She flinched and pulled back, worried she had hurt him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He met her eyes, the force of his gaze sending a jolt through her middle.
Isabel looked away. “Perhaps we should head back to the house, see if we can find something to bring down the swelling.”
He nodded, falling into step beside her. “Otherwise I won’t dare show my face at dinner.” A grin crept across his face. “The countess may throw me out.”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t doubt it. She is a formidable creature.” Several of the ladies painting on the lawn glanced in their direction. They walked in silence until they passed the group. Then Isabel ventured to ask, “Do you mind if I ask what your disagreement was with Mr. Teirny?”
A shadow passed over Lord Anthony’s face. “Have you spoken with your sister today?”
She shook her head, confused about the change in subject. “No, why?”
His bottom lip jutted out. “How aware are you of her intentions with Mr. Teirny?”
Isabel laughed. “Whatever her intentions may be, they never last longer than a day or two. Why, you must have noticed how besotted she was with Mr. Tauney Easton and how quickly her attentions have turned.” Her amusement faded at the worry in Lord Anthony’s eyes.
“I have reason to believe she may do something foolish, just as I have reason to doubt Mr. Teirny’s honor. I won’t claim to know Miss Anne better than you, but perhaps you should speak with her about the matter.”
Her ire rising, Isabel came to a halt in front of the doors on the west side of the house. This was the same pretentious Lord Anthony she’d known all along. “How you presume to know my sister, as well as doubt my ability to look out for her, is quite offensive.” Her words were clipped and cool, but inside she seethed. She turned and reached for the door. “I’ll let someone know that a salve should be made up for your bruise. Good day, Lord Anthony.”
“Wait just a moment, Isabel—Miss Townshend.” He laid a soft hand on her arm, and instead of the usual impertinent expression on his face, his brows were furrowed with concern. “Hear me out and then, if you wish to go, I won’t keep you. But I’ve been privy to enough information to know your sister may do something rash—because she is concerned about you. As well she should be. You try to shoulder everything in your family without a thought for yourself. Are you seriously considering becoming a governess?” He let out a noise of disbelief and shook his head.
How had Lord Anthony come to have such an intimate knowledge of her plans? His words shocked the anger from her, and she stood open-mouthed.
He inclined his head, his voice softening. “And despite what you may think, I believe you are more than capable of looking out for your sister. Which is why I’m giving you a word of warning about Mr. Teirny. The man can’t be trusted.”
His words struck a dissonant cord inside Isabel, awakening a vulnerability and fear that hummed through her constantly, whispering that she was failing her family. She lashed out. “And I suppose you consider yourself an excellent judge of character.”
His voice remained calm, not rising to her bait. “Before this house party I may have. But since I have found myself quite mistaken in my judgment of you, I would refrain from claiming as much.” A muscle pulsed in his jaw.
His candor took Isabel off guard, and she took a slight step back.
Lord Anthony turned, exposing the pronounced welt on his cheek “But I do know this, if any man talked about my sister the way Mr. Teirny spoke about yours, there would be no doubt in my mind as to what his intentions were—none of which are decent or honorable.”
Isabel opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. She needed a moment apart, a chance to process this strange turn in their conversation. “If you’ll meet me in the small parlor off the library, I’ll go and see about that salve.”
Anthony stared at the floral mauve carpet, occasionally glancing up at the clock on the mantle. He waited almost a quarter of an hour as he silently berated himself for revealing so much to Miss Townshend. He touched the rising bruise on his cheek. That was twice today his frankness had gotten the better of him.
He sighed aloud and stood. She wasn’t coming, and he could hardly blame her.
Just then, Miss Townshend opened the door. She looked down, blushing. “I’m sorry to have taken so long. I had to find my maid and ask where she had put it.” She held out a small jar. “It’s the salve I was given for my bruise. There’s still plenty left.” She walked toward him and gestured toward the settee where he’d been sitting a moment before. “Won’t you sit?”
They sat down in unison, awkward silence filling the space between them as she twisted the lid off the jar.
Hoping to make her smile, Anthony attempted to lighten the mood. “To be clear, this salve will help my bruise—not make it worse?” He raised his brows. “Not that you wouldn’t be justified.”
Her cheeks twitched. “Fortunately for you, I know very little about mixing tinctures and salves. Your safety is assured.” She took a breath. “If you’ll just turn your cheek . . .”
Anthony turned, and her soft fingers met his skin, rubbing a bit of the salve on his cheekbone.
Her lips puckered in concentration. “Be careful not to move, I don’t want to get it in your eye.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The salve brought relief to the sting at once, but Anthony was surprised at how the gentleness of her touch soothed something inside of him as well.
Miss Townshend looked up and met his gaze, her eyes full of hesitant curiosity. “So this”—she gestured toward his face—“was in defense of Anne?”
He nodded, trying to read her expression.
“Then my earlier outburst was undeserved, and I apologize.” Her fingers came to a halt as she finished rubbing in the last of the salve.
The minute she withdrew, Anthony missed her touch. Impulsively he reached out and took her hand in his own. “It was not undeserved. You’re under a great weight. More than most people could bear.” His hold was light, giving her the opportunity to pull away if she so chose. She didn’t move.
