by Liz Carlyle
The earl led Isabella inside, and they sat down on the bench that ran along the back. In a testament to his rangy length, Hepplewood slid low, then swung his long, booted legs up, propping them on the railing opposite, crossed lazily at the ankles. Then, as she’d seen him do before, he tipped his hat low over his eyes. The pose left him looking, she mused, more like a farmhand than lord of the manor.
Still holding her hand in his, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “I think, my dear, we should remain here,” he murmured, “until Anne’s brood goes to sleep.”
Isabella smiled, though he could not see it. “Those boys do seem a handful,” she said. “Why did you invite them if they trouble you so?”
His smile twisting, he turned his head to look at her. “Because I feared you would not come otherwise,” he said. “And I wanted you here.”
“Ah, you wanted your way,” she said.
“Always,” he said agreeably.
“But as I recall, you threatened to throw me in the carriage whether I wished to come or not,” she reminded him.
He chuckled low. “And you’re not perfectly sure whether I’d have done it, are you?”
Isabella was not sure, though she would be damned before she’d admit it.
“I am sure,” she finally said, “that you would not have succeeded had I not wished to go. And I’d suggest you leave it at that.”
He laughed again and squeezed her hand, and silence fell around them for a time, broken only by the sound of water trickling over the rocks, for the brook was indeed a small one.
“And I don’t dislike the lads,” he finally added, casting the hat aside. “Actually, I enjoy them tremendously. I just like to give Anne a bit of hell now and again. Truth be told, we were twice as bad as Harry and Bertie growing up—a regular Mongol Horde, the lot of us.”
“Really?” she said. “How many of you were there?”
He hesitated. “There was Gwen, Anne’s elder sister—then me, for I fell between Gwen and Anne in age—then Diana, then, eventually, Bea—but she is much younger.”
“Diana and Bea are Anne’s sisters, too?”
Again, there was a slight hitch in his voice. “Diana was a cousin,” he said. “And Bea was a half sister from a late marriage.”
“It sounds lovely,” Isabella murmured. “Was it a happy childhood?”
“Idyllic, I thought,” he said. “Anne would agree, I imagine.”
“So you were more or less brought up together?”
“We were,” he said. “My father held various government appointments. He traveled. He spent late nights in Whitehall. So my mother and I passed much of our time at Burlingame Court, her elder brother’s estate in Wiltshire.”
“Who has not heard of Burlingame?” Isabella said, a little awed. “It’s said to be one of the grandest homes in England.”
“Yes, but we ran roughshod over it anyway,” he said on a laugh. “Anne and her sisters were brought up there. Her father was heir, but he died a few years ago, and the new heir is our cousin.”
“I’m afraid I know how that feels,” said Isabella. “Is Anne no longer able to go home?”
“Oh, Lord, no, she’s there all the time,” said Hepplewood. “Lord Duncaster—who is her grandfather and my uncle—is old but very much alive. And our cousin Royden has turned out to be a decent sort of chap. I still have my own private wing in the old pile, unless old Royden routed me out whilst I wasn’t paying attention. Mother and Lissie had it, at least.”
“Mr. Gossing, your hiring agent, told me your mother recently died.”
“Yes,” he said, “and then Lissie’s governess ran away with our curate.”
“That must have been very hard for Lissie,” Isabella remarked.
“Very, and I believe—though I’m not perfectly sure—that I’m now letting the child get away with too much.” Then he sighed deeply. “But it can be undone, I daresay. Eventually.”
“Choose your battles,” Isabella advised. “It is hard to lose one’s mother—or any maternal influence—as a child. Jemima was barely eight when her mother died. I was just twelve. Yes, it is hard.”
“But your father cared for you very much, I hope?”
She lifted her hand in an impotent gesture. “Yes, very much,” she said, “but he was lost in his own grief, and he was never very . . . organized.”
“Organized?” He cut her a curious glance.
