Lady Isabella's Ogre

by Emily Larkin

  His thoughts swerved to Clarissa Whedon, the bride he did wish for. She was no beauty, but it was her mildness, her youth, that recommended her to him. She would suit him in ways Lady Isabella never would.

  And vice versa, whispered a sly voice in his mind.

  Nicholas shook his head, banishing the voice. He pressed his knees against Douro’s warm flanks and encouraged the horse into a trot. Clarissa Whedon, he would marry; Isabella Knox, he would kiss.

  But he couldn’t kiss Lady Isabella if he was engaged to another woman.

  Douro lengthened his stride into a canter. Lady Isabella kept pace beside them.

  Nicholas glanced at her. He would put off his proposal to Miss Whedon for another week. Or two.

  They ate their picnic on King Henry’s mound, looking across London to the dome of St. Paul’s. No opportunity arose to kiss Lady Isabella again. “Almack’s tonight?” Nicholas asked her as they left the green expanse of Richmond, enclosed in its brick wall, behind them.

  She shook her head. “The Peverills’ musicale. My cousin particularly desires to attend.”

  A musicale. Nicholas managed—barely—not to grimace. Almack’s, with its débutantes and its dowagers, its dry cake and tepid lemonade, was almost more appealing. Almost. “Would you and your cousin like an escort?” he asked.

  Isabella glanced at him from beneath her lashes. He thought she suppressed a grin. “We would be delighted,” she said demurely.

  Several hours later, lounging in a lattice-work Chippendale chair, Nicholas found himself regretting his offer. The musicians were superb, the supper superior to anything Almack’s could offer, but neither the performance and nor the intervals had offered the opportunity for a private word—much less anything else—with Lady Isabella.

  He cast a glance around the ballroom. The guests were predominantly female, and predominantly gray-haired. With a sigh he focused his attention on the musicians again: two violinists and a pianist. The pianist was extraordinarily animated. He played with his entire body. His face changed with the mood of the music: dreamy, his eyes half-lidded; exultant, his eyes wide and his mouth open; fierce, a frown furrowing his brow and his lips drawn back from his teeth; melancholy, his mouth pulling down at the corners and his shoulders sagging.

  A final trembling chord filled the ballroom. The violinists laid down their bows. The pianist bowed his head.

  There was a moment of silence, as if the audience held its collective breath, and then the sound of clapping swelled into the silence. The applause grew until the ceiling seemed to resonate with it. “Excellent,” said Mrs. Westin, seated between him and Isabella, as the musicians stood and bowed. “Simply excellent!”

  They rose, in the clamor of conversation around them.

  “Magnificent—”

  “—the finger-work—”

  “—such expression!”

  They lingered after the crush of guests had thinned, being invited, on the strength of Mrs. Westin’s friendship with Mrs. Peverill, to partake of further refreshments in one of the smaller saloons.

  Mrs. Westin, almost as animated as the pianist had been, discussed the performance with their hostess. The pianist, when he and his fellow musicians joined the party, was listless and somewhat morose. Or perhaps he was merely exhausted.

  From music, Mrs. Peverill and Mrs. Westin moved on to a discussion of china figurines. Nicholas stifled a yawn.

  “I have just purchased two more pieces,” Mrs. Peverill said. “Would you like to see them?”

  Mrs. Westin expressed great interest. Nicholas stifled another yawn. He swallowed the last of his wine.

  “Isabella, will you join us?”

  Nicholas snapped alert as Lady Isabella assented. He placed his glass on a convenient table and drifted after the ladies, out the door, along the corridor. Behind him, from the ballroom, came the scrape of wood on wood as the servants cleared the room of a hundred chairs.

  The ladies turned into another saloon. Nicholas strolled slowly after them. “Exquisite!” he heard Mrs. Westin say as he paused in the doorway.

  The room was undeniably a lady’s parlor, decorated in pink and white. Every surface was covered with figurines. He saw milkmaids and frolicking lambs and goatherds, minstrels and huntresses and harlequins, bright-eyed squirrels and coquettish ponies.

  Nicholas blenched slightly.

  Mrs. Peverill caught sight of him. “Major! Are you interested in china figurines?”

  Lady Isabella glanced up swiftly.

  “Er . . .” He stepped into the parlor. “In a small way.”

  Lady Isabella bit her lip. She picked up a figurine and began to study it.

  “The larger pieces are through here.” Mrs. Peverill walked across to another door. She opened it. Nicholas caught a glimpse of more pink-tinted walls.

