An Inconvenient Beauty

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  Griffith bit back a groan. He was trying to be as uninvolved in the proceedings as possible, not wanting this reform to become synonymous with his name. Because the new bill was actually a massive edit of the old one, he could pretend he hadn’t written it. He had, however, vocally thrown his support behind the revision, along with explaining his intentions for making sure his people didn’t suffer.

  A few nods around the room made Griffith think the bill was about to be tabled once again. But then the lord chancellor’s voice replaced Earl Stanhope’s. “Granted, this is not as perfect as it might be, but the changes have been calculated to do much good. In all honesty, my lord, given the amount of time and money and effort that has been put into this bill already, your objections hardly seem valid enough to merit tabling it until a later date.”

  Griffith held his breath as it was finally decided that the third reading and vote would take place the next day.

  He was one step closer to removing the last obstacle between himself and Isabella.

  Isabella approached the house feeling a touch lighter if not any happier. The last threat her uncle held over her was gone, and now she had only to live with the consequences of her choices. On her way to Richmond Park she’d stopped by the jeweler whose name was stamped in the box and returned all of the rented jewelry. He’d been surprised, saying her uncle had paid the rent full through for another month, but Isabella had insisted that he take them back now. Chances were her uncle wouldn’t carry through on a threat against her father that could color himself in such a poor light as well, but returning the jewels made her feel better, and precious little else did that these days.

  Even the fabulous view of the Thames from Richmond Park hadn’t lifted her spirits today, and she had to drag herself up the stairs and through the front door.

  Servants scurried back and forth across the front hall. Loud laughter rolled out the open drawing room door.

  Isabella paused with her hand on the door. This was nothing like the house she’d left that morning. When she and her maid had slipped out the door after breakfast, the house had been cold and somber. The servants crept about as quietly as they could, and only Frederica dared disturb the silence. Eventually she would pull Isabella into her frivolity, but it had felt out of place and discordant with the house’s temperament.

  Of course, Freddie had every reason to be happy. Arthur would be returning as a hero any day now. And with her father so distraught he couldn’t bring himself to rise from his bed, Frederica wasn’t likely to get much of a protest from him when she married her officer.

  But the laughter coming from the drawing room wasn’t Freddie’s. It was distinctly male. The difference in the house was so great Isabella actually stepped back out onto the front step to make sure she’d entered the correct house.

  She had.

  Easing back into the hall and shutting the door behind her, Isabella debated whether to try to find out what was going on or simply retreat to her room. The very last thing she wanted to do was paste on a fake smile and deal with a roomful of men. She’d done enough of that to last her a lifetime. She didn’t think she had it in her today, especially. Not when she’d received word that Parliament had closed out its session today. Somehow that made everything feel more final. She’d been brought to London to convince the men in Parliament to do one thing. She’d failed, which didn’t sadden her all that much, but somehow that failure hadn’t felt final until now—knowing that Parliament was closed and London would soon empty.

  Soon she would have to return home and somehow tell her mother that she’d been a rousing success but hadn’t gotten married.

  Before Isabella could make good on her intentions to retreat to her room, Freddie rushed out of the drawing room, an enormous smile spread across her face. “Bella! Come join us. There’s quite the celebration going on.”

  Isabella handed her bonnet and gloves to her maid, the change in the house suddenly making more sense. A small smile of her own appeared as she responded to the happiness in Frederica’s entire being. The woman was actually bouncing on her toes in excitement. “Has Arthur arrived home, then?”

  Her smile fell into a brief pucker of confusion, a deep line appearing between her brows. “What?” The confusion cleared. “Oh. No. They marched on to Paris after the battle at Waterloo. Another officer reached the shores yesterday, though, and sent word that Arthur was supposed to be on a ship arriving within the week.”

  The wide smile returned, and it was Isabella’s turn to be confused. She had no time to ask for more details, though, as Frederica grabbed her hand and hauled her into the drawing room.

  In the middle of the room stood Uncle Percy, dressed and groomed to perfection for the first time in nearly six weeks.

  Three other men stood around the room, but Isabella only recognized one of them. Mr. Emerson looked at Isabella over Uncle Percy’s head and raised his small fluted glass in her direction with a smile.

  Frederica pressed a similar glass into Isabella’s hand.

  She lifted the glass to see what was in it, then watched a tiny bubble pop on the surface of the splash of golden liquid resting in the small bowl of the glass. Champagne. They were drinking champagne when everyone else in London would be partaking of tea.

  “What—”

  “It’s a celebration, my girl!” Uncle Percy threw one arm out, thankfully not the one holding his glass of champagne. “We’ve done it!”

  “Done it?” Isabella had very purposefully done nothing of late.

  “It passed,” Frederica whispered in Bella’s ear.

  “What did?”

  Mr. Emerson strolled over. “The Apothecary Act.”

  It had passed? But how? A hundred questions flitted through Isabella’s mind, but she couldn’t manage to utter any of them. Her mouth opened and shut with a repeated clank of her teeth.

