“As I recall, I offered my assistance to a half-drowned woman who would not have made it even another quarter of a mile.” He pulled on the reins, and they came to a stop in front of the enormous house.
She turned around, facing him squarely. Her forehead was flecked with mud, her dark brown eyes brimming with fire. “I assure you, sir, that you are the last person whose assistance I will ever require. Good day.”
And with that, she slid down from the horse, shook out her soaking skirts, and ascended the stairs up to the house, with all the regality of a queen. Anthony sat in shock, stunned into silence for the second time in the twenty minutes since their meeting.
* * *
Several hours later, Anthony held out his arms as Alfred helped him into his coat. With one good shrug of his shoulders and a tug from Alfred, the fit was perfect. Pulling out the brush, his valet wiped at any trace of lint that may have appeared while tying Anthony’s cravat.
“What think you, Alfred? Is a man a cad if he flirts a little with a woman in a desperate situation?”
Alfred frowned, his face creased with disapproving lines. “Of course, sir. Any true gentleman would put aside his own, er, pursuits, and help the lady with absolute forthrightness.”
Anthony nodded, unsure why he had even asked. For him to expect anything else from Alfred, who was as starched as the cravat he had just tied, was ridiculous.
But what if the woman begged to be flirted with? He shook his head, sighing. The woman in need of assistance—he still did not know her name—was clearly more than capable of looking out for herself. With her sharp tongue and arresting brown eyes, she was just the sort he usually avoided. It was a pity, though, for he’d rarely seen her equal in beauty. And to think of what she would look like when she wasn’t walking through a rainstorm. He let out a soft whistle.
Alfred paused and glanced up, looking askance at him.
Oh well, some women were better observed from afar. Perhaps he would point her out to Lord Ian or Beauchamp, his friends who were also guests. It would be highly entertaining to see her cut them to ribbons when they made their first pass.
He stepped away from the mirror. “That will do, Alfred, thank you.”
Anthony sauntered down the stairs, trying to remember which way the dining room was in this vast assortment of corridors. He was sure Miss Greystock had mentioned it, but she had said so many things, and Anthony had been distracted by the way the curls around her face bounced as she walked.
After passing by the same staircase for the third time, Anthony finally had the presence of mind to turn left instead of right. He entered into the waiting room where all the house party guests gathered, waiting for dinner to be announced.
The Countess Du’Breven caught his eye. Well, there was nothing for it; he must head over and pay his respects.
Anthony thought perhaps the countess looked a little plumper than the last time he’d seen her, or perhaps the emerald green dress she was wearing just didn’t suit her. One thing hadn’t changed—the hawk-like lookout she kept as she scanned the room. Her attentiveness served her well, for she was always the first to know the juicy tidbits of gossip that society craved.
She pulled out her fan as he approached. “Why Anthony, how very ignoble of you to wait so long to pay your respects.”
Anthony bowed, giving her an unapologetic smile. “Lady Du’Breven, I hope you will not fault me. I have been rather distracted by some of your promised morsels.”
“Not wasting any time, I see.”
“I pride myself on seizing the moment. It is a lesson I learned from one of my teachers at Eton.”
She sniffed. “I doubt the lesson was meant in the way you seem to apply it.”
Anthony inclined his head, lowering his eyes. “You flatter me, Countess.”
A whack of the fan on Anthony’s shoulder let him know that was not her intention. “I expect you to behave these next few weeks. Do not make me regret my invitation.”
“Have you so little faith in me?”
“I have no faith at all, but I shall watch you with interest.”
Of that, Anthony had no doubt.
“I shan’t monopolize you, Countess.” He bowed and stepped away.
She gave him a wry look, turning her attention back to the other guests.
Anthony crossed the room, where he found Ian and Beauchamp. Ian had a disgruntled look on his face, and he glanced around the room nervously.
“Lord Ian, my good man.” Anthony pounded him on the back. “Tell me. Whom have we got our eyes on tonight?”
