Setting her jaw, she marched across the room, grabbed Isabel by the ear, and pulled. The result was predictable and immediate. The child gave a loud yelp of protest but was incapable of doing anything more as Grace hauled her back to her desk.
She pushed the little girl down into her chair, none too gently. Isabel rubbed her ear with another scowl. “I hate you.”
“I am sorry for it,” Grace answered, “since I happen to like you very much, and I will continue to do so despite moments such as this.”
Grace turned toward her own desk and picked up the slate. “I trust that we may now return to Othello? In your essay, you make a valid point, Isabel. If one cannot be made to do something one does not want to do—”
“Then,” Isabel interrupted, “one has a very inefficient governess.”
The sound of a chuckle caused both Grace and her pupil to turn toward the far end of the room, where Dylan stood in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, arms folded across his chest, watching them. The bruises on his face from that fight a fortnight ago were fading from purple to yellow, making him look even more disreputable than he already was.
Caught by surprise, Grace tightened her grip around the slate in her hand. He was early today.
“Papa!” Isabel shoved back her chair and ran to him. He straightened away from the door at once and leaned down, opening his arms to his daughter as any father might do. He gave the little girl a smile, and the faded bruises made Grace think that must be what fallen angels looked like when they smiled—charming, handsome, and battered.
He lifted the child up in his embrace without showing any pain, so he must have fully recovered from his pugilistic adventure.
“I’m so glad you’ve come!” Isabel cried.
“Lessons difficult today?” he asked.
“She’s had me locked up in here for hours with Othello,” Isabel answered with a shudder. She wrapped her arms around Dylan’s neck with exaggerated drama. “Please take me away!”
He glanced over at Grace as he set his daughter on her feet. “Has she been an army general again?” he asked, turning that smile on her.
Grace ignored that and glanced at the clock. “Isabel, you have spent exactly forty-two minutes on Shakespeare. Please do not exaggerate.”
“Don’t believe her, Papa,” Isabel told him in a stage whisper loud enough for Grace to hear. “It’s been hours. She is being very cruel to me.”
“Cruel?” He shot Grace an amused glance. “I don’t believe it.”
Isabel proceeded to tell him just what a dictatorial horror Grace was for making her read Othello and why it was one of Shakespeare’s dullest plays. “It’s the worst, Papa,” she summed up. “Worse than all the Henry plays put together. I like the comedies ever so much better.”
“You won’t have to worry about Othello much longer,” he consoled her. “Isn’t it nearly time for your piano practice?”
“Yes. Can I use your piano today?”
“May I,” Grace corrected.
Isabel let out a heavy sigh as if to show her father how tedious governesses were. “May I use your piano today?”
“Yes, you may,” he answered.
“I am writing a concerto. Come and help me with it.”
“Isabel,” he said, “you do not need my help. You compose beautifully.”
“Duets, then?” she suggested. “Will you play duets with me?”
“I should love to play duets with you, but I cannot. Not today.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head. “I have to go. I have an appointment this afternoon.”
He started to turn away, but the child reached out and grabbed his hand. “Papa!” she cried. “You just got here!”
“I know, sweeting, but I have to go or I shall be late.” He withdrew his hand from hers, and he did not see the hurt on her face, for he was already walking away. “I won’t be back until very late tonight, but perhaps we might play tomorrow.”
Grace glanced again at the clock. Today he had stayed exactly four minutes. These moments in the afternoon with him were the happiest part of Isabel’s day, and all he could give her was four minutes. Grace set her jaw. Tonight, she was going to speak with him about this. She would wait until he came home, all night if necessary. This could not continue.
“Tomorrow, then.” Isabel walked in the other direction, back toward the window, ducking her head as she passed Grace to hide her expression, but it was too late. Grace had already caught a glimpse of the child’s face. There was no scowl, no tears, just horrible, crushing disappointment. Isabel walked to the window and stood with her back to the room, looking out at London.
Grace could not bear it. She turned to follow him and stopped, for he had not yet left.
He was staring at Isabel’s back, and he was not smiling. He took a step toward her, then stopped. His lips tightened, and without a word, he turned on his heel and left the room.
Grace ran out of the nursery after him. When she reached the stairs, she peered over the rail, just in time to see him turn on the landing. “Dylan!” she called after him. “Dylan, I need to talk with you.”
He stopped on the landing and looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “It will have to wait. I have an appointment.”
He did not wait for an answer but continued on down the stairs, where he disappeared from view.
Damn the man. Frustrated, Grace slapped the polished wooden cap of the newel post with her hand. Tonight, she vowed and returned to the nursery, where Isabel was still standing by the window.
With a heavy heart, Grace crossed the room to stand beside her, and she followed the child’s gaze to the street below.
Dylan was on the sidewalk, waiting for his carriage, which had just entered the square. It stopped in front of the house, he stepped up inside, and the carriage rolled away.
The clock ticked away one minute, then two. Then Isabel spoke, still looking out the window. “He doesn’t want me.”
