She glared at him, rage and hurt mingling in her breast. Why couldn’t he understand that Tempest and the grand stud farm she imagined had nothing to do with goats and roosters! Her wretched guardian knew very well that she loved horses, had loved them all her life and, she thought resentfully, was very good with them; everyone said so. Even Marcus admitted—when he wasn’t being so aggravatingly mule-headed!—that she had an uncanny ability with horses. It was unfair and unkind of him to throw her disasters with the goats and chickens in her face. Those were childish pastimes. She was an adult now, making adult decisions. Why, oh why, couldn’t he see that? Why did he persist in seeing her as a child? Still think of her as a child to be petted and indulged and sent away when convenient?
Isabel had only to take a glance in the cheval glass in her rooms to know the answer to that question, she thought miserably. She still looked a child. Barely five feet tall and fashioned upon a slim, fairylike frame, and to her great disappointment, with no bosom to speak of, it was likely that decades would pass before her family and friends stopped thinking of her as a child. It didn’t help that fate had given her a mop of unruly red hair and—gasp!—a sprinkling of freckles across her nose that no amount of buttermilk or cucumbers could erase. She found no fault with her nose itself; it was, she had decided a few months ago, a rather nice nose, finely formed with a saucy tilt to the tip. No one denied that her eyes, large, lustrous, and framed by dark lashes of marvelous length and thickness, were her best feature. But fine eyes or not, nothing, not even the fact that she had left behind the schoolroom weeks ago, was going to make anyone view her any differently as long as she remained the size and shape of a ten-year-old boy! Especially not Marcus Sherbrook. With a painful twist in her heart she realized that she wanted him to see her as a young woman. He never would, though—not as long as she was trapped in this childish, boyish body, she thought bitterly. Misery welled up inside her. She was never going to be a tall, stately beauty; she was condemned to spend her life short, flat chested, and freckled! It was so unfair!
Fighting back the urge to burst into tears—she lifted her chin and said with commendable calm, “You have every right to believe that Tempest is merely a whim of mine, but if, as you said, he is an animal that anyone would be proud to own, then there is no reason for me not to buy him. If, as you think will happen, I grow tired of him in a few months, he should be able to be sold for the same price I paid for him. I would lose no money on the transaction.”
Marcus regarded her steadily for several moments. Isabel had always been hard for him to resist, and as the years had passed and she had blossomed into an appealing young woman, he’d found it more and more difficult not to indulge her every wish. And he cursed this blasted guardianship that frequently put them at daggers drawing. It hadn’t always been so. There’d been a time that, like a precocious kitten, she’d scampered at his heels and he’d been happy for her to do so. He couldn’t explain it, but from the moment he’d seen her, a babe in arms, with that red hair so bright and vivid that he’d been astonished his fingertips hadn’t been burned when he’d touched the silky nap, she’d held a special place in his affections.
Though Isabel had been born to wealth and position, Marcus was very conscious that her life had not been without problems. Her mother had died tragically before her second birthday and, despite a doting father, it couldn’t have been easy for her to grow up without a mother. She had adored her father; oddly enough the two of them rattled around happily in Denham Manor, completely satisfied with each other’s company. His death had hit her hard. Sir James, her uncle, wasn’t unkind, but he couldn’t replace Sir George in her affections, and his wife, Agatha…Marcus’s jaw clenched. Talk about history repeating itself! Sir James had followed in his brother’s footsteps in more ways than one. Stunning the neighborhood once again, two years ago he had tossed aside his bachelorhood and married a woman half his age: Agatha Paley, Isabel’s governess!
Marcus had never liked Miss Paley, not even when his mother insisted that she was an exceptional governess and precisely what Isabel needed. At the time she’d been hired, he’d thought her too strict, too cold and unfeeling for someone like Isabel, but to his regret, he’d allowed his mother to override his objections. It had not been a good match: Isabel, impetuous and spirited, and Miss Paley, cold and rigid. He’d known that Isabel had been dreadfully unhappy, but before he could change the situation, Miss Paley had stolen the march on him and married Sir James. He still wondered how she had brought that about, but it didn’t matter; what mattered was that the former Miss Paley was now Lady Agatha, Isabel’s aunt, and the former governess made certain that everyone knew she ruled Denham Manor. His expression softened as he stared down into Isabel’s face. Poor little mite. Living under Agatha’s icy fist couldn’t be pleasant.