Beauchamp nodded over to the left. “That pretty redhead over there, but Miles has been monopolizing her. He’s set Lady Winters on me.” He gestured toward a dark-haired beauty, whose height and bearing gave one the impression that she was quite domineering. “She’s nice looking from a distance, but don’t get too close. I call her the Ice Queen.”
Anthony made a mental note to avoid her then turned back toward Ian. “What about you?”
Ian looked up, as if just now listening to their conversation. “Oh, well—you know I’m pursuing Miss Simmons, but I’m not leg-shackled yet. There’s a very enticing blonde over there in the corner. Miss Easton, I think her name is. But she’s surrounded by a pack of wolves, so I think we had best wait for another opportunity.”
They both followed his gaze over to where Miss Easton stood, surrounded by what looked to be a family of brothers. Ian was right; the men were set around her in a protective stance.
Beauchamp spoke up. “Perhaps at some point two of us could divide the pack, while the third goes in for the kill. I volunteer myself to be the third.”
Anthony shook his head. “Not a chance. One of us will distract Miles, and you can have the redhead.”
Beauchamp smiled at the prospect.
Ian was silent, his brows deeply knit together and his arms folded across his chest. Beauchamp gave him a searching look. “Are you quite all right, chap? You don’t seem quite yourself.”
Anthony leaned in. “Out with it.”
Ian dropped his arms, standing more casually. “Conrad and I had another of our fights right before I left. I’m banned from the gaming tables for the remainder of the year.”
Beauchamp shook his head, a look of tragedy on his face. “Perhaps you really will have to settle things with Miss Simmons. Miles wants me to do the same with Lady Winters. Not a chance, I say.”
Just then, another party entered the room. An older gentleman with an exquisite blonde on his arm approached the countess. Beauchamp and Ian continued to discuss the ladies in the room, but Anthony’s gaze followed the pair, intrigued.
A large smile brightened the countess’s face. “Sir George, there you are at last. I’m very relieved you made it after all of the hubbub with your carriage.”
“Lady Du’Breven, what a pleasure.” He gave a deep bow. “It had been far too long. We are here safe and sound, despite the whole affair.”
The countess turned to the woman at his side. “You must be Anne. I remember you as a girl of seven or eight, but no longer, I see. And where is your sister?”
Anne smiled and curtsied. “You’ll have to pardon Isabel. She’s quite wrung out after her long hike in the rain.” Anthony’s ears perked up. So these were the father and sister who had been stranded.
“She’ll take dinner in her room this evening,” said Sir George.
The countess nodded. “Understandable, of course. But I hope she doesn’t take ill. Nothing puts a damper on a house party like a spreading ailment.”
Anne shook her head, laughing softly. “No, no. Isabel has never been sick a day in her life. She hasn’t the constitution for it.”
Anthony tried to focus on what his friends were saying, but it was difficult, for he was distracted by the thought of the beguiling woman he had encountered in the rain.
* * *
When she heard the soft knock at her door, Isabel nestled further down into the covers and closed her eyes, feig
ning sleep. A moment later, the door opened and soft footsteps padded across the room.
“Dear Izzy,” Anne murmured, adjusting the comforter around Isabel. She blew out the candle and retreated, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Isabel wasn’t sure what had come over her, for she and Anne always talked before bed. They usually sat together atop the coverlet and brushed and braided one another’s hair as they shared sisterly gossip before separating for the night. But tonight Isabel wasn’t in the mood.
Perhaps it was only the long day and her excursion in the rain, or perhaps it was the infuriating man she’d met along the way. Indeed, he had crept into her thoughts more than once this evening, the memory of his careless grin only serving to worsen her mood. But it was more than that.
