The Sweetest Revenge

by Dawn Halliday

  Isabelle nodded, but she couldn’t meet Susan’s eyes. “Yes, I suppose I did, but I didn’t know what any of it was about.”

  Susan shrugged. “He was merely being a typical example of his sex. He believes what we are doing with Leo is too dangerous, that we ought to release him. He thinks we’ve all lost our capacity to reason, that we are weak females using our wiles on poor Leo. But in the end, Leo, being of the stronger sex, given a gift of superior brains as well as brawn by the Almighty, will prevail.” She exhaled a theatrical sigh. “The more I try to educate the man, the more stubborn he becomes. Fortunately, he makes up for his obstinacy in other ways. That is why I deign to suffer through his tempers.”

  Isabelle mulled this over. “He is your lover, then?”

  “He is.”

  “Nothing more? You do not wish to marry him?”

  “No.” She scoffed softly. “I do not plan to ever marry again, to become someone’s slave, but to marry a servant and become his slave? Never.”

  “But,” Isabelle’s voice dropped to a whisper, “you called him ‘my love.’”

  “Did I?” Susan laughed. “Well, I suppose he is my love. At night, at any rate. Oh, don’t give me that shocked look, Isabelle. He knows where he stands in my regard. We have a mutual understanding. We each give what the other needs, and no more.”

  “Will you take another lover, then?”

  “Certainly. When I tire of this one.”

  “And that will happen?”

  “Absolutely. When, I cannot be sure. Perhaps I will tire of his grumbling soon. Perhaps someone more intriguing will come along.”

  Isabelle gazed down at the sumptuous Persian carpet. She didn’t understand Susan’s coldness, her calculation. Had whatever Leo done to her made her give up on the dream of companionship, on the ideal of love? How could she so easily take a lover and then discard him like a possession? No, more like a liqueur. She drank it, and once she had her fill, tossed away the empty bottle.

  ***

  Late that afternoon, the cheerful crackling of the fire made the only sound in Susan’s drawing room. Isabelle sat in one of the silk-covered armchairs, embroidering a shawl for her great-aunt. Susan read one of her verboten books, this one about an infamous Venetian rake.

  Anna sewed in fits and starts and paced the room in between, seemingly not able to concentrate on any task for long. Her excuse, of course, was her upcoming evening with Lord Archer.

  Isabelle diligently focused on her work while her mind roiled. What would she say to Mr. Sutherland? They had nothing in common. How could they be true friends? The prospect suddenly seemed an even more monumental endeavor than becoming his mistress.

  When Stubbs announced him, Isabelle set her work aside to watch him enter the room, splendid in black coat and Hessians starkly contrasting with his white cravat and pale trousers. Even from a distance, she could see the sparkling blue of his eyes.

  He bowed. “Good day, ladies.”

  Susan stepped forward. “Welcome Mr. Sutherland, and good day to you, too. I hope you are well.”

  He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on Isabelle. She tried to smile, but it faltered on her face.

  Why did he terrify her so? He was human, as human as she. Somehow, though, he reminded her of a god, or a demigod, so alluring and yet dangerous. He could be the cause of any woman’s fall. He was perfect, with not a drop of rain on his person nor a spot of mud on his boots. How he had so completely avoided the muck of London on such a miserable day was beyond Isabelle’s understanding. He simply couldn’t be real. The only possible answer was that he had simply appeared, shot down by a lightning bolt from Olympus.

  He gave Susan a gracious smile. “I am very well indeed, my lady. Even better now that I am here.”

  Isabelle wondered how he would feel if he knew Lord Leothaid was here also, chained not a hundred feet away and down a set of stairs. Would he be so courteous, then?

  Not likely. Leo and Mr. Sutherland were members of the same gentlemen’s club, and men like them would always join forces against members of the weaker sex. Mr. Sutherland would find their behavior inexcusably wicked.

  Nevertheless, it was her duty to sit with him today, talk with him, perhaps share some tea, and be his friend. What a liar she was, to behave like a lady when she had schemed to lock one of his brethren in the cellar!

