by Anna Bradley
“I would, my lord,” she murmured. “I would, indeed.”
Chapter Nine
Handsome dark eyes ran in Hugh Courtney’s family.
Hugh had led Isla to a large, open space off the second-floor landing, and now he stood silently back, watching her as she wandered from one portrait to the next, taking in each painted face.
“There isn’t a single pair of blue, green or hazel eyes in the lot.” Isla slowed her steps when she reached the back wall, where a series of larger paintings were hung. “Ah, now this gentleman has your same dark eyes.” Isla didn’t think the gentleman in the portrait quite as handsome as the current Lord Pierce, but she kept this observation to herself.
His Lordship, Hugh Ambrose Courtney, the seventh Marquess Pierce.
“It’s beautifully done.” Upon closer inspection, Isla saw it was one of George Romney’s. “The resemblance between you and your father is certainly striking.” She glanced at him, but Hugh didn’t answer, only watched her as she strolled along one side of the gallery.
Isla paused again in front of a portrait of a beautiful, dark-haired lady who could only be Hugh’s mother, hanging beside the portrait of the previous marquess. Her face was turned toward the artist, but her slender frame was half in profile, the folds of her elegant blue gown catching the light from a nearby window. She’d been very young when it was painted—hardly more than a girl, really.
Mary Elizabeth Courtney, Marchioness Pierce.
Isla continued down the row, each of her steps echoing in the long hallway. She knew whose portrait she’d find next, of course, and yet for all her efforts to steel herself against the pull of his face, she wasn’t prepared for him when she stopped in front of his painting.
It had been done perhaps seven or eight years ago, when Hugh was in his early twenties. He hadn’t aged much—he was as handsome now as he’d been then. “It’s an amazingly good likeness of you.” Isla didn’t turn around to face the original but kept her gaze fixed on his portrait, sadness washing over her as she stared up into that still face.
It occurred to her again how strange it was she should know so little about him—that she should have dreamed about spending her life with this man, and yet never have known he had a sister, or that he’d inherited his father’s dark eyes. There hadn’t been time, really. What they’d had together had ended before it even had a chance to begin.
To Isla’s horror, tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away before they could spill onto her cheeks and cursed herself for a fool for crying over a man who couldn’t have made it plainer he didn’t want her.
If she still wanted him, still dreamed of him…
It would pass away, in time. It had to. She was betrothed to another man—a man she’d never dream of hurting, and Hugh was destined to find another lady to be his marchioness—perhaps a lady with lovely, warm brown eyes, just like his mother’s.
A small smile curled Isla’s lips, despite the tears clinging to her lashes. What a scandal it would have been, to permit a blue-eyed lady into the Courtney family! Even a single pair of blue eyes would spoil their perfect symmetry.
Isla turned her attention to the final portrait in the row, expecting to see Hugh’s sister, but as she drew closer, her breath caught with surprise.
There were two faces gazing back at her.
One was a lady—a lady who looked so much like Mary Elizabeth Courtney at first Isla thought it must be her, but this lady held a very young child on her lap. The child, who couldn’t have been any more than two years old when the portrait was done, had the same smiling dark eyes as the rest of the family.
Isla moved closer, fascinated by the lady and her child, though she couldn’t have explained why. Was the child the lady’s daughter? Isla had never heard that Hugh had a niece, but—
“That young lady is my sister, Emma Courtney Bernard.”
Hugh hadn’t said a single word since they’d entered the gallery. Isla had nearly forgotten he was there, but now she whirled around at his soft voice. She gazed at him for a moment, her heart pounding, then turned back to the portrait. “Emma Courtney Bernard,” she repeated, rolling the name on her tongue. It was a beautiful name, for a beautiful lady.
He moved to her side and turned his gaze up to the painting. “She died two years ago, not long after this portrait was finished.”
The tears Isla had suppressed earlier sprang back into her eyes. It was absurd of her to weep over a lady she hadn’t even known, but it was impossible to look into those smiling dark eyes and not feel a piercing stab of loss.
