She sat on the floor with her child while Nurse looked on fondly. He had so little time to play. Honoria insisted that Robin spend his days learning reading, numbers, French and Latin. She wanted her grandson to go to Harrow at the earliest possible age. The fact that Isobel thought he was too young for that didn’t matter. Her husband’s will left the raising of their son to his mother and brother.
Isobel had not realized how much Robert hated her until his will was read. True, theirs had never been a warm marriage. They were wed by arrangement, with no consideration of love, or even regard, but still it shocked her when his will placed herself and Robin so entirely under his family’s control. If she married or even formed friendships without Charles and Honoria’s approval, she would be barred from her son’s life. Charles was given the management of her fortune, to keep her from the kind of temptations a woman rich in her own right might fall prey to.
Robert’s will insisted that his widow’s behavior must be impeccable, in keeping with the sterling reputation of the Maitland family. If there was the faintest whiff of the kind of scandalous behavior that Isobel’s mother had engaged in, Honoria would see that every respectable door in London was closed to her.
While the opinions of society mattered little to Isobel, her son was the only good thing in her life. She could not bear to lose Robin, and so she behaved as they wished her to. Mostly.
She looked at Robin’s bright face now, at the red hair that came from her side of the family, the smile and eyes that were all her mother’s. How it must rankle when Honoria looked at him.
Robin prattled on about ducks, and Isobel bit her lip, thinking of what she’d risked for a few moments of pleasure in Blackwood’s arms. It must never, ever, happen again, even if she had to live the rest of her life without a man’s touch.
The door opened without the courtesy of a knock. Isobel, with her back to the portal, watched as Nurse’s smile fled, and she knew who it was before even turning to look.
“Good day, Miss Kirk,” Nurse said stiffly, confirming the intruder’s identity. Isobel’s heart sank as she turned to meet the disapproving glare of Honoria’s paid companion.
“Lady Honoria and Lord Charles sent me to tell you that they are awaiting you in the dining room, Countess. You are fifteen minutes late for luncheon.”
Jane Kirk eyed Isobel as if hoping to catch her at a greater misdeed than merely sitting on the floor of the nursery. In addition to writing Honoria’s letters and reading to her from improving books, Jane was her ladyship’s spy.
Jane’s eyes narrowed with speculation now, and Isobel felt her skin heat, remembering she was indeed guilty this time. She wondered if there was some telltale sign that a woman had been recently bedded, and very well bedded at that. She wanted to hide, but instead she rose as gracefully as possible and returned the companion’s glare.
“You have stains on your gown, Countess,” Jane Kirk said coldly, and Isobel felt relief that jam was all she had noticed. “I shall inform Lady Honoria that there will be a further delay while you change your dress.”
Isobel resisted the urge to smooth her gown. Jane held the door open, expecting her to obey Honoria’s summons immediately. Instead, she turned to hug Robin, who had gone quiet, his smile lost at Jane’s unwelcome intrusion.
Isobel kissed his cheek, and whispered in his ear. “Ask Nurse to have Cook pack up all the dry bread, and I’ll meet you at the duck pond at three o’clock.”
“I shall save my own bread from luncheon,” Robin whispered back.
“Me too,” she replied, and he smiled.
“Growing children need their food, and ducks are dirty creatures,” said Jane with disapproval, leaning in to hear the private words between mother and son. Robin’s smile faded once more. Isobel suppressed a sharp retort. It would only get her into trouble.
“I’ll see you in the park,” Isobel said, sending her son a conspirator’s grin as she left the room, ignoring Jane Kirk’s sour expression.
Honoria glared at Isobel as she took her seat at the table. “Luncheon is always served precisely at one o’clock, Isobel. You are more then half an hour late. It was very inconsiderate of you to have kept Charles and myself waiting.”
“I’m sorry. I was with Robin in the nursery,” Isobel murmured.
Honoria’s frown deepened. “You baby that boy far too much. You should limit your visits to one per week, and for a few minutes only. You fly in at the most awkward times and interrupt his lessons.”
Isobel stared at the plate of soup before her. It was cream of leek, which was Charles’s favorite and therefore served regularly. Isobel detested it. She let her lip curl for a moment.
