by Tamara Gill
“Indeed it was I. No expense spared for people I hold above everyone else.” His smile left her in no doubt he was courting her in earnest. It had been so long since she’d been the object of anyone’s aim that it was a little unnerving.
“Thank you for allowing me to be invited. I’ve never been to Vauxhall before and have always wished to go.”
He picked up her hand, running his fingers along her gloved arm as he kissed it. “You’re very welcome. I’d do anything for a beautiful woman,” he whispered, for only her to hear.
She pulled her hand from his, looking about and hoping no one had noticed the kiss. The glower on Moore’s face, his lips pressed into a thin line, said more than words that he had witnessed it.
The duchess tittered, waving her hand to gather everyone’s attention. “I must announce my deepest thanks to my dearest friend, Lady Isolde, who helped out my husband with our son the other day. That you traveled with Moore, unaccompanied, mind, was probably not the best course of action for an unmarried spinster such as yourself, but these things happen, and I’m happy you were free to assist us.”
All eyes turned toward Isolde and heat suffused her cheeks. Flustered, she spoke indignantly. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
The duchess raised her brow innocently. “I’m sure you do beg my pardon for taking advantage of such a situation with a duke. And even though I know you were only trying to be a help to my family, and I’m grateful, truly, but I really must scold you for your impertinent actions in traveling alone with my husband in a carriage. I so wish for you to find a husband of your own, my dear. To marry before you’re too old to bear children.” Her Grace drank down the last of her wine, before jiggling the glass beside her head for a refill. A footman filled it immediately.
“Leonora, remember yourself,” Moore whispered, glaring at his wife and taking her wine away.
“Yes, remember yourself, Your Grace,” Isolde said loud enough for everyone at table to hear. “And perhaps you ought to remember why we were together in the first place. If you can.”
Lord Kinruth said, “Some dancing is in order, I think.”
“My most humble apologies.” Moore stood, pulling the duchess up to stand also, his hand firmly about her arm. “Excuse us a moment.”
Isolde watched them go, glad she hadn’t disgraced herself by speaking of why she’d been alone with the duke in the first place. But she would not allow Leonora to shame her in Society when she’d done nothing wrong. Perhaps she’d acted improperly in going with Merrick, but what else could she have done in such a situation? A child’s life had been in danger. No matter the cost, she could not have stood by and refused help at such a time.
“Were you really alone with Moore?” Anne asked, sitting beside her, her brow furrowed. “Why on earth would you do such a thing? It is plainly obvious the duchess dislikes you and looks to ruin you in Society. You must think of your reputation, Isolde.”
Isolde sighed, not wanting to remember the dreadful day and the cloying fear of why they’d been together in the first place. “If I tell you something, you must promise to keep it to yourself. You’re not even to tell Lord Kinruth. Can you do that?”
Anne nodded. “Certainly. You know you can trust me.” Anne turned to her husband and Lord Wardoor, who stood at the entrance to the box. “Darling, would you be so kind as to leave us for a moment. I wish to have a quiet chat with Isolde.”
Both gentlemen bowed. “I shall return soon to claim a dance.”
Anne smiled. “Thank you, dearest.”
When finally alone, Isolde told Anne of how she had happened across Moore on her way to Bond Street and the reasons behind his distress. Anne sat back, clearly at a loss for words. Her friend took in the throng of dancers outside and Her Grace, who was now partaking in a reel with Lord Barkley.
“How disgraceful of her,” Anne said, her tone full of censure.
“Very much so, and that she placed her son in danger is beyond forgiving. The woman she now portrays is nothing like the girl who was once my friend. She used to be so giving, loving, and now…” Isolde turned to watch the dancers, noting Leonora was already well on the way to being foxed or worse. “Now she’s callous, mean, and selfish.”
“And horrid toward you, most of all.” Anne clasped her hand. “Do not let Her Grace ruin your Season in town. Lord Wardoor is making it as clear as the air we breathe that he likes you above anyone else. He’s one of the most sought after gentlemen in Town, you know. You should make use of him.”