“Organized, yes,” she mused. “It sounds odd, doesn’t it? But a child needs structure and discipline in order to feel secure. It is not just enough to know one is loved. Someone must be at the helm of the ship.”
“Ah!” he whispered, closing his eyes again. “And therein much is revealed!”
“What do you mean?” She looked down at him, curious.
He smiled but did not open his eyes. “Another time, love,” he said quietly. “But I begin to understand why you think it so important that Lissie be with me.”
“Of course it is important,” she said sharply. “How can anyone think otherwise?”
“But you do realize, Isabella, that children of the aristocracy are rarely raised by their parents?” he said, opening his eyes. “I never saw my father more than thirty minutes a day until I was grown, I expect, and he was sometimes gone months at a time. Mother had social obligations and a house to run. Was it different for you?”
“Very,” she said. “Our household was small and our lives simple. Sometimes I had a governess, but oftentimes there was only my mother. And Papa was always doddering about the house.”
“Perhaps you were lucky, then, in some ways,” he remarked.
Isabella weighed her next words with care. “I wanted to ask you something else,” she finally said. “About Anne. Might I?”
He cut a strange glance up at her. “What about Anne?”
“What does she think of my being here?” Isabella let go of his hand and laced her fingers tightly together in her lap. “Does she think . . . I’m your mistress? I mean, what other conclusion is there?”
“She thinks that I want you for my mistress,” he said calmly. “Yes, she believes I’m doggedly pursuing you, an allegation I’ve declined to either admit or deny. And she thinks that I will fail in my pursuit. But I shall not, Isabella. You know that, I trust? I will not give up—ever.”
But Isabella saw no use in arguing that point again, and something else was troubling her far more.
“Anthony,” she finally said, “did Anne break your heart?”
There was a long, weighty moment of silence. Then Hepplewood’s boots fell with a thud, and he came upright on the bench.
“Did Anne break my heart?” he softly echoed, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face her. “Now who the devil told you that?”
Isabella sensed she’d struck a nerve. “It—It’s just that the two of you seem quite close,” she murmured, “and Lady Petershaw said that . . .”
“Said what?” he gruffly demanded.
“—th-that you were once betrothed to Anne.”
“And what else did she say?” he demanded. “What else, Isabella?”
“N-nothing,” Isabella lied.
His eyes had grown dangerously dark. “There was an understanding, yes. Much like your family’s understanding about Everett, I daresay. But not every understanding results in a marriage, does it?”
“Well, no,” she admitted.
“Then leave it be,” he said, jerking to his feet.
“Anthony, wait—”
But he had already stepped out of the folly, his spine rigid.
She leapt up and went after him, catching his arm. “Anthony, you do not have to answer my questions,” she said, “but you do not get to insult me by simply walking away.”
But his expression was not one of anger, or even of pain. It was something worse. Something nameless and cold. His glittering blue eyes had gone flat and black; one hand was fisted at his sides, the other curled so hard into his hat brim that he had crushed it.
“Yes, it’s five hundred yards,” she said irritably. “And I’m sorry if I upset you by speaking of Anne, but my heavens . . .”
His lips had thinned to a hard, almost white, line. “Anne is happily married to Philip—and with my blessing,” he finally answered. “And I . . . and I, Isabella, am just about as happy as I deserve to be. May we leave it at that?”
She let her hand fall and stepped away. “Indeed, it seems we must.”
He put his hat back on and gave a harsh tug at the front brim. “Then I again beg your pardon,” he said curtly. “I will see you at dinner.”
“Very well.” She nodded stiffly. “At dinner.”
Then Isabella turned and walked away, and this time she did not look back. She was, in fact, more furious than she had ever been with the man—which was saying something. But oddly enough, Hepplewood did not move.
He neither followed her nor started downstream, for his feet made not a sound in the leaves, and Isabella could feel his gaze burning into her back all the way through the clearing.
Well, be damned to him, she thought.
She had not wanted to come here in the first place—and now she was of half a mind to walk straight into the village and take three seats on the next mail coach back to London.