“You fill the boy’s head with nonsense, telling him fairy stories,” Charles added, snapping his napkin in the air before laying it on his lap. “He needs more time with his tutors. His Latin is abysmal.”
Isobel forced herself to swallow a mouthful of the hated soup to keep from asking her brother-in-law just how good his own Latin was. She recalled Robert telling her that Charles had been at the bottom of all his classes at school. Yet Robert had made him responsible for managing their son’s affairs until he came of age. She, of course, was not permitted to know the details of how the earldom was being managed.
Resentment tasted as vile as the soup. She would order Robin a dozen new storybooks from Hatchard’s the moment luncheon ended, and not a single one of them in Latin.
“Jane said she found you rolling on the floor of the nursery, your gown disheveled and filthy. She said your hair needed combing. Is this the way you believe you should appear before an impressionable child?” Honoria demanded.
Isobel bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood, but didn’t argue. There was no point in making her mother-in-law angry. Especially today. She felt hot color creeping over her cheeks, and the knot of anger in her throat made swallowing more soup impossible.
“Blood will tell, I suppose,” Honoria added, shooting the familiar barb at Isobel’s mother.
Isobel concentrated on placing her spoon just so on the edge of her bowl before she clasped the linen napkin in her lap and twisted it, imagining it was Honoria’s fat neck.
It was hardly her fault that her mother had run off with an Italian musician, abandoning her cold marriage when her daughter was only ten. She had chosen happiness and love, two things Isobel would eternally lack, thanks to Robert’s will and Honoria’s twisted ideas of proper behavior.
At least she had her secret tryst with Blackwood to soothe the sting of Honoria’s comments today. She suppressed a smile as a tingle bubbled through her tainted blood.
Her mother-in-law was expounding on the right way to raise a boy, and Isobel stopped listening. Honoria had no right to tell anyone how to be a mother, having raised two such odious, unfeeling, self-centered sons as Robert and Charles.
She let her mind drift back to the delights of Evelyn’s garden, the delicious anonymity of it all. Perhaps she truly was like her mother, and it just took a man like the notorious—
“Marquess of Blackwood,” Charles said out loud, and Isobel looked up at her brother-in-law in horror. He laughed at her, his piggy eyes disappearing into pouches of sallow skin.
“Woolgathering again, were you?” He laughed. “I can imagine the blackguard’s name would shock you, and rightly so.” She continued to stare, and he rolled his eyes at her lack of comprehension and stabbed a finger at the newspaper beside his plate.
“It says Blackwood’s youngest sister is making her debut this season. For all she’s the granddaughter of the Duke of Carrington, she’ll not find it easy to get a proposal from a decent gentleman, with Blackwood’s name associated with her own.”
“Poor girl,” Honoria said. “I’m sure you understand what she will endure, Isobel, with your mother’s reputation what it was. You would have faced the scorn of good society yourself, if you’d been allowed to make your debut. You should be thankful that discreet arrangements were made for you to marry quietly, to spare you such an
ordeal.”
Isobel gave the napkin another killing twist. No, there had been no balls, no dances, no parties in her honor, no pretty gowns, no flirting or fun of any kind. Her marriage had been a dry legal matter, made with the sense that Robert was ashamed of her, even if her dowry made him very rich.
Honoria picked up an envelope from the little silver tray by her elbow. “Look, here is our invitation to the young lady’s come-out ball. It will be something to see, won’t it?” She tore open the heavy cream envelope and scanned the invitation, then waved it at Charles. “The ball is only a week away! Lady Miranda’s great-aunt is hosting the event, and the Duke of Carrington will be in attendance. If the duke is there, it seems likely that the Prince Regent will put in an appearance. They might have given more warning—I’ll need a new gown for the occasion.” She fussed with her frilled shawl, preening. Honoria fancied herself a pillar of fashion, but she chose styles meant for girls half her age. Her penchant for ruffles made her look ridiculous, and even older than her fifty-eight years.
Charles chuckled. “Well, I suppose it will be the event to attend this Season. I’m personally looking forward to it. I’d like to see if the poor girl can rise above her brother’s reputation. If she has a big enough dowry, I might even court her. D’you suppose Blackwood will dare to attend the ball?”