Isolde raised her brow. “Anne, what on earth are you talking about?”
“You should let him perhaps kiss you every now and again, allow him to show you there is more to this life than memories of a certain duke who left you standing at the altar.”
“He didn’t leave me standing at the altar. And Lord Wardoor is one of Moore’s closest friends. Wardoor was the one who introduced me to Merrick. Do you not think it would be odd to allow him to court me?”
Anne took a sip of her drink, grinning. “I’m merely stating he’s eligible and taken with you.”
To flirt with Wardoor seemed innocent enough, and yet something told her it would be similar to poking a lion with a stick that had a piece of meat on the end of it. “He’s also a rogue.”
“Even better.”
“Anne!” Her friend laughed and Isolde did the same, unable to stay shocked for long. “I cannot do that; I’ve always seen him as more of a friend than anything else.”
“May I ask you something? It is quite personal, so you may refuse if you like.”
“By all means.” Her friend looked around to ensure their privacy, and Isolde’s interest was piqued. “What is it, Anne?”
“Do you still love the duke?”
The blood drained from Isolde’s face, and she quickly took a sip of wine. “No.” The answer almost choked her. How could she still harbor feelings for a man whom she could not have and had married, not some unknown stranger, but her closest friend? A woman whom Isolde had seen almost as a sister. She could not love him. Not at all.
“Isolde, you may try to lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me. You always bite your lip when you’re trying to keep something from me. Remember my birthday last year when Lord Kinruth hid the puppy he was to give me at your house? You were biting your lip every time I came around to visit.”
“How is dearest Poppet? I have not seen him for months,” Isolde asked, wanting to discuss anything but her feelings for Merrick.
Anne tapped her with her fan. “Do not try to distract me onto the subject of my dog. Now, tell me the truth. Do you still love Moore?”
Isolde spied Merrick standing alone beneath a copse of trees, his brow furrowed and his attention seemingly focused on the ground. Once upon a time she would’ve gone up to him, clasped his hand, and asked what was wrong. Once she would’ve kissed his concerns away. Once upon a time. What a terrible fairy tale that had turned out to be. “I don’t know what I feel for him,” she said. “He broke my heart into a million pieces, and yet, to be around him again is bringing forth emotions I hadn’t thought to concern myself with ever again. I shouldn’t care for him at all. He’s married to another, and no matter how abhorrent and loveless their marriage supposedly is, I cannot help but yearn to be near him. It’s an affliction that I cannot cure myself of, no matter how much I wish I could.”
“Oh, Isolde…”
“I know I’m a fool, and I should know better, but whenever we’re together I want what I lost. I want to pluck that day five years ago out of history’s page and throw it in the fire. Locking myself away in the Scottish Highlands may have removed him from my sight, but being thrown into the same social sphere has only made me realize I’m far from over my youthful engagement.”
Anne threw her a pensive look. “Do you think he still feels the same? Has he given you any indication that your feelings toward him may be returned?”
A shiver stole through her at the thought of some of the heated gaz
es Merrick had bestowed on her since returning to Town. Of how he sometimes looked as wretched and lost. “He may still care for me, but it doesn’t signify, as he’s married.”
“Yes, he’s married, but that doesn’t stop some gentlemen from claiming what they want. Perhaps Moore wishes to make you his chère-amie?”
Isolde didn’t even want to think such a thing or admit to herself that the thought was tempting. “No, he does not. He made his choice, but that doesn’t mean I can look to Lord Wardoor, either. I hardly know his lordship anymore, and I must be certain of my choice before I make any promises to anyone involving my future.”
Anne nodded. “You’d be wise to guard yourself with any of your gentlemen admirers, at least until you know them a little better.”
Lord Kinruth started toward the pavilion, a man who’d seemingly had enough time without his wife. Isolde finished her champagne and stood. “We will talk later. I see your husband is coming back.”