She wondered if he would let her go.
No, she wondered if she really wanted to go.
Then Isabella stopped just inside the tree line and drew a deep, steadying breath. No, what she now wondered—deep in her heart—was whether Lord Hepplewood was still just a little in love with Anne.
She should have been telling him to go to hell. But she was not.
And Isabella did not know what that said about her.
On a sigh, she marched from the shadows and back onto the sunlit path. The children needed her near, she reminded herself. For all its bucolic beauty, Greenwood Farm was a strange place to them, and they were still amongst people they did not know well.
On her next breath, however, she realized Lissie and Georgina were getting on rather too well. Both girls stood atop the wall that separated the garden from the stable yard, walking as if upon a tightrope, arms outstretched for balance.
“Georgie—!”
Despite her slippers, Isabella bolted from the path at a near run, cutting straight across the graveled stable yard. “Lissie! Georgina! Get down this minute!”
Lissie looked back over her shoulder to flash a wicked—and familiar—grin. Suddenly, having almost reached the new gate, the girl lost her balance, tottering precariously.
“Lissie!” Isabella shouted, “look out!”
Suddenly, Lissie tumbled off in a whuff! of petticoats, vanishing beneath the wall into the shadows of the garden. Startled, Georgina half leapt and half fell, disappearing after her.
By the time Isabella flew through the back gate, Lissie lay on the lawn, crying, her arm twisted awkwardly beneath her body. Georgie was on her knees, her face screwed up as if she was about to burst into tears.
“Oh, Lissie!” Isabella knelt and lifted her gingerly up from the grass. “Georgie, are you hurt?”
“N-no,” Georgina managed, rising.
“I h-h-hurt my arm!” wailed Lissie.
“Here, love,” said Isabella, sitting on the steps to cradle her. “Let me see.”
“N-no,” said the girl. “It hurts.”
“I’m s-sorry, Bella,” snuffled Georgie, looking on anxiously.
Georgina did indeed appear fine. Carefully, Isabella examined Lissie’s arm. Her sleeve was torn, but nothing appeared broken.
“Lissie is fine,” said Isabella reassuringly, “but the two of you are not permitted on the wall. Here, Lissie, let me feel around your neck, sweet.”
Delicately, Isabella examined her collarbone, feeling nothing. Lissie did not wince, and had regained her composure.
Just then, Isabella heard heavy footfalls coming from the direction of the brook, and in an instant Hepplewood had bolted from the trees and past the stable yard.
“What happened?” he demanded, flying around the gate.
Isabella stood, Lissie still clinging to her neck. “They were walking atop the wall,” Isabella said, “but they leapt off when I shouted.”
“Good God!” he said, scowling darkly.
“I w-want down,” Lissie snuffled, refusing to hold her father’s gaze.
Soon, both girls were on their feet, grass-stained but no worse for wear. Having squatted to look them directly in the eyes, Hepplewood was scolding them—gently, but firmly—and both girls were nodding, bottom lips thrust out a little tremulously.
Just then, Nanny Seawell appeared on the back steps. After a few sharp words of her own, she led the girls away.
“No harm done, I suppose,” said Hepplewood evenly, rising from his crouch.
“I will speak sharply to Georgina,” Isabella assured him. “It will not happen again.”
“Well, let us not be too harsh,” he said, scrubbing a hand around his jaw. “The wall is scarcely over three feet high. One mustn’t crush a child’s adventurous spirit.”
It was on the tip of Isabella’s tongue to remark that it was better to crush a spirit than a collarbone. But he was right, to a point.
“Thank you, Isabella,” he said, his arm falling. “Lissie is comfortable with you. I am . . . glad.”
Isabella did not reply; there was nothing more to say. Almost at once, the awkwardness between them flooded back in to fill the silence.
“Well, then,” he said coolly, “to Yardley’s.”
“Yes,” she said a little tightly. “Well. At dinner, then.”