Something heavier weighed on her. Her arrival at Somerstone Manor—as elegant as it was expansive—and seeing the affluence of some of the other guests made her all too aware of the precariousness of her family’s situation. As Father’s mental stamina had declined, Isabel had taken to looking through the ledgers. What she saw there surprised her: for the last few years, they had overspent their income and gone into a great deal of debt. Father seemed unaware of it, and when she tried to bring it up, he had become defensive, asking if she thought he wasn’t capable of caring for his family. The past few months, Isabel had managed the finances single-handedly. And though she did her best to economize, the sacrifices she made barely put a dent in the mountain of debt.
The sound of voices outside the door distracted her, and she rose and tiptoed across the room. Grateful her room was dark, she cracked the door open and peeked down the hallway. Three gentlemen moved down the candle-lit corridor.
“Ah, but Miss Fairchild. Is she not a vision?”
A familiar voice spoke up. “Ian, are you still feeling mulish over what happened with your brother? You need to distract yourself.” With his laugh, she became certain. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” It was the insufferable man from this afternoon, bringing all sorts of unwelcome memories with him.
She shut the door quietly and went back to bed. The maid who brought dinner had pulled the drapes closed, and the room was almost pitch black. Isabel lay under the heavy blankets, taking comfort in the darkness. For the next few hours, at least, she was free of the burdens that would no doubt heave themselves back upon her shoulders as the sun rose.
3
Three: Eavesdropping
Usually Isabel expected to get her exercise out of doors, but after a tour of Somerstone Manor with some of the other houseguests, there was no need. Isabel was sure she had walked at least three miles, and they hadn’t even seen a tenth of the three hundred-some-odd rooms. Miss Greystock had proven to be a capable and entertaining guide, however, and the morning passed quickly.
As the group dispersed, Miss Greystock pulled Isabel aside. “The countess requested you and your father join her for tea after the tour. She was sorry not to have met you last night.”
Isabel was surprised to be singled out, but, given her father’s friendship with the countess, she supposed it was to be expected. She nodded, glancing over to where her sister stood in conversation with several of the Easton brothers. Anne had the besotted look on her face that Isabel was all too familiar with. “Of course. And shall Anne attend as well?”
“Only if she wishes, but she appears to be engaged for the moment. The countess specifically requested your attendance.” Miss Greystock leaned in with a vague look of enjoyment, keeping her voice down. “She likes to keep tabs on all of her guests, and I think it irks her that she hasn’t met you yet.”
Isabel allowed herself a small smile. “Very well, then. Better not to leave her in suspense. Lead the way.”
Miss Greystock led her down several long corridors, and Isabel was struck again by what a labyrinth the place was. “How do you do it?” Isabel finally asked her companion. “Even after the tour, I’ve no idea where we are.”
“I assure you, my familiarity with this manor is hard won,” said Miss Greystock, slowing her pace. “But I don’t know the grounds at all—I’ve hardly had a breath of fresh air since I arrived. The countess keeps me very busy.”
A few minutes later, Miss Greystock led Isabel around a corner to where a door was propped open, leading to a small but bright sitting room. Isabel’s father sat on a small sofa, the countess in a chair across from him, a sleeping pug on her lap.
“Miss Townshend for you, Countess,” said Miss Greystock before leaving.
Isabel dipped into a curtsy. “It a pleasure to meet you, Lady Du’Breven.”
“Miss Townshend, I hardly recognize you.” The countess stroked her pug. “Have a seat. Your father and I were just catching up.”
As Isabel took a seat on the sofa, the woman scrutinized her thoroughly. Isabel had the impression that the countess could discern more in a head-to-toe glance than most people could in a quarter of an hour. It was a little unnerving. Isabel took the moment to do some appraising of her own, and decided that despite the woman’s discerning eyes, there was an underlying kindness in her features.
Isabel glanced at her father, pleased to see that after a night of rest he looked much recovered from the strain of the journey. She wondered what the countess made of her old friend.
“I hope you are quite recovered from yesterday’s incident,” said the countess, as she leaned forward to pour the tea. The pug blinked, looking disgruntled.
