by Rose Gordon
She released a breath and fidgeted with the lace that circled her sleeve. All friends. Only friends. “Yes, Edmund, Mr. Appleton is just a friend, too.”
“Now, that I believe.”
She jerked her gaze to his. “What is that to mean?”
He waved her off. “Every fool can see that you and Mr. Appleton are just friends—even if he does pretend to write you poetry meant for another lady.”
She blushed. “He was just trying to save me from Sebastian.”
“Sebastian,” Edmund murmured, reminding Isabelle of a parrot. “I see that the two of you are still on very informal terms. You call him by his first name and he calls you Belle.”
“Only when he’s irritated with me.”
“I disagree. I don’t think he was irritated with you today. Or yesterday.”
She dismissed his statement with a quick shrug. “It must just be a habit he hasn’t broken.”
“Perhaps, but have you ever wondered if he spells it Belle, like the last part of your name or Bel, like the first part of his title?”
Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him. What had gotten into the man? Was he cracked? Who thought about such things? Edmund, that’s who. She shook her head. Sebastian only ever spoke to her, one didn’t think of how something was spelled while they were speaking. At least she didn’t. Edmund might be different, but she was fairly certain if he did that, he was truly a rarity. She couldn’t tell him that though.
“I’m not sure which spelling he’d use if he were to write it—” probably ‘B-e-l-l’ if she had to guess— “but I’m curious as to why you’d care.”
“I’m just trying to educate myself on my competition.”
Isabelle laughed. “Sebastian isn’t your competition.”
Edmund lifted a brow. “Then who is?”
If she had a genuine marital interest in Edmund, she’d consider playfully teasing him by listing off the three names Sebastian had suggested, but since she saw him as only a friend and had no need to flirt with him, she just told the truth. “There isn’t any.”
His face softened. “Isabelle, I told you that—”
“I know,” she said a little sharper than she’d meant. She gave him her best smile despite the tears that were now welling in her eyes. “I know. There just isn’t anyone.”
“You still have plenty of time, Isabelle. It’s barely been three months, and you haven’t met every eligible gentleman yet.”
“I know.” She remembered the three unsuitable choices that Sebastian had listed off, and blinked back the tears. She didn’t know if those were truly the only genuine options or if those were the only ones he thought would take her.
“Then if you know, why are you so upset?”
Despite herself, she grinned. “I don’t know.” And that was the truth. She had no idea why she suddenly felt so sad and alone. She’d spent her entire girlhood following Sebastian around. Not necessarily dreaming of marriage to him out of any great love, but they’d been friends. Friendship, she’d learned from seeing her own parents get along, and his arguing constantly, offered a great basis for a marriage. But now, she knew friendship was all she’d ever had, but for a reason she couldn’t name, she wasn’t ready yet to settle for it.
“Is it Belgrave?”
She groaned. “No. I don’t wish to marry him.”
“I wasn’t asking that. But since you brought it up...”
She pursed her lips.
“All right, I’ll take that as a no.” Edmund shifted and crossed his arms. “What I meant to ask is if he upset you?”
“No. Not intentionally.”
“So then he did,” Edmund surmised.
Isabelle sighed. “He’s offered to help me find a husband and his prospects are...well, they’re not very promising.”
“Who are they?”
“Sir Wallace Benedict, Sir Michael Smythe and Giles Goddard.”
“Belgrave has been away too long. Sir Wallace and Sir Michael aren’t right for you and I don’t happen to know who Giles Goddard is, but his name alone does not recommend him.”
“He’s a friend of Sebastian’s,” she murmured forcing a slim smile.
“A friend, you say.”
She nodded. What was he trying to imply?
“And have you met this friend?”
Isabelle turned her head to the side and frowned. “Actually no, I haven’t.”
“Then how do you know he exists?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Perhaps Belgrave was giving you two impossible choices so you’d choose the third one.”
“Why would he do that?”