Then he turned and set off toward the path again, his long, booted legs eating up the ground.
IN THE END, Isabella did not see Lord Hepplewood at dinner after all. He had been unexpectedly called away, Mrs. Yardley explained, to a gathering of the local landowners at the Carpenter’s Arms with Mr. Yardley.
“Oh, that will be nothing but ale and dice and tavern wenches,” said Anne as they carried up the food to the dining room. “If they had any honest business, they’d be doing it in the daylight.”
Isabella laughed. “You’re likely right.”
“Aye, she’s completely right,” grumbled Mrs. Yardley, setting down a huge bowl of mashed parsnips. “They’ll be blowing a cloud up there ’til the wee hours, then reeling home reeking o’ smoke and hops and that wicked barmaid’s lavender water—Millicent, she’s been callin’ herself, but she was christened Millie, and ever will be.”
From the table, Jemima and Caroline giggled.
“Worse still, poor Tony will be missing all the truly elevated conversation we’ll be having here,” said Anne as she sat down. “Harry wants to tell us how many fleas he drowned in the brook this afternoon. That mangy creature was riddled with them. I am sure Millicent’s charms could never compete.”
At that moment, however, “that mangy creature” was scooting himself under the table to thump what was left of his tail at Anne’s feet, for in the end he’d been shorn bald by Yardley with his sheep sheers, then washed a second time in lye soap.
“I guess we can’t call him Fluffles no more,” said Bertie glumly, scooping up a big dollop of parsnips, “ ’cause he’s got no fluff and no ruffles.”
“And all the better he is for it,” said his mother, passing the next bowl. “Lissie, do you need help?”
Mrs. Yardley went at once to help the younger children serve themselves. Save for the twins, the eight of them were dining en famille—a circumstance for which Isabella was deeply thankful. She was accustomed to taking her meals with the girls and Mrs. Barbour, and she could not have borne—especially on this night—to be separated from them by cold formality and forced to endure Anne’s curious glances alone.
Anne really had given up her crinolines, and tonight she wore a simple go
wn that, while shapeless, had a flowing sort of elegance that was perfect for her slight figure and rounding belly. The children chattered happily through dinner, Georgie talking of nothing but the dollhouse. Afterward, having finished the meal with an excellent rhubarb fool, they rose as Anne excused herself to put Deborah and Deanna to bed.
By nine it was dark and raining, and there was still no sign of Hepplewood. While the two elder girls began to work on a puzzle in the front parlor, Isabella lingered, alternately standing by the front windows while toying with Hepplewood’s brandy stopper on the sideboard, then going to one of the armchairs by the hearth to flip through old issues of The Field, which were almost as fascinating as the drizzle running down the windows.
She had returned to stare at it when Anne came back down half an hour later.
“Don’t waste your time, my dear,” she said, breezing past. “He went galloping off in one of his moods.”
Isabella felt her face flush. “One of his moods?” she said, turning from the window.
Anne was picking up some of the children’s toys, for they’d been permitted the run of the house. “Oh, it’s just how Tony is,” she said, bending over to snatch up Pickles, Lissie’s wooden dog. “You mustn’t mind him, Isabella. He’ll come home drunk as a lord round midnight, and tomorrow all will be well again.”
“Oh,” said Isabella quietly.
She turned back to the window, pondering it. Isabella still had no notion what she had said to make Lord Hepplewood so angry—if he had, in fact, been angry. On further consideration, however, it felt more like an emotion turned inward, rather than directed at her. Nonetheless, it stung to be treated so cavalierly, and to be shut out with no explanation.
Suddenly she felt Anne’s warmth hovering beside her.
“Isabella,” Anne said softly. “How well do you know my cousin, if I may ask?”
Isabella turned from the window. “Scarcely at all, I begin to think.”
Anne flashed a smile of what looked like genuine warmth. “He’s a good man, my dear, truly,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at the girls, who sat at a table in the back of the room. “But he is just . . .” She paused, her brow furrowing.