Isabel set her hands in her lap. “Yes, feeling quite refreshed. I thank you for the assistance you provided.”
“I heard that Lord Anthony assisted you. I hope you were not put off by his . . . rakish manners. He’s a good deal too much like his father, but there’s more to him than meets the eye.”
Isabel’s brows rose involuntarily. “Of that I have no doubt. And yet, I believe I’ve seen all I ever wish to.”
The countess gave her a wry smile. “Be careful. You are just the sort of challenge Lord Anthony enjoys.” And with that, she placed a cup of tea in Isabel’s hands.
The countess turned toward Isabel’s father. “Now where were we, Sir George? Oh, yes. I was telling you how positively heartbroken I was when Mary Dockett caught your eye.”
Her father shrugged, the smile lines around his eyes creasing. “That’s not how I remember it, for I am certain Vernon swept you off your feet long before I met Mary.”
The countess gave an audible sigh. “Yes, perhaps that is how it happened.”
Isabel sat back, enjoying their banter, their memories. Her father glowed under the countess’s attention, reliving the stories of their youth.
A few minutes later they were interrupted by a light knock. “Come in,” said the countess, her gaze drifting over to the door as she scratched under her dog’s chin.
Though the last time she’d seen him he was drenched from head to foot, Isabel recognized the tall stature and confident stride of Lord Anthony in a moment. “Ah, there you are,” said the countess, as if expecting him. “I was just finishing up tea with Sir George and Miss Townshend.”
Lord Anthony’s gaze landed on Isabel, and she had the distinct impression his mind was wandering back to what she looked like in a rain-soaked dress. She set down her tea, meeting his stare directly.
He bowed, addressing her father. “Sir George, so good to see you again.”
Her father inclined his head. “And you as well. Have you been formally introduced to my daughter, Lord Anthony?”
“Only by a rainstorm, sir.” His cheek ticked with amusement.
“Sir Anthony, this is my daughter, Isabel Townshend. Isabel, this is Lord Anthony. His mother is a cousin of the countess.”
“Lord Anthony,” Isabel murmured through gritted teeth, hoping her disdain was not apparent to her father.
Lord Anthony tipped his head, the look on his face suggesting he found the entire situation amusing. “Miss Townshend, it is a pleasure to meet you under . . . drier circumstances.”
Before Isabel c
ould say something that would shock her father, the countess spoke up. “Sir George, you look a little fatigued. Would you like to retire to your room until luncheon?”
“Perhaps that would be for the best. It’s almost impossible to keep pace with these young ones.”
“Anthony, will you escort Sir George back to his room? You can meet me back here when you are finished.”
“Of course, Lady Du’Breven.”
As he walked by Isabel, she stiffened as if his nearness required she be on her guard.
“Sir George?” Lord Anthony picked up her father’s cane and held it out, allowing him the dignity of standing by himself, which Isabel unwillingly appreciated.
Isabel reached out and touched her father’s arm as he passed. “I’ll come look in on you later.”
Her father smiled. “Don’t worry, the countess has me in good hands.”
Lord Anthony gave her a knowing look, and the memory of his hands on her waist and their shared proximity during yesterday’s ride brought a fierce blush to her cheeks.
Once they were gone, Isabel relaxed, leaning back into the sofa. She wished she had a fan, for the day was already growing warm.
The directness of the countess’s gaze brought her back to herself. She smoothed her skirts and moved to stand. “Thank you for having us to tea. I don’t wish to overstay my welcome.”
“Sit,” said the countess. “I have a few questions for you.”
Wide-eyed, Isabel regained her seat.
The countess looked Isabel over from head to foot and her eyes narrowed. “Would you care to explain why your sister’s dresses cost three times as much as yours?”
Isabel couldn’t recall ever being so taken aback. She’d vastly underestimated the woman’s powers of inspection. She straightened her posture and took a breath before answering. “Because she still has a chance at making a good match.”
An Unlikely Courtship: Regency House Party: Somerstone Page 2