“How?” Isla’s voice was hushed.
“A fever. It was…very quick.”
“And the child?” Dread crawled up Isla’s spine as she waited for his answer.
Please don’t let the child have died, too…
“She’s my niece, Grace Bernard. She’d just turned three when the portrait was taken. She’s five now.” He cleared his throat. “Her father died last year. He never recovered after Emma…” He stopped and dragged a hand through his hair. “Grace lives in Surrey now, with her aunt and paternal grandfather.”
Isla hesitated. She didn’t want to pry, but Hugh seemed willing to talk about it. “Do you ever see her?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t seen her since we buried my sister, nearly two years ago. Grace doesn’t know me at all anymore. She wouldn’t recognize me if she saw me.”
Isla frowned. “Why is that? Why don’t you see her?”
“She’s… Grace’s father’s side of the family is… Have you ever heard of Lord Graystone, Miss Ramsey?”
Isla blinked at the random question. “No.” It wasn’t surprising. She hadn’t heard of anyone.
“For a long time, the Marquess of Graystone was the terror of the ton. He’s extremely wealthy, frightfully ethical and proper, and in his day, he was one of the most powerful peers in the House of Lords. By all accounts, even King George was afraid of him. In short, Lord Graystone has the bluest blood of any peer in England, and he also happens to be Grace’s grandfather.”
Isla, who’d never been as impressed by English blue blood as she should be, raised an eyebrow at this description. “I see. And this marquess—Lord Graystone—this paragon of ethics and propriety, won’t let his five-year-old granddaughter see her own uncle?”
This irritable speech earned her a half-smile from Hugh, who seemed surprised at her indignation on his behalf. “It’s not so bad as that, though I won’t deny Lord Graystone is unusually protective of Grace. She’s all he has left of his only son, my sister Emma’s husband, Jonathan Bernard.”
“I see.” How terribly sad. Isla thought Lord Graystone sounded a bit high-handed, but perhaps that was understandable, given the circumstances.
“Lord Graystone is elderly,” Lord Pierce went on. “His son’s death devastated him, and grief has left him in poor health. Just six weeks ago he nearly succumbed to a bout of pneumonia, but much to his family’s relief, he was able to rally again.”
Isla wasn’t certain why she should be so determined Hugh have a chance to see his niece, but she couldn’t hold her tongue. “But can’t you go to Surrey and see Grace? A child who’s lost both her parents needs the love of all her remaining family members. Surely Lord Graystone acknowledges that?”
“He does. In fact, after an endless exchange of letters and some, ah…complicated negotiations, Lord Graystone has at last consented to make a visit here. I expect them any day now, though I imagine they’ll have been delayed by the weather.”
“Lord Graystone and your niece are coming to Hazelwood? How wonderful!”
For the first time since they’d entered the portrait gallery, a smile curved his lips. “Yes, and, ah…Grace’s aunt, Lord Graystone’s youngest daughter, Lady Juliana, will also accompany them.”
Isla’s brows drew together at the telltale wash of color that r
ose in his cheeks. When he’d said Lady Juliana’s name, his expression had changed, as if he felt both defiant and guilty at the same time.
Without warning, an icy ball of dread lodged in her chest. Lady Juliana Bernard…
It was another beautiful name. Did Lord Pierce find her beautiful?
Isla shook her head free of that thought before it could take hold. Whatever Hugh thought of Lady Juliana didn’t matter one whit to her. It couldn’t. She was betrothed. In another few weeks she’d become the Countess of Sydney.
She turned a bright smile on him. “Well, it’s lovely you’ll be able to see your niece again. I imagine you’re looking forward to it.”
Hugh nodded. “Yes, very much, though I confess I’m not…that is, I’m not sure what I’ll do with her.”
“Do with her?” Isla frowned at him. “What do you mean? Why do you have to do anything with her?”
He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “Well, isn’t an uncle meant to do things with his niece? That is, aren’t I expected to…play games with her, or some such things? I’ve a vague idea I’m meant to entertain her. Is that not right?”