He grimaced. Who was he to deny Isabel something that made her happy? As she’d said, if she lost interest, the stallion could always be sold. He worried, though, about the danger. Tempest was aptly named; he was a big, powerful two-year-old stallion. Marcus knew. He’d seen the horse. The moment he’d gotten wind of Isabel’s interest, he’d made it his business to look into it. Despite himself, he’d been impressed when Leggett, a man known for his excellent horses, had led out the magnificent chestnut stallion with the nearly white mane and tail and four white stockings. If Isabel had not already spotted the horse, he’d have purchased him on the spot. He couldn’t argue with the animal’s quality, pedigree, or price, and Isabel was right; the horse could always be sold if her interest waned. He took a deep breath, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake.
Her eyes fixed anxiously on Marcus’s dark face, Isabel felt despair roil through her. He was going to say no. She just knew it. Neither defeat nor patience were her best-known virtues and she took refuge in that volatile temper of hers. “If I want to throw it away on a bloody horse it is my right,” she declared furiously. “Furthermore, you’re a mean-spirited beast and I hate you! Do you hear? I hate you! Oh! I cannot wait until I am no longer your ward and no longer have to deal with a clutch-fisted miser like you.”
The words he had been about to speak died in his throat and, his own temper spiking, Marcus snapped, “Believe me, you little devil, I live for the time that you are no longer an albatross forever hanging around my neck! No more than you do I live for the day I am relieved of this abominable guardianship.” Grimly, he added, “But until you come of age or marry, I am your guardian and control your fortune.”
“Well, we’ll just see about that, won’t we?” she taunted, temper riding her hard. “It’d serve you right if I married the first man I saw just to spite you.”
“If you could find a man mad enough to take on a viper-tongued little shrew like you, I’d shake his hand and congratulate him!” he snarled before he thought about it. Even as the words left his mouth, he wanted to snatch them back, but the damage was done.
“Viper tongued? How dare you!” She dashed away tears of hurt and fury. “You’ll be sorry,” she promised fiercely, rushing toward the door that led from the library. “You’ll see. You’ll be sorry.”
Flinging open the door, she rushed from the room.
Stillness descended upon the room with the power of a thunderclap and Marcus stared dazed at the open doorway through which Isabel had disappeared. Torn between the urge to go after her and tell her she could have the bloody horse and the determination not to let her see how easily she could manipulate him, he stood rooted to the spot.
He took a deep breath and shook his head. Isabel could be explosive, but sometimes, as now, dealing with her was like grappling with a tornado. She swept in without warning, blasted everything in her path, and then—poof!—stormed away to wreak havoc somewhere else.
As Marcus stood there, staring blankly at nothing at all, a tall, striking woman, wearing a narrow-skirted gown of dove-gray muslin trimmed with black corded silk, walked through the door and into the room. Her silver-dusted black hair was caught up in a chignon at t
he back of her head and she wore a necklace of jet beads around her throat.
Seeing the baffled, angry bewilderment on her son’s handsome face, she smiled. Amused understanding in her brilliant green eyes, she asked, “Isabel?”
Marcus flashed her a quick smile. “Who else? She has her heart set on buying that horse. I cannot feel that it is wise.” He shook his head. “But I was about to tell her she could, when she gave me a tongue lashing I am not likely to forget and charged from the room.” He sent his mother a helpless look. “What am I to do with her? I know nothing of being a guardian to someone like Isabel.”
Seating herself on the sofa before a black marble fireplace and arranging her muslin skirts to suit her, Mrs. Sherbrook said, “Give her a little while to vent her temper and then I am sure if you talk to her, you will be able to make your peace with her. You know that Isabel’s temper tantrums never last long and that she is always contrite afterward.”