“You do not know that,” Grace said at once. “He has not been a father very long. Give him a bit more time to get used to you.”
“He’s had a month.”
Grace almost wanted to smile at that. To a child, a month was such a very long time.
Isabel gave a heavy sigh. “I hoped it would be different here.”
That statement puzzled Grace, and she looked at the profile of the little girl beside her. “Different in what way?”
“I don’t know.” She sounded bewildered, plaintive. “Just different. Like real families are. Me and Papa, like a real family.”
Grace thought of her own childhood. She’d had a real family once, knew how important it was. “I know what you mean. But you and your father are a real family.”
Isabel shook her head. “He goes out every night and he does not come home until almost the middle of the morning. Where does he go?”
Grace bit her lip. She didn’t think either of them wanted to know.
“If he loved me, he wouldn’t go. He would stay here, and we’d have dinner together. He would play piano with me and tuck me in. He’d take me to the country and we’d eat apples together and he’d teach me to fence. I could have a pony and learn to ride.” She paused, then went on in a harder voice, “He goes out all the time, and he drinks a lot. He smokes hashish, and he takes laudanum. He gets in messes with women and has duels and fights and all sorts of things. I knew all about him before I came here. I thought once I was here, he would love me, and he wouldn’t do those things. That he would change.”
Oh, my dear little girl, Grace thought, looking at her with compassion. If only one could force another’s affections. If only men could change. If only it were that easy.
Suddenly, the child tore her gaze from the view out the window and turned to her, lifting her chin. In her expression was that look of hard determination Grace was coming to know so well. “I shall make him love me!” she cried, slamming her fist into the palm of her other hand, her childish vehemence heartbreaking. “I shal
l!”
Grace pulled the little girl into her arms, moving her hand up and down Isabel’s back in a comforting gesture. “I know you shall,” she said and hoped with all her heart that the child would succeed.
Chapter 12
Everything was in order. All the documents had been prepared in accordance with Dylan’s wishes. They included his formal acknowledgment of his daughter, the change of her surname to Moore, the specification of Ian as her guardian should anything happen to him, and his new will leaving her everything he had.
Once he signed these documents, Isabel would be his legal daughter. Dylan stared at the sheaf of papers before him on Mr. Ault’s desk, and though he knew the solicitor was waiting, he made no move to sign them.
It was not because of doubt. As he had told Ian that night two weeks earlier, there was no question that Isabel was his, and even his practical, sensible brother had admitted the truth of that. The question of her paternity was not what made Dylan sit here in the solicitor’s office as the seconds went by.
It was that look on Isabel’s face, the same look she gave him every day when he went up to the nursery. She wanted not just a few minutes a day and a duet or two at the piano, but so much more. She wanted him to love her.
Dylan stirred in his chair, restless and uncomfortable. He’d seen a similar look on other faces. Faces full of expectation and the wistful hope that he would change, be good, do what was right. Faces that reflected such eagerness to please him, such expectation of his love in return. Isabel was a little girl, but no matter their age, all females wanted too damned much. They pinned their hopes and dreams on a bad lot and expected to be happy as a result.
And he was a bad lot. He was obsessed, and by only one thing. He was ruthless, temperamental, and wholly selfish. He went in for the lusts of the flesh, and he enjoyed them. He made no secret of his nature—flaunted it, in fact. Yet it seemed to be his destiny to have yet another female giving him that look, wanting something from him that he could not give.
Isabel was his daughter. If any person in the world should matter to him, it should be his own child. What was wrong with him?
Dylan pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. God, his daughter’s eyes, so like his in appearance and so unlike him in the emotions they reflected—eyes that were innocent, vulnerable, and full of faith, eyes that made him want nothing more than to get away. He was no good at living up to expectations. They smothered him.
You do not even know what love is.
Grace was wrong. He did know what love was, he just didn’t have enough of it to go around. Music took it all. There never seemed to be enough left for another person.
Had not Michaela herself rejected him for that reason?
I would always be second in your life, Dylan. I do not want to be second. I want to be first.
His daughter, looking at him, wanting to be first.
Impossible. No one could ever be first. Not even his own little girl, a precocious eight-year-old with a scowl like thunder and eyes that had too much hope in them.
Mr. Ault brought him out of his reverie with a little cough. Dylan looked at the dry, precise little man who sat behind the desk. “Excellent work, Mr. Ault. Exactly what I wanted, thank you.”
“We hope to always give the best of service to you and all your family, sir.” The solicitor held the quill out to him.
No matter what expectations his little girl had of him, it did not alter his responsibility. He took the quill from the solicitor’s hand, dipped the point in the inkwell on the desk, and scrawled his name on each page where his signature was required.
When he finished, he handed back the quill and rose to his feet.
Mr. Ault also stood up. “I shall send any documents pertaining to your income from the family estate to your elder brother for his signature.”
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Ault. Good day.”
The little man bowed, and so did he. Putting on his hat, Dylan left the solicitor’s office and stepped out into the street, drawing in deep breaths of air. The deed was done, officially declaring Isabel his daughter. He wished he felt like a father.