“It’s simple—”
Not to her it wasn’t. The workings of Edmund’s mind were oftentimes—like now—very tiring.
“—Giles Goddard doesn’t really exist. Belgrave is using his name as a front and he plans to be the one you fall in love with.”
Isabelle stared at him, flabbergasted. “And why would he want me to fall in love with himself? Last we spoke, that was the absolute last thing he wanted to have happen.”
“Perhaps he’s changed his mind,” Edmund countered with a shrug.
“Uh huh. Besides the part where I don’t believe that’s his real intent, I’m also supposed to believe he invented a man to accomplish this...this...scheme?”
“Absolutely.” He gave her a serious look. “As you said you’ve never met him.”
“No, I haven’t,” she said carefully. “But I read his name in one of the articles about the Rutherford ball last week. You can’t expect me to believe the author invented him and Sebastian latched onto the name.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh, are you saying the author was referring to Sebastian’s imaginary friend as Giles Goddard, then?”
“You never know.” Edmund forced his shoulders up, twisted his lips into an overdone frown and made his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. “Authors are some strange folks, Isabelle.”
Chapter Ten
Three days later
Isabelle stared at the unread invitation on the silver salver. She’d received many invitations since coming to London, but she had an idea this invitation wasn’t as ordinary as the rest. If she had to guess, she’d say that it was issued at the request of Sebastian.
Of course it could be another ordinary invitation. It looked just like the rest on the outside, which is all she could see...
But it had arrived later than all of the others.
She snatched the invitation up and broke the seal.
...join us for a dinner party...eight pm...419 King...
She read over it again, but didn’t recognize the name of the hostess: Lady Norcourt. Perhaps she’s fictitious, she thought with a giggle.
Oh wait, no, she wasn’t imaginary. Lady Norcourt was Mr. Appleton’s mother. Of course Isabelle didn’t know all of the details, only the ones she’d gleaned from reading the gossip sheets to Mrs. Finch and having her fill the gaps, but Simon Appleton’s mother, had married the octogenarian baron Lord Norcourt when she was fifteen. Isabelle didn’t know if there was a child borne of the union or not. Since she’d never heard of a Lord Norcourt she assumed probably not.
The dowager Lady Norcourt shocked the ton and fell from grace when she remarried a man named Walter Appleton who was rumored to be her lover within a month of the late baron’s death. Then she shocked the ton again when less than seven months later Simon was born. Mrs. Finch speculated—as did a number of people Isabelle would assume—that Simon was the late baron’s son and had she not married Mr. Appleton, he’d have inherited the barony. But her own selfishness had taken away her son’s birthright.
One would never know that such a heavy sin hung between them all, however. Some of the rumors must have been true for the most part because Mr. and Mrs. Appleton seemed genuinely happy together. So happy that Mrs. Appleton hadn’t kept her title of Lady Norcourt though it was acceptable for her to do so and Simon had never seemed bitter about n
ot inheriting his due. Perhaps he knew the truth of the situation, and his parents truly were having an illicit affair. She’d never know and doubted anyone else would, either.
Isabelle sighed and set the invitation down. Well, at least if she attended Mr. Appleton would be there, too.
And so might Henrietta Hughes, she thought with a smile. Not that the hobby of matchmaking had ever excited her before, but for some reason she’d like to see Simon Appleton happy. Mr. Appleton deserved—
She frowned. How did Sebastian know Lady Norcourt or Katherine Appleton? Even more curious, were they even the same person or had there been a male issue somewhere that the title had passed to and there was a new Lady Norcourt? Hmm, now she had to go!
***
Sebastian thought he might suffocate and it had nothing to do with how tightly he’d tied his cravat. It was the atmosphere in the room. Even more unsettling, Isabelle hadn’t even arrived yet.
In front of him stood two grown, or somewhat grown, gentlemen, one of which was acting like a petulant child.
Of course, had Sebastian been Mr. Appleton he might have been a little upset, too.