Marcus looked uneasy. “I don’t know. She was very angry.”
“She may have been, but since she is a sweet child”—at her son’s snort, she amended—“usually a sweet child, the next time you see her, you will discover it was nothing more than a tempest in a teapot and you will be able to put this incident behind you.”
If Mrs. Sherbrook had known just how hurt and furious Isabel was she might not have been so sanguine. Wiping angry tears from her eyes, Isabel raced down the broad steps of Sherbrook Hall and snatched the reins of her horse from the Sherbrook groom holding her horse. In one swift movement, she mounted the horse and kicked the startled gelding into a wild gallop. Heedless of anyone that might have been unfortunate enough to meet her, she careened down the long driveway that led from Sherbrook Hall and onto the main road. Reaching the wider thoroughfare, common sense asserted itself and she pulled the bay into a more sober pace and in the waning April sunlight rode toward Denham Manor.
So I’m a viper-tongued shrew, am I, she thought wrathfully. And no man would want to marry me, would he? Her lips thinned. We shall see about that!
Her head full of schemes to show Mr. Marcus Sherbrook just how badly he had misjudged her, she finished the journey. Tossing the reins to the groom who met her at the stables, she slid from her horse. Nursing her wounds and not wishing to face Aunt Agatha or her uncle, Sir James, she set off toward the lake that divided the Denham property from their neighbor, Lord Manning.
She often walked to the lake when she was angry or troubled; something about the placid blue waters and the green forest with its sprinkling of artfully planted flowers and shrubs that meandered along its curving length gave her solace and soothed her raging emotions.
Stepping from the woods, she noticed a small boat on the lake and, too unhappy to make pleasant company, she was about to disappear back into the trees when a hearty male voice called out her name.
Recognizing Hugh Manning, Lord Manning’s youngest son, at the oars, she waved half-heartedly and watched as he began to row toward the Denham side of the lake. Until the previous winter she had hardly known Hugh; he had left the neighborhood prior to her father’s death and sailed to India to begin his career with the East India Trading Company. His return in September for a long sojourn at home before returning to his post in Bombay had put the entire area in a dither. For weeks following his return there were parties and dinners in his honor, everyone agog to hear tales of that far off mystical place, India. Isabel found his company enjoyable, and coupled with the friendship between her uncle and Lord Manning, an easy intimacy had sprung up between them. Even if Hugh was nearly thirty, the fact that he was a personable, charming young man had not escaped her notice and she understood completely why the squire’s daughter thought him very handsome with his darkly tanned skin, fair hair, and deep blue eyes.
Since January, Hugh had been traveling about England and had only returned a week ago and within days was preparing to sail back to his post in Bombay. Isabel knew that Lord Manning was dreading his departure; Hugh was not likely to return from India again for years and Lord Manning feared he might never see his youngest son again. He’d said as much one evening last week when he’d come to dine at Denham Manor.
Reaching shore, Hugh leaped nimbly onto the muddy ground. After pulling the boat aground enough so that it would not float away, he turned and smiled at Isabel.
“It’s been a lovely day, hasn’t it?” he said. He glanced up at the blue sky and added wistfully, “There is nothing like an April sky in England. I think what I miss most in India is a sky just that particular shade of blue.” He took in a deep breath. “And the scents of an English spring—daffodils, roses, and lilacs in bloom.”
Bruised and wounded from her exchange with Marcus, she didn’t want any company, but when Hugh suggested that they sit on one of the stone benches nearby, she agreed.
It didn’t take Isabel long to realize from his long face and comments that Hugh Manning was nearly as unhappy as she was. A frown between her brows, she asked, “Don’t you want to return to India? I thought you were looking forward to going back.”
His gaze on the lake, he said, “I’d rather join a regiment and fight against the French,” he said. “With the war on the continent going so badly, England needs all the fighting men she can gather.”
Isabel stared at him. “I didn’t know that you wanted to be in the Army.”
