in ages. She owns a bookshop off Brompton Road.”
“A bookshop?” said Anne almost gleefully. “How extraordinary! And how extraordinary that you know all this. Admit it, Tony. You’ve taken an interest in the lady. But I do not think Mrs. Aldridge is going to play your sort of game.”
“No,” he said dryly, “I do not think she will.”
Anne began to laugh in earnest. “It’s about time, old boy, you came up against a woman who isn’t willing to tolerate your flirting and philandering.”
“No comment,” he said again.
“Well, at least the lady is a great beauty,” said Anne, looking at him a little oddly, “and most genteel and gracious, as I recall. The bookshop is admittedly unfortunate, but I wonder if life left her much choice. No, in many ways, I cannot imagine you could do better.”
“Better at what?” he asked, bemused.
“A wife, perhaps,” said Anne, “because that one won’t simply bed you, unless she has changed vastly since I knew of her. No, if you want Isabella Aldridge, you might have to marry her.”
Hepplewood said nothing—which, had he but known it, told his cousin far more than his words might have done.
They simply sat in silence for a time, watching as the horses and carriages began to slowly clog the lower carriageway. After several minutes had passed, Anne gave up her teasing entirely, set her hands flat to the blanket, and sighed.
“Get up, Tony,” she ordered, “and heft this poor cow to her feet.”
“No, love—merely a heifer,” he said, grinning.
She cut him a dark look and thrust up a hand. “Well, whichever I am, I had better hoof these boys home.”
He took her hand and drew her to her feet, noticing that she struggled a little. “I cannot believe,” he said a little darkly, “that Sir Philip lets you ride in such a state. I would not let you out of the house.”
Anne had the audacity to laugh at him. “He does it, Tony, because he knows he cannot stop me,” she said, “and because he is wise enough to know what you, apparently, do not.”
“Indeed?” he said, offering his arm. “And what is that pearl of wisdom?”
“That the world is both a wondrous and a dangerous place,” she said, holding his gaze, “and that if we swaddle those we love in cotton wool, we’ll cause them to miss all of it—both the danger and the wonder.”
“Hmm,” he said, and f
elt his mouth twitch. “And that is your way of saying . . . what, exactly?”
She beamed up at him. “That you perhaps should stop punishing yourself and blaming yourself for all life’s ills,” she said, “and stop trying to control everyone and everything around you.”
“And . . . ?” he said, lifting one eyebrow—for he knew that there was more. With Anne, there always was.
“And that perhaps you should go to Tattersall’s on Monday,” she sweetly added, “and buy Lissie her very own pony?”
Just then a squawk rent the air. He looked up to see that, inside the Ring, Lissie was trying to wrest control of Bertram’s mount.
With a parting shake of his head and a sidelong look at Anne, Hepplewood yanked up his cuffs and dashed into the fray.
CHAPTER 12
“Ow!” Isabella yanked back her hand to see a pearl of blood welling up on her index finger.
“Did you stick yourself?” Jemima looked up from her darning. “That’s three times. I can mend that pillowslip, Bella, if you want to start dinner.”
“Mrs. Barbour left a hen in the oven,” said Isabella, hastily folding the linen and stuffing it back into her basket. “And the linens can wait. Clearly, my mind is elsewhere. Besides, Jemma, it is Sunday. Why don’t you do something enjoyable? Didn’t Miss Hokham loan you a book at school?”
“Yes, it was very kind of her,” said the girl, drawing her thread through the toe of one of Georgina’s stockings. “I read three chapters already—but I’m not wasting candles, Bella, I promise.”
“I know you’re not, sweet.” Isabella had put away her sewing basket and had begun to tidy the sitting room. “What’s the book called? Is it good?”
Jemima cut a sidelong look at Georgina, who sat upon the floor, stacking up her blocks. “It is one of Anne Brontë’s works,” she said quietly. “The Tenant of Wildfeld Hall.”
“Oh.” Isabella stopped what she was doing and looked at the girl very pointedly.
Jemima blushed. “Miss Hokham said I mightn’t read it if you disapproved,” she said. “Do you?”
Isabella pursed her lips. The book was about a mysterious woman believed by her village to be a wealthy man’s mistress, and therefore shunned. The fact that, in the end, the woman was proven no such thing did not negate the fact that the book dealt with harsh and indelicate subjects; subjects that hit uncomfortably near home.
“It’s a little late to ask now,” said Isabella on a sigh, “if you’re already on chapter four. No, I suppose you are mature enough to grasp—”
A sudden and very harsh knock on the door downstairs caused Isabella to startle. She exchanged uneasy looks with Jemima. In the last week, Mrs. Barbour had been twice required to send Everett away, once with Lady Meredith in his company.
“I’d better see if there’s a carriage,” said Isabella uneasily, going at once to the window and leaning into the glass.
“Is it Cousin Everett?” asked Jemima, her face stark.
“Cousin Everett is vile,” said Georgina from her pile of blocks, “and creepy.”
“Hush, Georgie,” said Isabella.
“Jemma says it,” replied the child sullenly.
But the carriage that sat in the street below was far too fine to be Everett’s; he and Lady Meredith were still tooling around in her father’s old rattletraps, and the glossy black landau below was the embodiment of elegance, as was the elderly, well-dressed coachman.
But the occupant, whoever he or she was, already stood too near the door to be seen.
“Well, it’s not Everett or Lady Meredith,” Isabella murmured, turning from the window.
The anxiety fell from Jemima’s posture. “Someone is lost, perhaps?”
“I’ll go down and see.”