Her voice dropped so low it was almost a whisper. “Might I ask what you meant when you said you were mistaken in your judgment of me?”
He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, debating how much he should reveal. Honesty seemed the only way forward. “Past experience prejudiced me, and I made some erroneous assumptions about your character. I have your sister to thank for correcting me. And now, knowing what I do, I realize I could not have been more wrong.”
She blinked twice, biting her lip. “I’m not sure I understand.”
He pushed his hair back from his forehead in agitation. “Miss Townshend, I must be candid; anything less would be a disservice. The first day I met you—yes, even soaking wet—I was quite certain you were the most beautiful creature that had ever crossed my path. Yet seeing how much you would sacrifice for your sister, your father . . . you possess a greatness of heart I did not believe existed.” He cleared his throat but didn’t break their gaze. “Perhaps I’ve done this all wrong. When you mistakenly entered my bedroom the other day, I should have been a gentleman and let you go.”
Miss Townshend’s silence, the stiffness in her posture, set Anthony on edge. His collar grew tight and he tugged at his cravat. “But I was certain you loathed me, so I justified my actions. I’d be a fool if I didn’t take a chance to see if you’d be willing to consider me a true suitor.”
The air between them grew taut as he waited for her response. She glanced down at her hand in his before meeting his eyes. “Perhaps you are not the only one guilty of misjudgment, Lord Anthony.” A soft smile stole across her face. “Much as it surprises me to say it, I believe I could.”
11
Eleven: The Sonnet
Isabel knocked on Anne’s door. Unease crept into her stomach as she pushed open the door.
Anne sat at her vanity, struggling with the clasp on a str
ing of pale-pink pearls. “Am I late for breakfast?”
“No, I only hoped to speak to you for a moment. Here, let me.” Isabel fastened the clasp, adjusting the pearls around her sister’s neck. “Lovely, as always.”
Anne smiled, her doe-like eyes meeting Isabel’s in the mirror. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”
“Mr. Tauney Easton,” said Isabel quietly.
“Mr. Easton?” Anne stood quickly. “Why, whatever for?” She began to pace the room, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in her dress.
Isabel knew her sister too well to believe Anne unaffected. “Because I thought I saw something between the two of you, something different. But now you won’t even spare him a glance. At least not when you think anyone is looking.”
“Someone new has caught my eye.” Anne clasped her hands together.
“Mr. Teirny?” Isabel raised a brow.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“Anne, you’ve never been interested in men like Mr. Teirny.” Isabel shook her head. She tried to be forthright, without raising her sister’s defenses. “Why, the man is downright rude, always making jokes at the expense of others. And I heard he was a good deal less than gentlemanly during that game of charades the other night.”
Anne wouldn’t meet her eyes. “It was merely a joke. A jest.”
“But you’ve been out of sorts ever since.” Isabel walked over to her sister, taking her hand. “And I’ve seen him flirting with several other young ladies, as well. Mr. Teirny is not the kind of man who will make you happy. Yet you seem determined to pursue him. Why?”
Anne remained silent a moment before letting out a sigh. “You aren’t the only one in this family who can make sacrifices, you know. How can I allow you to give up your dowry—for me, for our family—and then not give a thought to what kind of position you might find yourself in?”
Isabel blew out a breath. Anne should not concern herself with such matters. “How did you find out?”
“I overheard you speaking with the countess.”
Her stomach dropped. “And here I thought I’d done a fine job of sheltering you from the truth.”
“But that’s what I don’t understand, Isabel. Why is it that you think you should have to? Are we not sisters? Allies?”
Isabel studied Anne, remembering her as a girl of five or six. “I’ve always thought of myself as more than a sister to you. More like a . . .”
“A mother?” Anne supplied.
“I suppose so.”
“You’re only five years my senior. That hardly makes you a matron.” Her tone grew clipped. “And you certainly won’t be allowed to dictate my interest where men are concerned.”
“I know I’m often heavy-handed where you are concerned, Anne, but please put aside this pursuit of Mr. Teirny.”
Anne pulled away, frowning. “Isabel, I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, but you aren’t my mother. I shall pursue whomever I think best. And as I see it, it now lies on me to marry well and secure all our futures.”
Isabel’s control of the situation seemed to be slipping away. She had never seen her sister so determined, so strong-willed. “Anne, I don’t understand. At least consult with me. Can we not discuss the matter further?”
Anne whirled, her mouth set in a resolute line. “As you discussed the matter of your dowry with me?” She shook her head. “You’ve made all sorts of decisions without consulting me, and now I shall do the same. You’ll have to excuse me, for I don’t wish to miss breakfast.”
Isabel’s stomach churned, her mind racing. Never had she felt such a chasm between the two of them. She missed her father fiercely, for she wanted someone to confide in, someone who could help her fix this disaster she had unwittingly created. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Anne turned on her heel and walked to the door, not even turning back to see if Isabel would follow.
Anthony caught sight of Miss Townshend outside of one of the smaller music rooms. She leaned against the wall, rubbing the spot between her eyebrows, her mouth pulled down in a frown.