“Isn’t Lord Blackwood one of England’s most marriageable men?” Isobel asked. “He is wealthy, titled, and—” And handsome, charming, and sinfully good at making a lady forget herself. She swallowed. “—and heir to a dukedom,” she finished breathlessly.
Honoria snorted. “He’ll never marry a truly respectable girl. None of the best families would accept a rake and a fool like him as a son-in-law. My guess is he’ll have to marry a foreigner, and then he’ll forever be an outsider.”
“As he deserves.” Charles thumped his empty wineglass down and signaled for more.
Isobel read the naked dislike in her brother-in-law’s eyes and wondered how it was possible to hate a man for his reputation, yet consider marrying his sister. She suppressed a shudder.
Marrying Charles would be even more unpleasant than being tied to his older brother. If she got the chance, she’d warn Blackwood’s young sister to run for the nearest convent rather than consider a match with Charles Maitland.
“I suppose you’d best attend as well, Isobel. The invitation includes you.” Isobel felt her mouth twist. As Countess of Ashdown, the invitation was probably addressed to her. Honoria would not be able to go at all if she didn’t attend.
“Be ready at ten o’clock. You may wear your maroon bombazine. Have your maid hang it now so the creases fall out in time. It is a dignified, sober garment, nothing to draw unwanted attention to yourself,” Honoria said sternly. “I shall ask Jane to advise you on your hair.”
Isobel forced a smile. “Thank you, but I’m sure Sarah will know the right style for such an event. Miss Kirk will need all her time to dress your hair, Honoria,” she added, keeping her tone sweet. The barb went unnoticed.
Charles waved the folded newspaper at Isobel. “I read that Evelyn Renshaw’s masquerade ball was a great success,” he said.
Isobel regarded the next course of her lunch as it was placed before her. A whole trout stared up at her in dull surprise, as if it knew just what she’d been up to at that ball. She carefully placed a sliced almond over the fish’s judgmental eye and toyed with the limp green beans that shared the plate.
“According to the Times,” Charles went on, “the Prince Regent was in attendance last night, in costume, of course. Did you see him?” Isobel looked up in astonishment, and he laughed. “No, of course you wouldn’t have seen him if he was in disguise! You probably spent the entire night in a corner nursing a glass of watered lemonade as usual. Anyway, it seems His Highness has been heard to say that he loves to masquerade.”
Honoria gasped. “Indeed? But they are such unseemly affairs! Does he often attend such parties? How would anyone know if he was in attendance?”
Isobel couldn’t resist. “How would anyone know he is not? A hostess might claim the triumph of having the prince attend her masked ball, and who would be the wiser?”
Honoria blinked at her. Charles scowled. Neither understood. Clever conversation sailed over their dull heads like clay pigeons.
“Well, anyway,” Charles said, “His Highness has hinted that he would love to attend more costume balls this Season.”
“How positively wicked of him!” Honoria turned to Isobel. “Well? Did anything scandalous occur last night?”
Isobel slid her eyes to her plate, feeling a hot blaze of shame burning up from her knees to her hairline. “At Evelyn’s? Of course not. She would never allow any impropriety,” she replied, her voice remarkably steady, despite the thump of her heart against her ribs. She recalled the wet heat of Blackwood’s mouth on hers, the marvel of his hands on her breasts, and swallowed a sigh.
“Well, Prince Regent or not, I wouldn’t be caught dead at a masquerade,” Honoria said, her lips pinched in distaste. “One might be speaking to entirely the wrong sort of person and never even know!”
“But surely you might also find yourself speaking to the Prince Regent when the time comes to unmask,” Isobel countered.
Honoria considered that, her eyes widening. “Oh! Yes, indeed.”
“It’s predicted that masquerade balls will be quite popular this Season,” Charles read further. “You may find yourself attending one or two after all, Mother, if you wish to be fashionable.”
“I am always fashionable,” Honoria preened, patting her hair. It was newly cut in the latest short style. It did not suit her. It made her protuberant eyes bigger, her heavy jowls more pronounced. “I suppose I’ll need a costume. I’ll ask Jane to suggest something, just in case. Now that’s settled, what are your plans this evening, Charles? There’s a musicale at Lady St. John’s.”