Hastily Isabella went down the narrow stairs that led to the shared entryway. To her shock, a tall man stood framed in the door’s window, and just above the frame itself she could see a mop of blonde curls beneath a tiny straw bonnet. Her breath caught, and something twisted a little oddly in her chest.
Another three steps removed all doubt; the Earl of Hepplewood was staring at her through the glass, his face as unsmiling as ever. But there was, she thought, a hint of warmth in his eyes.
A little tentatively, she opened the door. “Good afternoon,” she managed. “This is a surprise.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” he murmured, his gaze taking in the serviceable brown dress she’d worn to church that morning. “How do you do, Mrs. Aldridge?”
“We brought flowers,” said Lady Felicity, shoving a mangled bouquet in Isabella’s direction. “Askers.”
“Asters,” said Hepplewood. “Lissie picked them herself.”
“Thank you, Lady Felicity.” Isabella took them with great solemnity. “They are lovely.”
“It was all we had in the garden just now,” murmured the earl, his eyes still drifting indolently down Isabella’s length, “but even roses could not do you justice, my dear.”
“Thank you,” Isabella said again, clutching the flowers a little awkwardly.
He lifted his gaze back to hers. “This business of standing in the entrance to your shop is a trifle awkward,” he said, his eyes glittering a little dangerously. “It’s the height of arrogance, I suppose, but might we invite ourselves in?”
There was no polite way to refuse, and his daughter was still looking up at Isabella with bright-eyed anticipation. The shabby rooms above would mean nothing to a child, Isabella consoled herself, and Lord Hepplewood had already seen how poorly they lived. Indeed, the man was fast stripping her every secret bare.
Moreover, she did not wish to refuse, more was the shame. No, the awful truth was, she wished to do his every bidding—well, the more wicked ones, at any rate.
“I beg your pardon.” Isabella threw the door wide. “Please, do come up.”
“Marsh,” he said, turning to the elderly driver, “kindly await us in the alley round back.”
He stepped past her into the small entryway that served as both landing for the floors above and access to the shop, seemingly filling the space with his height and broad shoulders. Curiously, rather than start up the steps, he turned around to study the door that opened onto the shop.
“Take these, Lissie, won’t you?” he murmured.
It was then that Isabella realized he held, oddly, a set of small racquets clutched behind his back. The child took them and started up the steps.
For a moment, he bent low, peering at her doorknob. “Hmm,” he murmured. “Have you a new lock on both these doors, Mrs. Aldridge?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“And another door—with an equally good lock—at the top of the stairs?”
“Yes.” She set her head to one side and studied him.
“A solid door like this?” he asked, knocking on the wood with the back of his hand, “or with a window, like the one you’re holding open to the street?”
“A solid door,” she said, “as any such residence would have. Why?”
“Oh, call me curious.” He made an elegant, faintly dismissive gesture. “Besides, one never knows, Mrs. Aldridge, when some wicked man might turn up here with very bad—dare I even say desperate?—intentions.”
“Papa,” whined Lady Felicity, clutching the racquets to her chest, “you said we’d come to play with Georgie!” She had already climbed half the steps and stood now on the landing above, glowering down at both of them.
Lord Hepplewood flashed a smile in Isabella’s direction. “Lissie wonders if Georgina might like to play battledore?”
“She has only played once before,” said Isabella, “so she isn’t very good.”
“Excellent,” he murmured under his breath, “an equal match, then.”
“Please go ahead, Lady Felicity,” said Isabella, who was growing increasingly uncomfortable squeezed into little more than a square yard of space with Lord Hepplewood’s tantalizing scent and wide shoulders. “You’ll find the door open.”
Thus empowere
d, the girl bolted up the remaining steps as if she were quite at home, calling out loudly for Georgie.
“She’s becoming a bit of a wild hoyden, I fear,” he said, “under my inept parentage.”
“At only age six,” Isabella replied, following the child, “she should be a little wild. It is healthy and natural. Do come up, my lord.”
But Isabella had just reached the landing when she found herself seized from behind, and spun quite fiercely around. His eyes dark, Lord Hepplewood set her back to the wall, his mouth crushing hers in a kiss as deep and as possessive as it was sudden. His tongue pushed into her mouth, stroking along hers with slow, rhythmic thrusts as he pinned her with his body.
The wall was cold and hard against her back, his weight and his heat unyielding. She could feel his erection hardening as it pressed into her belly, and Isabella realized then how little power she had against him—and how weak was her ability to refuse him.
When at last he came away, Isabella found herself breathless.
In the gloom of the stairwell, his eyes were inscrutable, his breath, too, coming fast and surprisingly rough. He lowered his forehead against hers and caught her wrist hard in his hand. “Now that,” he whispered, forcing her hand against the wall, “felt both wicked and desperate.”
“Don’t, please,” she begged. But her knees already trembled, and she could feel her resolve weakening.
“Come back to me, Isabella,” he murmured. “Come back to Greenwood. I need you—and you need what I can give you.”
“Anthony . . . I cannot.”
He kissed her again, more tenderly, framing her face with one hand in that extraordinary way of his, as if she were his most precious possession. She let him. No, more than let him; she kissed him back heatedly. But she clung desperately to her heart’s tether all the same and kept one ear attuned to footsteps from above.
He brushed his lips beneath her eye. “Tell me you burn for me,” he rasped. “Say it, Isabella.”
She expelled her breath on a rough, shuddering sigh. “I burn for you,” she whispered, the need twisting deep. “There. Are you pleased? You have had your way with me again.”