His lordship came into their pavilion and held out his hand. “My dearest wife, come dance with me. The music is as lively as you’ll find anywhere.”
Anne took his hand, but not before leaning toward her to ensure privacy. “While I agree that you should tread with caution with Wardoor, it doesn’t mean you cannot use his presence to make your Season one to remember. Even if you happen to marry a man who’s more sedate and, need I say it, boring.” No sooner had her friend said the words than she was whisked off into her husband’s arms.
Isolde watched her go and thought over her friend’s opinion. The man himself, as if sensing her musing of him, turned and started toward her. Lord Wardoor was handsome, with his short, well-kept hair and attire that was always perfectly starched. Isolde smiled back, for really, what gentleman hadn’t sowed his oats about Town and enjoyed himself before marriage? Wardoor really was no different than any other. Maybe Anne was right. Perhaps it was time to have a little fun and enjoy the privileged life she’d been born into. This Season was to take risks and see where they led her. She may not trust Wardoor at present, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t come to.
“Care to dance, my lady?” he asked, bowing over her hand.
“I would love to, my lord.” Isolde placed her hand on his arm and followed him into the crowd. They danced the Allemande, which gave them plenty of opportunity to converse. While Isolde never experienced the butterflies that took flight in her belly every time she was around Merrick, she had to admit that being in Wardoor’s arms wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, with his lively discussion on the night and the ton in general, Isolde found herself laughing and enjoying herself more than she thought possible.
Some hours later, the night had degraded into a scene that, should Isolde’s mother ever find out about, would’ve sent her home to Avonmore for a reeducation on proper decorum. Not that Isolde indulged in inappropriate behavior, but the scenes playing out before her, the light-skirts who plied their trade, and the gentlemen, some of whom she knew, who took up their offerings with gleefulness and pride, was a little shocking.
Lord Barkley and the Duchess of Moore seemed to have disappeared, and Isolde hadn’t seen them in an age. Not that the absence of his wife seemed to bother Moore, and again she wondered if the rumors about their marriage were true. To her, Moore was enjoying the night and seemed relaxed and happy. It was only when his wife was about that he took on an annoyed stoic character with a dash of fear, as if he was uncertain of what would come out of her mouth. It seemed, with Leonora, anything was possible.
…
“What is your meaning behind courting Lady Isolde? Do you mean to marry her?” Merrick met Wardoor’s eye and ignored the mocking laugher he read in them. They stood watching the orchestra and the array of dancing couples from all levels of Society who were out enjoying the music.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Wardoor took a sip of his wine. “And if I did presume to know what you meant, I wonder at your question, since you’re nothing to the lady. You’re not her brother.”
“We’ve been friends since we were in short coats. Why would you court a woman I once harbored feelings for? Whom I was going to marry?” Merrick clenched his jaw, hating the fact that his jealousy had made him have this conversation at all. He should not care a fig what Isolde or Wardoor did in their personal lives, but he did, blast it.
“Once had feelings? Are you sure you do not wish to make the delectable Isolde your own? Admit it, man, you’re jealous.”
Merrick ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could erase the last five years of his life and not be living this nightmare playing out before him. “You are not the marrying kind. If you hurt her…”
“Like you did?” Wardoor scoffed. “Please.”
“Because we’re friends, I’ll let your comment pass, but be warned, if you hurt one hair on Isolde’s head, I’ll kill you.” Merrick watched as Lord Kinruth took Isolde out for a dance, her face alight with pleasure. She was so very beautiful, long dark locks that were artfully up in an array of curls and partly hidden by her domino hood. An ache formed near the vicinity of his heart, and he rubbed his chest.
Wardoor sighed. “If I ask Lady Isolde to be my wife, she’ll know how I mean to go on, married or no. I’m not one to marry and bed only one woman for the rest of my life, and I will be honest with her in relation to this. It’ll be her choice, should she choose to saddle herself with me.”