Isla felt a smile creep across her lips. Despite herself, she found his uncertainty just the tiniest bit charming. “In my experience, it’s generally the other way around. Children are far more entertaining than adults, you see. Haven’t you ever played with a child before, my lord?”
He thought about it for a moment, and then a look of dawning panic darkened his eyes. “No, never. I haven’t the least idea what to do with her. Dear God, it’s going to be a disaster, isn’t it?”
Isla laughed. She couldn’t help it. “No, not at all. That is, provided you actually like children. Do you? Because it could end rather badly if you don’t.”
Part of her hoped he’d say he despised children, because Isla adored them, and she’d been searching for two days to find something she disapproved of about him.
“Children are…that is, they’re very…” He gave her a blank look. “I haven’t the faintest idea whether I like them or not. I imagine I would like them, but I can’t say for certain, because I don’t know any children. Do you like them?”
“Well, I should hope so, Lord Pierce. I’m soon to become an aunt, you know.”
“But you’re not an aunt yet, so how can you be sure?”
Isla waved this question away with a dismissive hand. “Oh, I’ve spent a great deal of time with children. There always seemed to be dozens of them running about in Lochinver, where I was raised. They’re great fun, you know.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Well, what did you do with these dozens of wild imps?”
“For pity’s sake, Lord Pierce! Unless I’m mistaken, you were a child yourself once. What did you used to do?” He hadn’t slid down the bannister, but surely he must have done something.
He threw his hands up in the air. “I don’t remember! That was ages ago. How did you keep the village children amused?”
Isla tapped her bottom lip, considering this. “Now you ask, I think it was more that the children kept me amused, but I suppose I did all the regular things ones does with children. Climbed trees, went fishing, rode my horse alongside their ponies—that sort of thing.”
She’d meant to reassure him, but with every word she spoke, he looked increasingly panicked. “Do you see any trees growing in my house, Miss Ramsey? Any fishing ponds? Do you suppose we can ride horses through the drawing room?”
What an odd question. Isla stared at him for a moment, baffled, then she shrugged. “Well no, of course not, but I don’t see—”
“Didn’t you ever play indoors? Because I can’t bring my five-year-old niece outdoors in this weather. What if I lose her in a snowdrift?”
“I doubt that would happen, Lord Pierce.”
“But don’t they run all about?” His dark eyes were troubled. “And they’re quite small at such a young age, aren’t they?”
Isla choked back a laugh. “Not that small. At five, Grace is likely a bit higher than your…” Isla waved a hand at him, her face heating. “Your waist.”
He looked down at himself, then back at her, relief on his face. “Oh. Well, that’s not so small.”
“Not at all,” she agreed, her tone soothing. “Still, you likely will be obliged to spend a good deal of time indoors. Do you have any children’s toys?”
He blinked at her. “Toys?”
She smiled. “Yes, Lord Pierce, toys. You know, those darling little devices children play with? Surely you’re heard of them? I imagine you even played with them yourself once.”
“What, you mean like puzzles, and wooden soldiers, and dolls? That sort of thing?”
“Yes, just so. Do you have anything like that? It would be a good start.”
“Perhaps upstairs, in the old schoolroom. Shall we go and look? Now you mention it, I’m amazed I didn’t think to search up there before.” He hurried toward the staircase, but turned back when he realized she wasn’t following him. “Miss Ramsey? Aren’t you coming?”
Isla hesitated. Did she really want to go into the schoolroom with Lord Pierce? It might well be dark, and close, and that was to say nothing of how it might make her feel to see the place where he’d spent so many hours as a child. Even now she could see him in her mind’s eye as an adorable, dark-eyed boy, his thick hair tousled as he scrabbled about on the floor, playing with his wooden soldiers.
No. It wasn’t a good idea. She was already finding it hard enough to forget him. This would only make it worse. She began to sidle toward the other end of the long hall, away from him. “No, I think not. I believe I’ll retire to my bedchamber. I, ah, I’ve another headache—”
“Miss Ramsey, wait.”