“Army, Navy, it wouldn’t make any difference,” he said carelessly. Glumly, he admitted, “I’ll be honest, Izzy, I’m finding the prospect of returning to Bombay unappealing. At least the military would provide an opportunity for adventure. What I wouldn’t give to be with Hood’s fleet in the Mediterranean!” He cast her a miserable glance. “Once the exoticness dissipates, you do not know how boring life in India can be. Everything is the same day after day. I’d like a bit of excitement.”
“I would think living in a land where one can ride elephants and see monkeys and tigers roaming about would be exciting enough!”
He shrugged. “Oh, there are moments to be sure and generally I am happy with my lot, but I had hoped to…” He took a deep breath. “I had hoped to take a wife with me when I returned. I have done well in Bombay and I now have the assets to support a wife and family in style and comfort.” Hugh laughed bitterly. “I had it all planned: I’d come home, find a bride, and return to Bombay with my wife by my side, ready to start my family. Instead, in less than three days I sail alone back to India.”
Isabel nearly jumped out of her skin at his words, staring at Hugh with large, wondering eyes. Had fate sent her an opportunity? An opportunity not only to show Marcus how very wrong he was, but an opportunity to escape once and for all from a home she no longer thought of as hers, from a woman whose sole purpose seemed to be to make her miserable. “D-d-did no one suit your fancy?” she forced herself to ask.
His eyes on the shore of the lake, he muttered, “There was a young lady…. She’s the reason I have been away for so long. I offered for her, but her father turned me down.”
“But why?” Isabel cried, upset for him. “Surely you explained your situation to him? And told him that you are Baron Manning’s son?”
“Oh, I did all that,” he said, “but Mr. Halford didn’t want his daughter buried alive in India. He has a nice local gentleman all picked out for her, one who will inherit a title.”
“And she? What did she want?”
“What difference does it make,” he snapped. “Her father said no and Roseanne wouldn’t stand up to him.”
Her tender heart aching for him, feeling his pain, she slipped her little hand into his. “I’m very sorry, Hugh,” she said softly.
His fingers tightened on hers and he looked down at her. “Thank you, Izzy. You’re the only one I’ve told about Roseanne.” He brushed back a lock of her unruly hair. “Did you know that she has red hair, too? Not as dark as yours and her eyes are blue…blue as the English sky.”
He frowned, noticing for the first time the signs of tears on her cheeks. “What is this?�
�� he asked. “Have you been crying? Who has been making you unhappy? I’ll run him through for you, if you like.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But it does,” Hugh argued gently. “I don’t like seeing my little friend upset. What can I do to make you happy again?”
The words popped out before she had time to consider them. “You could marry me and take me to India with you.”
Goggle eyed, Hugh stared at her. “Marry you! What put that bee in your bonnet?”
Averting her face, she said stiffly, “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did. Why?” he persisted, looking at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“Because you want a wife and I-I-I can’t bear to be treated like a child anymore by Aunt Agatha. And Marcus—!” Anguish and temper coiled in her breast and she exclaimed, “Oh, how I wish I was a thousand miles away from here!” Her eyes locked on his, she said desperately, “If we were to be married, we’d both get what we want.”
They stared at each other for a long time, Hugh thinking of the lonely years in India without the benefit of a wife at his side; Isabel ignoring that little voice that shrieked in her ear that she was being reckless and foolish—just as Marcus always scolded. What did she care? she thought painfully. There was nothing in England for her.
“Are you certain?” Hugh asked, knowing he shouldn’t carry this conversation further, yet unable to help himself. This was madness. There were many reasons why he should get up and walk away but he remained firmly where he was. Isabel wouldn’t be the wife of his heart, but he’d be good to her and who knew? In time they might love one another, but if they did not, surely liking and respect would carry them through? And he wouldn’t face years, decades, alone in India.
His expression troubled, Hugh asked, “What of your aunt and uncle? What will they say of this?”
Her eyes met his steadily. “They will say that I am too young. That I don’t know my own mind.”
Scandal Becomes Her Page 39