“She deserves better than that, and you know it.” Not that he had bestowed any better on her. When did I become such a hypocrite?
Wardoor shrugged. “As I said, it’ll be her choice. And I must marry sometime. Isolde is pleasant and very beautiful. I’ll not struggle when it comes to bedding the chit to ensure my future heirs.”
Merrick clenched his fists, wanting to haul his friend up against a tree and land a good solid blow to his gut. The thought of Wardoor caressing Isolde, kissing her sweet mouth, having children with his former betrothed made him see crimson. “Do not speak of her in that way! She’s a duke’s daughter, and you’ll show the proper respect she’s entitled to. Don’t push me on this, friend.”
“Who the hell do you think you are? You may have been betrothed to the chit five years ago, but you no longer have the authority to chastise me on how I speak or choose to live my life.” Wardoor glared, and Merrick fought to control his rising temper.
“You will not marry her,” Merrick said, his voice brooking no argument.
Wardoor swore. “You lost the right to dictate her life when you married her best friend.”
“And you know the circumstances surrounding that night. The truth, I might add, and still you seek the one woman, above all else, who should not be sought after by you. If you court her, we are no longer friends.” Moore pushed him away, his body thrumming for a fight to release the pent-up anger over every disappointment he’d endured being married to the wrong woman.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but you cannot stop Isolde from marrying. She will marry one day. It may not be me, but it will be someone. And if the reports around London are correct, she is looking for a husband.”
“Damn you to hell.” Merrick left Wardoor, grabbed a half-filled bottle of whisky from the pavilion, and started toward the Italian Walk. He found a secluded grassy spot within the trees. The sweet-smelling scent floating on the breeze did little to lesson his ire.
Merrick clung to the tree branch above his head and fought not to snap it off, imagining it as Wardoor’s neck. He flung back a good portion of the whisky and welcomed the burn to his throat. How could his closest friend do this to him?
The thought of Isolde welcoming his attentions was like a physical blow.
Damn them. Damn him.
“Moore!”
It had always boded trouble when Isolde called him by his title. He turned, wanting and yet not wanting her here right at this moment. “My lady.”
She came up to him, standing but a few feet from his person, close enough to reach out and touch, to pull close and take
what he desperately sought. And wished for.
“What do you think you’re doing, running off Wardoor from courting me?”
“He told you?” Merrick made a note to choke the bastard to death the next time he was in range to do so.
“Yes, he told me. After seeing you two trying to kill each other, in front of everyone, I might add, I asked him what you were about. Demanded to know, in fact.” She placed her hands on her hips, her perfect brow marred with a slight frown. Hell, she was beautiful. More beautiful than when he had met her at Cranleigh. “Now answer the question.”
“He’s my friend.”
She stood staring at him a while, before she slouched, as if gauging his meaning. “Merrick, you keep forgetting you married someone else. You have to let me go, if this is your struggle.”
It was his struggle. A constant gnawing on his soul that would never leave. “What if I do not want to?” And he didn’t. Never had. He’d loved this woman from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, and it had never faded. No matter how many years they’d been apart. “I should never have married Leonora.”
Isolde sighed, stepping closer and taking his hand. “Don’t say that. It’s unkind, and there is nothing anyone can do to change what’s come to be.”
“It’s the truth.” He slurred the last word and took a sobering breath when he spotted the near-empty whisky bottle at his feet. He was a disgrace. What was he doing here? Trying to seduce an innocent woman into being with him by using his pitiful existence as an excuse? Merrick ran a hand over his jaw lest he act on the impulse to taste her once more and be damned forever.
“You must think of William, Merrick. Your son and heir. He’s one precious soul you cannot regret.”
Merrick nodded. It went without saying how much he loved his son, more than life itself. Even if his lad had been fathered with a woman he loathed. “He’s the only saving grace in my marriage.”
Isolde walked to stand beneath a large elm and looked up at the sky. “What really happened that night, Merrick?”