  Uncle Percy emptied his glass and set it on a nearby table. “Earl Stanhope’s pretty speech tried to table the thing, but the lord chancellor knew what was best for this country and led the final charge.”

  “Two dukes pushing from behind didn’t hurt,” Mr. Emerson murmured.

  Isabella put her glass down, her hand suddenly shaking so badly that she was afraid she’d spill it if she held it any longer. Two dukes?

  Uncle Percy continued his jolly tale as if Mr. Emerson had never spoken. “We had to sacrifice a few points, men, but those are the casualties of victory! Today will go down in history as the day we saved England’s wives and children!”

  Having only weeks ago been present when the dispatch had interrupted Madame Boehm’s party, hearing her uncle equate his parliamentary mission to a battle made Isabella a bit uncomfortable. It was probably as close to one as the man had ever gotten, though, so she supposed she had to give him a bit of latitude.

  Mr. Emerson looked at Isabella. “I’ve always thought it a bit ridiculous when the lords temporal begin debating between their scarlet benches about what the common man needs, but from everything I’ve heard, the speech given with this last proposal was a thing of beauty.”

  “Oh?”

  “When one of the most powerful men in the land challenges the other lords to put their money to better use and pay for the training of their apothecaries whether the proposal passes or not, I have to respect him. It was bold. And one of the shortest speeches ever made upon a bill’s first reading.”

  He’d pushed the Apothecary Act through. Isabella swallowed. And he’d made it personal. He’d made it about more than a law. Many of those men would never follow through on such a nonlucrative investment of money, but she knew Griffith would. Every apothecary under his authority would be given the best opportunities available.

  Had he done it for her? Had he known?

  “Give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

  Isabella felt strange as her gaze found Frederica’s. She felt a little ill, a little light-headed, perhaps even a bit faint. It took more than a few heartbeats to recognize what was happeni
ng to her.

  She felt happy. For the first time in months.

  And maybe, just maybe, God was telling her that she should do something to stay that way.

  Chapter 35

  Isabella was nearly shaking as she watched the door to the drawing room. The doors to all of the rooms on this floor had been opened up to allow guests to move freely about the area, but still Isabella didn’t see the man she was looking for.

  Lady Georgina had assured her that Griffith would be in attendance.

  Of course, she hadn’t offered that information until Isabella had shared the entirety of her plan.

  It had been a bit disconcerting when Frederica had introduced her to Lady Georgina. When she lived on the farm, Isabella hadn’t thought much of how she looked, but since she’d been in London she’d been forced to consider it almost daily. Was the awe Isabella had felt coming face-to-face with Lady Georgina anything like what other people felt when they met her?

  She pushed the unsettling thought out of her mind, but it was sure to come back and plague her when she tried to sleep tonight.

  At the moment, she had much more pressing concerns. Such as whether or not Griffith was going to make an appearance at his sister’s card party.

  There were disadvantages to standing head and shoulders above everyone. It was impossible to enter a room with any sort of discretion, no matter how careful he was; he banged into things simply because the space was not intended for his size; and he’d found very few tailors who could actually do an acceptable job sewing clothing his size.

  He almost hadn’t come tonight, but Georgina entertained so rarely that he’d felt obligated. Besides, the chances of her allowing Isabella in the door after she’d so thoroughly broken Griffith’s heart were very low.

  Word of the passing of the Apothecary Act had arrived at Lord Pontebrook’s house as soon as Parliament had closed. Griffith had made sure of it.

  But she hadn’t come. He’d spent the entire day walking through the conservatory, waiting to hear from her. He’d sent footmen to wait in Green Park and Berkeley Square in case she looked for him there. Nothing. Silence. He had lost his gamble.

  Even knowing Georgina would never torture him with Isabella’s presence, his eyes sought her as soon as he entered the room. His gaze flitted over the heads of people playing cards or talking in groups, looking for a tumble of red-gold curls.

  And then he found it. His eyes drifted down and then back up over her patterned yellow silk evening gown that had seen some wear, past the curls that looked more red than blond, over the simple pendant necklace, the unadorned ears, and the creamy skin of her neck and shoulders until he once again looked into the most beautiful eyes in all of England.

  His broken heart flew in two directions, plummeting to his toes and lodging in his throat at the same time.

  She was there.

  And she’d never looked more beautiful.

  And she was looking right at him.

  Isabella swallowed hard. If things went wrong in the next five minutes she was going to have to run very quickly. She’d be able to get quite a good start, because, at Isabella’s request, Georgina had left a large section of open space in the middle of the room.

  A few people turned their heads when Griffith walked into the room, but the attention was minimal and conversations hadn’t stopped.

  She intended to change that.

  All Season long she’d been attracting attention she didn’t want, publicly leading on more men than any one woman should ever flirt with. Her entire relationship with Griffith had been in secret, though. As if he were her hidden indulgence. And while this party wasn’t the crush many of the others she’d attended had been, it was filled with people Griffith cared about. Friends—or at least friendly acquaintances—and family were scattered at the tables.