That evening after dinner with Molly and Isabel in the nursery, Grace left the child in the nanny’s care and went into the library to practice her violin while the little girl had her bath. She did not want to be angry about Dylan, worry about Isabel, or think about the emotional scene earlier in the day. Her employer was a complicated man, and her pupil was exhausting, and all Grace wanted right now was some quiet time to herself. She shut the door, shut out the world, and lost herself in her favorite pastime.
When she returned to her room an hour later, she found a surprise waiting on her dressing table, a bouquet of half a dozen early pink tulips from the park outside. They were tied with a white silk ribbon, and with them was a note. The slip of paper was small and had only one line of words written on it, words in a round, upright handwriting that was very familiar to her by now.
I am sorry I was so beastly today. Isabel.
Grace touched her fingertip to one of the opening flower buds in the vase and smiled. That child was a trial, true enough, but she also did the most unexpectedly sweet things. An encouraging sign, Grace thought, and she wanted to show Isabel how much she appreciated the child’s thoughtful gesture.
Struck by an idea, Grace rummaged in her valise and found her scrapbook. She pulled it out, along with a wooden box where she kept keepsakes until she could put them in the book. Then she picked up her bouquet of tulips and went in search of a footman. Twenty minutes later, she went to the music room.
Isabel was sitting at Dylan’s Broadwood Grand, just as Grace had expected. Her hair was loose and still damp from her bath, and she was already dressed in her nightgown. She sat plucking the keys, but there was no sheet music on the stand. She did not seem to be composing, for she had no paper and no quill. She looked up as Grace entered the room. A footman came in behind her, carrying the wooden crate she had filled with the items necessary to her project.
“Put them over there, Weston, please,” Grace said as she gestured to one corner of the room. “Then you may go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Isabel let her hands slide away from the keys in front of her. “What are you doing?”
“Putting some things in my scrapbook.” Grace lifted the bouquet of tulips in her hand. “Thank you for these.”
Isabel shifted on the bench, looking rather embarrassed, clearly hoping Grace wasn’t going to fuss and get soppy about it. “Molly helped me,” she mumbled. “We went out to the park and picked them earlier.” She glanced at Weston as he circled the grand piano toward the doors and departed, then she looked back at Grace, puzzled. “You have a scrapbook?”
“Yes. These tulips are so beautiful that I want to keep them forever,” Grace explained. “So I’m going to press them. I also have some other things to put in my book. Would you like to help me?”
Isabel’s gaze followed her as she walked over to the table, pulled one of the chairs out of the way, and began to arrange the items the footman had laid out. It did not take long for the little girl to come over and have a look at what she was doing.
“You are going to press them with those?”
Grace looked up as Isabel pointed toward the four heavy marble slabs on the table. “I am,” she answered and reached for the tulips. “First, we have to make sure the flowers are not wet.”
After untying the bow, Grace laid the tulips out in a row on the white tablecloth, then she examined them one by one, using a scissors to snip off all but two inches of each stem. “Then,” she went on as she laid sheets of blotting paper over two of the four slabs, “we have to arrange them so that they will look nice when they are flat. We put blotting paper over them, and put the two other slabs on top.”
She suited her actions to her words. “There. In two weeks, we can take them out and put them in the book.”
“Is there room?” Isabel asked, eyeing the fat volume wi
th a grin.
“Probably not. I think I shall start a new book with these flowers. That is appropriate, since coming here is rather a new chapter in my life.” Grace moved around the table to a spot where she had more room to work, and she pulled out a chair. “But I have some other things to put in this book first, so I thought I would do that tonight.”
As Grace sat down, Isabel moved to stand beside her chair. “What things?”
“It has been so long since I have worked on my scrapbook, I can’t even remember. Let’s have a look.” Grace reached for the wooden box she had brought down from her room, lifted the lid, and turned the contents out onto the table.
“Why do you keep these things?” Isabel asked, staring at the various items spilled across the white tablecloth.
Grace did not answer. Her gaze was caught on an old, worn paintbrush amid the motley assortment, a brush as thin as the stem of a quill. She stared at it, and she was astonished to discover that the sight of it brought no pain, only the sweet, faded pleasure of a memory from long ago that no longer had the power to hurt.
“Why do you keep these things?” Isabel asked again. “I mean, they don’t seem valuable or anything like that.”
“They have value to me. Each of these things has some special meaning for me.” Grace looked at the child. “Don’t you have a scrapbook?”
Isabel shook her head, surprised. “No, I never keep anything. Except my music, of course. I never throw any of that away.”
“Why don’t you keep things?”
The girl gave a shrug. “I don’t have anything to keep.”
Grace found that statement infinitely sad, but she did not show it. Instead, she smiled. “You might want to start a scrapbook, for now you will have things to put in it.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know. A lock of your father’s hair perhaps. Or a bit of crimson silk to remind you of the dress your governess wouldn’t let you buy.”
Guilty Series Page 44