“Miss Townshend?”
“Oh, Lord Anthony.” She quickly smoothed her face into a smile.
“Is there something amiss?” He came to stand beside her.
She bit her lip. “I tried to speak with Anne this morning. About Mr. Teirny.” The spot between her brows creased once more, and she began to rub it. Her gaze grew distant.
“Here, let’s take a seat in here.” Anthony motioned to the open door of the music room, and Miss Townshend nodded, following him in. He left the door only slightly ajar so they might speak in privacy.
After they were seated, he turned toward her. “Isabel?”
Her dark brown eyes grew wide, unblinking.
Anthony cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Townshend. It slipped out.”
“No. I like it.” She ducked her head. “It’s friendlier.”
The way she said friendlier awakened a host of feelings in Anthony, which he did his best to put aside. “You tried to warn your sister against Mr. Teirny, I take it?”
She nodded, her mouth pulling down at the corners. “It was rather a disaster. I’ve never seen her so determined, so intractable. Perhaps I was wrong to do what I did without consulting her.”
“You mean the matter of changing your dowry?” he prodded.
“Yes.” The way her shoulders slumped, as if defeated, tore at him.
Anthony inclined his head. “Isabel, you were only doing what you thought best—for her and your father. No one can fault you for that.” Her selflessness still astounded him, made him wish to be even half the person she was.
She turned to him, an acute look of misery in her eyes. “Yes, but at what cost? I can’t bear the thought of this coming between us. Or of her with Mr. Teirny, or anyone like him.”
“Would it help if I talked to her, do you think?” He was taking a risk. The last time they’d discussed the matter, Isabel had taken offense at his interference.
“I really couldn’t say. Perhaps she’d be more willing to listen to you.” She fiddled with the seam of her glove. “I just can’t bear to have such feelings between us.”
Anthony cleared his throat. “I probably have no right to speak so frankly, but, even knowing you both for only a short time, I can’t imagine either of you holding on to bitter feelings for long.” He gave her a half smile. “Except, perhaps, where I am concerned.”
Isabel laughed, and the sight of her nose wrinkling in delight filled Anthony with such warmth he became determined to help repair whatever was amiss between her and her sister.
“I’ll think on it. But for now, could I interest you in joining me for a duet?” He motioned toward the pianoforte, hoping to distract her from her misery.
“You play?” Her tone was doubtful.
“I . . . try,” he hedged.
She stood, a look of intrigue upon her face. “By all means.”
They settled on the small bench, Isabel blushing as their knees brushed. She shuffled through the music. “Perhaps you should choose.”
Anthony chose a duet he’d played once before, hoping he could at least muddle through. He took a moment to study the notes.
“Shall we give it a try?” She removed her gloves, resting her hands gently on the keys.
He nodded and they began. Anthony tried to focus, but, with Isabel seated next to him, his heart raced. He played slowly and missed a good many notes. When Isabel tried to wait, he would speed past her as he tried to catch up. They laughed as they struggled to stay together, but Anthony soaked in every moment, trying hard not to stare at her. Though he’d never admit it, Isabel’s closeness, the faint scent of rosewater that reached his nose, made it almost impossible to concentrate.
“Perhaps we could try something simpler?” she suggested, reaching across Anthony for a new piece. Her gloves fell to the floor. And as they both reached for them, Isabel’s head collided with his shoulder.
“Excuse me,”
she said, laughing.
He handed her the gloves, chuckling as well. “I think we’ve established that the two of us near the pianoforte is a dangerous affair.”
“Fortunately, Lord Anthony, your shoulder is much more forgiving than your head.” Isabel rubbed at her temple, face aglow with delight. “That night seems ages ago now.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” He shook his head in wonder. “And please, call me Anthony.”
“Anthony,” she repeated, laying the music sheets in front of them. “Perhaps this time you can take the melody.”
For the rest of the day, Anthony considered on what he might do to help smooth over the situation between Isabel and Anne. As he chatted with Ian and Beauchamp over port that evening, he caught hold of an idea he thought might work, given tonight’s poetry recitations.
Anthony bowed out of the conversation and hurried to the library. After a few minutes perusing the shelves, he found the small book of sonnets he was looking for.
Poetry had, to Anthony, always been a means to an end. It was a way to flirt and trifle with women while never saying anything of meaning. Tonight, as he took the seat next to Isabel, he hoped to use it in a much different way.
Several of the recitations were quite amusing, one even bordering on scandalous. The countess seemed to enjoy it all. During Lord Bloomsbury’s performance, however, things took a turn for the worse. It was hard to believe a man could show such an absence of self-awareness. Though one glance at the man’s mother made it a bit more understandable. When her son finished, she stood and boisterously applauded, amid the quiet and reserved applause of the audience.
“Are there any other couples who are planning to share a recitation?” asked the countess.
Anthony broke the silence. “Oh, Mr. Easton, I believe you left this behind from your practice this afternoon.” He pulled the book of sonnets from his dinner jacket and held it out. “With Miss Anne.”
An Unlikely Courtship (Regency House Party: Somerstone Book 2) Page 7