  If things didn’t go well, Frederica would be Isabella’s only ally.

  Isabella tore her gaze from Griffith’s to track down her cousin. Frederica was already moving along the wall, making her way to the pianoforte sitting just inside the next room.

  As she began to play a few people turned to look, but there was nothing of note in her quiet playing. A few women swayed in their seats or where they were standing, feeling out the timing of the waltz, but card play continued.

  Isabella’s heart was pounding. What she was about to do made no sense. It was a public declaration of intent, a very bold laying out of her private emotions. But Griffith deserved no less.

  He stepped toward her, confusion giving way to concern as he worked through what she was doing. She would have to be quick or he would move to save her from doing something so scandalous. But she didn’t want to be saved this time. She wanted people to talk about this, wanted everyone in London—in England—to know that this was not a match being made for power. It was a match made in love.

  So she crossed the open area to meet him at the edge of the card tables.

  Before she lost her nerve, she dropped into a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”

  “Isabella.” His voice was tight, breathy, as if his heart was just possibly pounding as hard as hers was.

  She lifted her head and looked up, very far up from her lowered position. “May I have this dance?”

  A gasp rolled over the tables around them, and whispers rushed soon after, as word spread out of the room and across the passageways.

  Griffith extended one hand to help her rise but didn’t let her go once she’d reached her feet. Instead he pulled her closer and wrapped his other arm about her waist. His smile stretched wide, wider than she could remember seeing in a very long time. “It would be my honor.”

  The low rumble of words, spoken as quietly as possible so that only she would hear them, washed over her until she was shaking within the circle of his arms. He swirled her and guided her, dodging people and chairs and tables with a grace that probably marveled everyone in the room.

  It was so much like the last time, but so very different as well.

  This time she wasn’t burdened by guilt. In fact she felt lighter than air, held to earth only by the grip of Griffith’s arm around her waist.

  This time she could see his handsome face, could see the joy and the love shining there. The joy caught her a bit by surprise—she had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t all because of her.

  “You enjoy dancing,” she murmured.

  “I enjoy waltzing,” he corrected. “But I particularly enjoy waltzing with you.” He guided her in an intricate step that almost had her tripping up but didn’t even make him blink. He leaned his head down until the rumble of his voice fell straight into her ear. “I have a rule, you know.”

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “I only dance with family.” He spun her in a quick circle that stole her breath all over again. “That means you’ll have to marry me.”

  The last notes faded into a thunderous applause from everyone around them. They were swarmed with well-wishers and congratulations, as if they all assumed what Griffith had requested.

  But she hadn’t answered. And a brief look at the concern in Griffith’s eyes even as he smiled and joked with the people around him showed that he was well aware she hadn’t answered.

  Eventually the excitement died down enough for her to make her way back to his side, and he maneuvered them through the room as only a duke could. In moments they were standing on a small balcony, the noise of the party behind them and the press of the evening summer heat around them.

  “You didn’t answer.”

  She snuck a sideways look at him. “You didn’t ask.”

  A short laugh escaped as he shook his head. She placed a finger against his smiling lips before he could utter the question. “You should know something first.”

  He pulled her hand from his face and dropped a light kiss on her knuckles that sent shivers up Isabella’s arm. But he didn’t speak. Simply stared at her with his earnest, intelligent green eyes, tilting his body to block the slight wind that c
aused the lengths of his hair to fall alongside his ears.

  Isabella took a deep breath and plunged ahead before she could stop herself. “I didn’t come tonight because you made the Apothecary Act happen. I want you to know that. When you said you wanted a chance to prove me wrong—”

  “I love you.”

  Isabella’s words stumbled to a halt. “I . . . what?”

  Griffith grinned. “I love you. There isn’t a person on this balcony who hasn’t made a bad decision before. But don’t tell anyone I acknowledged that. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Laughter sputtered from her lips even as tears welled to cling to her eyelashes.

  “I may not have all the details, but I know enough. Your cousin is quite talkative when she wants to be.”

  Frederica had talked to him? When? They were going to have a very long conversation when they got home. But for now Isabella couldn’t quite believe that moving on was going to be this easy. “You don’t care?”

  “Oh, I care. I care a great deal.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her a bit closer, then left one arm there so the other could nudge her chin up and keep her looking him in the eye. “I care that the rest of your life you never go a day thinking you have to handle things alone. I care that you are reminded of God’s forgiveness every day until you learn to accept it. I care that the world has an opportunity to see you for who you really are instead of just a beautiful face. I care that you get a chance to see every plant in England.”

  Isabella could barely see him through the stream of tears falling from her eyes. No one, not even her parents, had ever made her feel so very personally important.

  His thumb grazed her cheek as he slid the tears away. “I care that another day doesn’t go by that I don’t get to say I love you.”

  She sniffed. “I love you too.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  “Yes!” She threw her arms around his neck, stretching onto her tiptoes to reach as far over his broad shoulders as she could. “Yes, I will.”