“I’m going to my club,” Charles said dismissively.
Isobel held her tongue. She planned to go to the theatre with Evelyn Renshaw, and did not wish to be forced to join Honoria at the St. John musicale. She had heard Lady St. John’s daughter sing, and it wasn’t an experience she wished to repeat.
Besides, while Honoria approved of the wealthy and virtuous Lady Renshaw as a suitable companion for her, there was every chance her mother-in-law might disapprove of the play being shown, and insist she accompany her to Lady St. John’s instead.
“Please excuse me,” she said before Honoria began to ask questions. “I have a fitting with my modiste this afternoon.” She didn’t mention her plans to meet Robin in the park afterward. If Jane had reported it, Honoria was certain to disapprove. She held her breath, but since Jane had a wrinkled gown with a jammy handprint to tattle about, it appeared she’d forgotten to mention Robin’s outing.
“Choose plain garments, Isobel,” Honoria warned. “You are still in mourning. Stay within the limits of your allowance. Charles will not countenance extravagance.” She looked pointedly at the navy blue gown Isobel had on.
It was trimmed with a pale gray ribbon. She knew that Honoria would have preferred the ribbon to be black, but Robert had been dead for over two years, and she was sick of the half-mourning garb her mother-in-law insisted upon. Honoria had resumed wearing colors scant months after her son’s death.
“I need a walking gown, some night attire—” she began, but Honoria drew in a monstrous gasp of air, like a whale coming up from the deep.
“Isobel! Such loose talk is not appropriate in front of Charles! A lady does not mention such garments!”
Honoria always needed to find fault with something. Isobel shot a glance at Charles. He let an oily glance slide over her body when his mother looked away. Isobel felt ill. “Please excuse me,” she said again, rising with dignity.
After checking the hall for Jane Kirk, she raced up the stairs two at a time and tidied her hair, ready to enjoy the afternoon with her son.
Chapter 5
P
hineas did what he usually did when faced with his grandfather’s overbearing sense of order. He left.
Now he stood in the doorway of the club’s crowded lounge in a foul mood. Adam De Courcey, Earl of Westlake, was waiting for him at a corner table with his watch in his hand. Phineas fixed his customary roguish grin on his face as he handed his hat to the concierge, but today it felt lopsided at best, a death’s head grimace at worst.
“I say, Blackwood, come join us!” Arthur Philpott called, stopping him before he’d gone a dozen steps across the room. “We’re making a wager as to who can drive all the way to Brighton…” Philpott paused dramatically and chortled at his own cleverness. “…blindfolded! Isn’t it brilliant?”
Phineas cast a sidelong look at Westlake and saw his brother-in-law roll his eyes. He wished he could do so himself. Instead, he turned his most practiced grin on Philpott. “But who is to wear the blind, you or your horses, old man?”
He moved on as laughter erupted, leaving Philpott to decide whether the comment was an insult or a jest. It was barely noon and the four men who shared Philpott’s table were well on their way to roaring drunk. He pitied the horses. By Phineas’s estimation, one horse had more wit than Philpott and all his cronies together. If only heaven had seen fit to give the nags Philpott’s fortune and set Philpott to pulling the silly, high-perched phaeton he drove as if he were perpetually blindfolded.
“Blackwood! It’s good to see you,” Lord Bridges said as Phineas passed his table. “I hear your sister is making her debut. You’ll make my introduction, I hope? I intend to take a bride this year…” Phineas paused, his teeth clenched to keep his devil-may-care smirk from slipping. The old roué said that every spring, but this year Miranda would be in his path. Bridges waggled his eyebrows, his jowls shaking as he rubbed his hands together. “Is she pretty? Hardly matters with the kind of dowry she’s got, but it can’t hurt, eh?”
Phineas resisted the temptation to ram the man’s yellow teeth down his throat. “I’d be delighted to introduce you, old chap. A toothless girl with a wooden leg needs all the help she can get,” he managed to quip, and walked away.
Secrets of a Proper Countess Page 4