“Since when have you decided to play the role of Lady Norcourt?” Mr. Appleton asked of his mother.
Katherine Appleton, alias Lady Norcourt, who unbeknownst to Sebastian was the dowager baroness Giles had claimed a relation to when Sebastian had sought his help in finding a titled lady to host a dinner to invite Isabelle to, clasped her hands in front of her. “Giles has asked that I play hostess at his dinner party, Simon. I don’t suppose that one night of being Lady Norcourt will harm anything.”
Simon Appleton folded his arms across his chest and cast a sharp look at his mother and Giles, who apparently was his half-brother or a similar relation. “Perhaps not for either of you.”
“Simon,” his father, Mr. Appleton warned, placing his hand on Simon’s shoulder.
Simon shrugged him off. “Thank you for the invitation, Lady Norcourt,” he said to his mother with a sneer. “However, I just remembered that I have another engagement I am expected to be at tonight.”
Sebastian doubted that, but had no plans to question the man, and apparently neither did anyone else as he strolled from the room.
Mrs. Appleton, or Lady Norcourt, as she was apparently referring to herself for the evening stood, wringing her hands. She cast a hesitant glance to Giles, then to her husband. Her eyes were wide and full of hesitation or hurt or concern or unease. Something. Blast it all, Sebastian was a man, he didn’t know what emotion the woman was feeling, but whatever it was it had made her look like she was about to swoon.
Her husband walked up to her and murmured something in her ear before whisking her from the room.
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” Sebastian said without ceremony as soon as the Appletons were out of the room.
“He didn’t, either.”
Sebastian grinned at his friend’s remark. “No, it would seem that he didn’t.” He idly scratched his temple and studied his friend. Giles often wore the same expression. Unless he was completely befuddled or upset, then it just went blank. “Did you know?”
“A while,” he admitted quietly. “Never met though.”
Sebastian nodded. That was obvious. “How long have you known?”
“Twenty years.”
Sebastian’s jaw would have dropped in shock if he weren’t so shocked that he couldn’t move. They’d been inseparable for the past five years. Why in the devil had he never heard of this? Not that he should be too surprised. He hadn’t even known that Giles was a lord, either. Not that it mattered one way or the other to Sebastian what rank his friend held. He was more surprised Giles had hid it so well. “I see,” he said slowly. “Is Simon twenty?”
“Yes.”
“And his mother is your mother?”
“Yes.”
“And his father?”
Giles shrugged.
“Do the two of you share only the same mother?” Sebastian guessed, though to be honest with the brutality of a wild bull, Simon and Giles shared several traits with Mr. Appleton. All three men had dark brown hair and emerald eyes. All three were of a similar height. Sebastian hadn’t made note of the similarities before, but now it seemed all he could think of.
Giles shrugged again.
Though it really wasn’t any of his concern, Sebastian would have to remember to ask for a tour of the townhouse at some point and see if there was a portrait of the old baron. Not that that meant too much. He’d glimpsed many portraits that didn’t resemble the subject other than the lady was wearing a dress and the man was painted wearing breeches.
“Thank you for hosting,” Sebastian said to change the subject.
Giles nodded, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Sebastian had spent enough time in his company to take note of his stiffened spine, clenched fists and narrowed eyes that had no object in sight except the open air in front of him. This could only mean one thing: Giles was upset. Just as much or perhaps more so than Simon Appleton had been.
Sebastian doubted, however, that the reason was the same.
Simon had seemed upset about meeting his brother, and perhaps the fact he had one and had lived his entire life not knowing about it. The lies and betrayal must have hurt. Giles, on the other hand, was more likely upset by the cold dismissal he’d received. It wasn’t anything new, mind you. Many people dismissed Giles out of hand and the man never even seemed to mind. But this was different. Simon Appleton was different. He wasn’t some random fool Giles had encountered, but his own brother.
“Giles, would you rather if we had the butler send everyone away or I acted as host?”