  “Well,” Anna said. “It was very good to see you, Mr. Sutherland, but I am afraid I must go. You see, I have an engagement this evening.”

  Mr. Sutherland’s eyes twinkled, and Isabelle was positive he knew the exact nature of the engagement, but he bowed and expressed his wishes to Anna for a marvelous evening.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it shall be one of my very best ever.” Anna sailed out of the room.

  Not two seconds later, Susan covered her mouth and stifled a yawn. “Oh, my dear, I am simply exhausted. I am no longer used to such late nights. I am afraid I shall have to take my leave as well. I am so sorry, Mr. Sutherland.”

  Isabelle widened her eyes at Susan, who merely smiled and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, whispering, “Good luck,” under her breath.

  Why had they invented such silly excuses for leaving her alone with this man? Why hadn’t they just said, We’re going to leave you with Mr. Sutherland now, Isabelle, so you will be confused and tortured further, make more terrible social faux pas, and become even more unsure of yourself?

  Susan shut the door behind her. Isabelle stared at Mr. Sutherland for a long moment. Finally, she found one remaining wit somewhere among her scattered ones. “Please sit down, Mr. Sutherland.”

  “Thank you, Miss Frasier.”

  He found a seat on the peach-colored sofa. Isabelle half expected him to pat the adjacent cushion to beckon her to sit close to him, but he did not. He simply sat, staring at her in a most unnerving way.

  “I believe Susan called for some tea.” She looked at the door wistfully, willing it to open, to save her from his scrutiny.

  “Tea? Excellent.”

  “Well then.” Isabelle wrenched her gaze from the door, but she could not look at him. Instead she examined the full-size Roman statue of Venus in the near corner.

  “Your eyes are like cornflowers.” The sofa squeaked as Mr. Sutherland shifted his weight. “I have never seen such a shade of blue. They are like the pale blue of the overhead sky at sunrise.”

  She managed to arch her eyebrows as Susan might have done. “Flattery seems an indulgence for someone one considers a mere friend.”

  “But I disagree, Miss Frasier. Friends should always flatter each other.”

  The tea arrived, and they spent the next several moments in companionable silence, the only sounds the clink of silver and porcelain as they poured and stirred. Isabelle lowered herself in a chair situated at right angles to Mr. Sutherland’s sofa. Her teacup in hand, she studied him.

  “Susan believes your intentions are impure,” she blurted.

  She bit her lip, horrified at the outburst. If she had an ounce of sense, she would have learned by now to control her impulsive tongue, her impulsive body. But it seemed she had no control whatsoever. Words and actions simply seemed to spill out of her at the most awful, most inopportune times.

  He did not seem surprised in the least. “Does she?”

  “Well, not exactly. What I meant to say was…was…”

  He set his teacup and saucer on the side table and turned back to her. “She is not altogether wrong, Isabelle.”

  She made a sharp intake of breath at his use of her given name.

  “May I call you Isabelle?”

  Would it be terribly rude to say no? Friends called one another by their first names. Susan and Lord Archer used first names with each other, even in the company of others. But they were cousins.

  “Aye,” she said. “Of course.”

  He set his hands, palms down, over his knees, and gazed at her with his guileless blue eyes. “Please forgive me, Isabelle. I will take whatever you are will
ing to give. If you choose to give me friendship, I will receive it as one receives a generous gift. If you choose to offer more, I would never reject it. You must know that. If I were to tell you anything else, it would be a lie, and you know what happens to me when I lie.” He tapped his eye. “Twitches. Even were it not for this blatant flaw, I would not delude you. The level of respect I have for you forbids it.”

  “But it sounds as though you would not be satisfied with mere friendship, Mr. Sutherland.”

  “I will be satisfied, I promise it. And please call me Phil.”

  “Very well…Mr.…Phil. I am…relieved. I think.” She shook her head helplessly. “I am very sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know how to be friends with a…a gentleman. It is an altogether new sensation. You see, I have not had much exposure to gentlemen. I have been quite…quite sheltered.”

  “I suppose that for a woman, friendship with a man is much like friendship with a woman, isn’t it? I confess, I haven’t much experience with this either.” He swallowed, and the faintest of flushes crept across his cheeks.