Isla paused but she didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes?”
“I’m, ah…rather at a loss when it comes to Grace.” His cheeks reddened, and he ran a nervous hand through his hair. “I’m not an easy, carefree sort of man. I was never encouraged to be playful as a child, and I don’t know how to behave around children. My niece is very important to me, but I’m afraid she won’t…well, I don’t think she’ll much like me, to be honest.” He winced, as if it had cost him an effort to admit this. “I need you. That is, Grace needs you. Won’t you help us?”
Oh, but she will like you…she’ll love you. How could she not?
These were the words that rushed to Isla’s lips, but she bit them back before she could speak them. His niece would love him—Isla was certain of it—but if there had ever been a time for her to talk to Hugh Courtney of love, it had long since passed.
“I’d consider it a great favor,” he added, when she didn’t reply.
Isla blew out a defeated breath. Well, what was she meant to say to that? That she was too busy to help choose a few toys for a little girl who’d lost both her parents? That she couldn’t be bothered to help him look for paper dolls or a tea set for his orphan niece?
Isla glanced at him, biting her lip when she found his hopeful dark eyes fixed on her.
She couldn’t refuse him. Not after he’d ventured into a frozen wood for the sole purpose of rescuing her. Once a gentleman risked his life for a lady, she could hardly refuse him something as trivial as searching out a toy or two. It would be dreadfully rude.
“Of course, I’ll help you, my lord,” she said, forcing a smile.
An answering smile lit up his face, and Isla felt as if a thousand butterfly wings were fluttering against her rib cage.
“Thank you. You’re very kind.” He gestured for her to precede him up the stairs.
Isla began to climb, her neck prickling with awareness as he followed closely behind her. She could hear each of his steady breaths and feel his every warm exhalation against the sensitive skin at the back of her neck.
For pity’s sake, how many stairs were there?
“Just here,
to the left.” Hugh waved a hand toward a closed door at the end of the hallway once they’d reached the top floor. “Good Lord, it’s been years since I came up here.”
The door creaked when Isla pushed it open. The room was cold and dark, and a thick layer of dust covered every surface. “It looks as if it’s been years since anyone’s been up here.”
He peered over her shoulder. “I’m afraid you’re right. I doubt we’ll find anything useful.”
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll find something. In any case, we’re here now, so we may as well have a look.”
Isla marched to a window and tugged at the shutter until she managed to pry it open. The ice storm had stopped, but snow was drifting to the ground from a dull, gray sky, so the window didn’t offer much light. It was enough for Isla to make out a long desk and several child-sized chairs, but not much else. “Perhaps we’d better fetch a lamp.”
He wrenched a second shutter loose, then a third, until a weak glow illuminated the room. “If we’ve any toys left, they’ll be there.” He pointed toward a row of deep shelves lining the back wall.
Isla hardly heard him. She’d come to a halt beside a table that had been shoved against another wall, her mouth open in wonder. “Oh, my goodness. Look at this.” It was so astounding, so magnificent, she thought she must be imagining it. “I’ve never seen one so grand before. Was this your sister’s? Why, it must have been her most favorite thing in the world!”
Hugh came up behind her, but when he saw what she was looking at, he went still. “I’d forgotten all about this. Yes, it was Emma’s, and she…she loved it.”
Isla clasped her hands under her chin. “Oh, yes! I’m sure she did love it.” She reached out and stroked one careful finger over a tiny gilt chair in front of a tiny gilt dressing table. “And so will her daughter.”
* * * *
Hugh watched, his chest tight as Isla lovingly caressed the golden hair of the miniature matron who presided over Emma’s dollhouse.
But it wasn’t Isla he saw. It wasn’t her fingers tenderly smoothing the doll’s dress, or her thumb nudging the diminutive silver teapot closer to the center of the little dining table. No, the hands he saw were much smaller—the ghostly white fingers of a phantom child who’d hardly had a chance to grow into an adult before she was gone.