Neither of those options would be well received, but the man did not look in a position to receive guests.
Giles shook his head. “I’ll be host.”
“Very well.” What Sebastian—and likely everyone else who’d ever encountered him—wouldn’t give to know the thoughts in Giles’ head.
“She’s here,” Giles said abruptly.
Sebastian twisted around to see out of the window as Belle’s carriage pulled up. Rooted to the floor, he stood frozen as she descended the carriage wearing a red satin gown with a billowing skirt and a low swoop neckline that offered him and everyone around a generous view of her breasts. Something in him tightened, irritation at her dressing thus, he’d wager since he’d never desire her. He swore under his breath and stalked from the room behind Giles. As soon as he had a moment alone with his wife, he’d have to inform her that her goal was to dress in a way that would snare her a husband, not get her ravished and left with a bastard in her belly.
Chapter Eleven
Sebastian was less than hospitable.
But then, why should Isabelle be surprised. He’d never been very good at minding his manners and his sneering and growling only proved it.
“We need to talk,” Sebastian said with a grunt after she’d finally been properly introduced to his friend Giles Goddard—which, by the way, she was convinced she’d made the right decision in marking him off her list. It wasn’t that he was completely undesirable. In fact, he was quite handsome on the whole. Tall with brown hair and a chiseled face that matched his barrel chest perfectly. He wore white breeches, a yellow waistcoat, a pale blue coat and had an emerald pin the same color as his eyes in the middle of his flawlessly tied cravat. He was quite striking. But he was also quite...brooding wasn’t the right word, though he did appear to be doing that, he was more...tense. His posture reminded her of a fire poker: stiff and unyielding. Perhaps he was nervous?
Sebastian’s squeeze of her arm just above her elbow brought her to present. Right. He wanted to talk.
“Very well, my lord, what shall we talk about?”
He pursed his lips. “Giles, we’ll go make use of the chess table for a spell, if you don’t mind.”
Isabelle allowed Sebastian to lead her into a large drawing room that had two card tables and one chess table set up for p
lay. “I didn’t realize this would be such a large party,” she murmured.
Sebastian pulled a chair out for her. “It won’t be.” He grimaced and lowered himself into the chair opposite her. “As it is, Sir Wallace’s engagement was announced in the paper earlier this week. Apparently, he attended a house party hosted by Lord and Lady Watson last month and the festivities have ended with the announcement that he and Lord Watson’s sister are betrothed.” He shook his head. “Not that it matters too much, you’d already said you’re not interested in him.”
“No, I wasn’t.” She gestured to the board. “Are we to play or discuss the social calendar of Sir Wallace?”
“You have the white pieces,” he reminded her.
She bit her lip. She’d always hated chess and now she knew why: she couldn’t remember all the rules. Especially the most basic one of who went first. “Right.” She moved one of the men in the front row forward a space.
Sebastian mirrored her move and waited for Isabelle to pick up her piece. “I don’t like your gown.”
“Excuse me?” she demanded, setting the ivory pawn down with more force than necessary.
“It doesn’t fit you.”
Isabelle glanced down at her gown. Even though she wore no less than three yards of petticoats underneath her skirt touched the floor just enough to nearly trip her every time she took a step. Her sleeves were capped, a perfectly acceptable fashion to wear at a dinner party. “I beg your pardon, but in no way does my dress not fit right. The modiste sewed it to my exact measurements.”
“Yes, that’s obvious,” he said, leveling his eyes on her chest.
She dropped her gaze to where his was on her chest and flushed. Her neckline was low enough to allow half of her bare bosom to be glimpsed by anyone who looked her way. “I don’t know why you should care, you have no need to be looking.”
“Perhaps not, but when you put so much on display, it’s all anyone can notice.”
Isabelle’s flush deepened and she readjusted her shawl to cover her breasts better. “There. Now, you shouldn’t be too distracted to take your turn.”