  No, he was a rich scoundrel, just like Leo, but not as bad, or at least more discreet than Leo. He hadn’t anywhere near Leo’s reputation. Still, it was a matter of course that he didn’t make friends with women; he bedded them, then sent them on their merry way. Isabelle’s guard rose. “Aye, you are a man, with a man’s tastes. Surely until now, you could have taken little pleasure from the friendship of a woman.”

  “You are not like other women.” His voice was soft, his expression genuine.

  “Oh, but I am less than most women. I am less bonny than Anna, for example, and less learned than Susan.”

  “I would dispute the issue of beauty, and I don’t know anything about your book learning, Isabelle, but I can tell you that your difference is in your quiet way, the sweetness of your nature, in your face and eyes. But it’s not all fluff either. There is something behind those eyes—a depth and intelligence that is quite rare to see.”

  For a long moment, Isabelle was too stunned to speak. She stared at him, trying to recover her breath. Finally, she found her voice. “I don’t think anyone has said anything so kind to me in my entire life.” Her voice shook. She blinked against the moisture forming in her eyes. “Thank you.”

  He stepped forward. “Isabelle,” he said softly. He reached under her chin, tipped it up, and, leaning forward, he kissed her.

  His lips were soft and warm. Gentle and tasting of citrus.

  But they weren’t Leo’s lips. These lips pressed against hers caused no riot in her blood, drew no fire to her skin like Leo’s had.

  He pressed harder, coaxing her to soften to him.

  The sense of wrongness exploded inside her, and she jerked back with a gasp.

  “I can’t,” she choked out.

  “Shhh,” he said soothingly. His finger moved from her chin to her cheek, stroking gently. “It’s all right, sweet Isabelle.”

  Oh no. She wasn’t sweet. She was wrong. Kissing one man while having illicit thoughts of another. Wanting one man while another wooed her. Her face went hot with shame.

  She could not allow this to happen. Phil was a good man. The first man who’d attempted to properly court her. And she couldn’t reciprocate.

  Because she was pining for the Earl of Leothaid.

  Clearly, there was never a stupider woman in the history of the world.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I think he’s gone mad,” Anna Newton whispered, but Leo knew she calculated the volume of her voice to be loud enough for him to hear.

  “Kind of you to notice,” he growled. “When one is trapped, day and night, in shackles, in a cold, dark room, one finds little alternative.”

  They had just entered, finally, in response to his banging the chain against the wall from the moment he’d awakened this morning, the day of the seventh tally mark. He’d punctuated the echoing clashes with shouts of “Belle!” for the last few hours. He’d worked up quite a sweat, and it felt good. Satisfying. Almost as if he had released some of the poison that had crippled him for the last seven years.

  “Tsk,” Lady M said.

  “Spare me your superior musings, if you please,” he said. “Don’t treat me like a spoilt, misbehaving child. In fact, leave. Go. I do not wish to speak with you. Bring me Belle. All I want is to see her.”

  “I am so sorry you no longer wish to enjoy our company, Leo,” Mistress Jane said.

  No, her name was Anna Newton. The young girl he’d debauched and left in the middle of the night. The girl whose innocence he’d stolen and who he’d abandoned. The beautiful girl he’d wronged and left to fend for herself, nearly causing her death.

  He was no gentleman. Anna was right. He was a rat, the lowest sewer scum.

  The walls were closing in on him. He was suffocating. He could not breathe.

  “Go away,” he said, his voice strangled. “Leave me alone.”

  “Do you truly want us to leave you, Leo?” Lady M’s voice was low, masked, but composed as usual.

  “Yes!” They had to go, before he did something he might regret, like tear into them with bared teeth. No, a more likely scenario was that he’d fall into a weeping, slobbering mess at their feet.

  “Think of how lonely you will be if we do not come to see you, Leo,” Mistress Jane—no, Anna Newton—said softly.

  “Bring Belle to me.” He needed her. He needed her near him, needed her calmness, her strength. He had to have her, or the weight of the shame would become too heavy to bear. Then the madness would crush him.

  She was the only light in his life. She always had been. When he thought that light snuffed out, he had fallen into darkness. Now, only she could rescue him, bring him out of the darkness, bring him back into the light.

  “Belle,” he whispered. “Please.”

  ***

  “Sit down, lass.”

  Isabelle took a seat on a green velvet-covered chair in her aunt’s comfortably shabby parlor. A fire roared in the oversized marble fireplace, and its heat licked through the folds of her dress.

  “Terrible cold outside, is it no’?”

  The day was bitterly cold, and Isabelle was chilled through and through. “Aye, it is, Aunt. Quite cold. The fire feels lovely.”

  Aunt Mary lumbered across to a table to pour Isabelle some tea. The tea tray held a plate heaped with small pink cakes. Pastries were her aunt’s weakness.

  Aunt Mary held one up. “Two or three, Isabelle?”

  Isabelle exhaled. “Just tea, thank you.”

  The older woman’s lips curled downward. “Ye’ve gone and lost a good bit of weight, I see. A stone? Two? Your dress is like to fall right off if you keep on with it.”

  “No, ma’am, I’ve not lost a stone, not at all. And my dresses fit just right, thank you.”

  “Humph.” Aunt Mary returned the little cake to the plate. “Well, there’s no need to get huffy about it. I’m concerned for your welfare is all. Now here’s yer tea.” She handed Isabelle a steaming cup and saucer and lowered herself in the opposite chair. “And take care. It’s too hot, as usual. I’ll have to gripe to Amy about it again. She doesna ken how to make tea to save her life, or her position, at any rate. P’raps this time I’ll threaten her with the loss of a limb. Perhaps I’ll wave one o’ MacInnish’s auld claymores at her. He’s got quite a collection, ye ken. Might as well find something useful to do with ’em.”

  This was her good Aunt Mary, all full of fire and brimstone, the same woman who’d persevered in the background to build her uncle’s perfume empire and who had created Isabelle her own scent so many years ago. Out of all her living relatives, Isabelle admired Aunt Mary the most.

  She smiled. “Perhaps you ought to make your own tea, then, Aunt.”

  The older woman frowned. “P’raps I should. Aye. That is what I’ll do the next time they bring me tea still boilin’ in the pot. They will be appalled!�
� She brought her tea to her lips and blew hard on it, sending steam wafting over her face. “Ha, that’ll teach ’em. Thank you, lass. I always knew you were the brains of the family. I, of course, am the brawn. I think we make a mighty pair, I do indeed. I’ve missed ye, lass.”

  Aunt Mary’s eyes glistened with moisture for a second, but she blinked and it disappeared. “But ye intend to stay with that widow ’til ye’ve left for the Highlands. Humph. I shoulda kenned you’d make yourself scarce once that lady became your bosom bow. That’s youngsters for ye. Take what you give, but when somethin’ better comes along…”

  “Oh, Aunt Mary, you know that is not true. I promised Lady DeLinn I would stay with her until the first of November, and you know I would stay beyond that if I could, but you have Uncle’s family in London for the winter, and you and I both know there’s no room for me here. Lady DeLinn has been a dear friend to me, but you are my family. I have missed you, too.”

  Her aunt’s face dissolved into wrinkles as she smiled. She leaned forward and patted Isabelle gruffly on the knee. “I knew you did, lass. ’Course I did. It’s this blasted gout. It pains me and turns me into a bitter old shrew. But here I sit, complainin’, and ye don’t even know why you’re here, do ye?”

  Isabelle shifted her weight on the edge of her seat, bracing herself. “Well, I’ve some idea, I believe.”

  Her aunt gazed at her. “Good. Then I’ll be blunt.”

  Isabelle hid her smile behind her teacup. She’d never known Aunt Mary to be anything but blunt.

  Holding her tea with both hands, amazingly steady for such an elderly person, Aunt Mary regarded Isabelle with steady eyes. “Here it is lass: Society, should it remember you, thinks you’re a ghost. Everyone in the world thought you perished seven years ago and that you’re nothin’ but a corpse.”

  Isabelle blinked, uncomprehending. This…this wasn’t what she’d expected at all. “What?”