  Mrs. Westin followed her hostess. Lady Isabella didn’t. She was frowning at the figurine in her hand.

  Nicholas stepped closer to her.

  “A small interest in china figurines, Major?” Lady Isabella said, still studying the figurine she held. It was a milkmaid with golden curls. “I would never have guessed.”

  “Very small,” he said, glancing at the door through which the older ladies had vanished. “Minuscule.”

  Lady Isabella returned the milkmaid to its place on the giltwood table. “Minuscule?” she said, turning towards him, a smile on her lips, a smile in her eyes.

  “Smaller than minuscule.” He closed the distance between them and reached for her, capturing her face between his hands, bending his head.

  Lady Isabella didn’t protest. She leaned towards him. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  The kiss was brief and hurried, scorching. They broke apart at the sound of voices from the adjoining room.

  Nicholas turned hastily away from Isabella and picked up a figurine. From the corner of his eye he saw the ladies emerge into the parlor. “Oh, do you like that piece, Major?” Mrs. Peverill asked. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  He looked down at the figurine. It was a young man in a puce jacket leaning against a tree, a violin held negligently in his hand. “Er. . .” His mind was still caught in the heat of Isabella’s mouth.

  He glanced at Lady Isabella. Her face was slightly averted; he saw only her profile, the curve of her cheek, faintly flushed, the soft fullness of her lips. Desire clenched in his belly. He wanted to reach for her, to kiss her again, to not stop.

  Nicholas cleared his throat. “Very nice,” he said lamely, and put the figurine down before he could drop it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  On Thursday morning, the housemaid Becky Brown returned from visiting her mother. She asked to speak with Isabella.

  Isabella saw her in the book room. Becky entered with Mrs. Early, the housekeeper. They sat at her gesture, Mrs. Early solidly, the girl perching nervously on the edge of her seat. One look at Becky’s face told Isabella that the news was bad. “How is your mother?”

  Becky shook her head, her hands fisted in her apron. “Not good, ma’am. She can’t even get out of bed anymore.” The girl swallowed convulsively.

  “Has she seen a doctor?” Isabella asked.

  The girl nodded.

  Had Becky’s hard-earned money paid for that bill? “What did he say?”

  “He said that there was something growing inside her. That she won’t get better.”

  Isabella was silent for a moment, remembering her mother’s own illness, remembering the day when she had finally acknowledged that the dowager duchess wouldn’t recover. “Would you like to be released from my service?” she asked gently.

  Becky nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Someone needs to look after her and the little ones. My father has to work, you see, so he can’t . . .” She twisted the apron between her hands.

  Isabella nodded. She did see. She glanced at Mrs. Early. “You may leave today, if you wish.”

  Mrs. Early nodded.

  Relief flushed the girl’s cheeks, but she shook her head.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I thought . . . a week, if . . . if it suits you.”

  “Are you certain you don’t wish to leave today?”

  Becky shook her head again. “One of the neighbors said she could stay for a week.” She smiled shyly at Isabella. “I thought . . . a week would give you time to hire someone else.”

  “Thank you, Becky. That’s very thoughtful.”

  The girl’s flush deepened. “You’ve been good to me, ma’am. I didn’t want to leave sudden-like.”

  “Thank you, Becky.”

  When the girl had curtsied and withdrawn, Isabella turned to Mrs. Early. “Will you please go to the registry office again?”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Isabella sighed. “We seem to be going through housemaids rather fast.” She stared at the square of sunlight that caught the corner of her desk, turning the pale wood golden. “We will pay her for this month and the next,” she said, looking up. “And give her references.”

  Mrs. Early nodded.

  “And please ask the cook to make up a hamper of food for Becky when she leaves. Food for her family. Meat pies, fruit, bread . . .” She frowned. What else? “Oh, and some of those plum cakes.” A treat for the children, in the middle of what must be a dark and frightening time for them.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Isabella nodded her dismissal, but halted the housekeeper at the door. “Mrs. Early, are the wax candles still being taken?”

  Mrs. Early turned to face her. “Yes, ma’am.”

  After the housekeeper had gone, Isabella pulled out her ledgers. She looked back through several months of neat columns, noting how many wax candles had been bought and when. Yes, three months ago. She tapped the page with a fingertip, frowning. A slight increase at first. The following month there was a noticeable jump, as if the thief had gained confidence. And this month . . .

  Her lips pursed. I should have noticed this.

  When had she added these figures to the ledger? Last week, when her mind was occupied by Harriet and Major Reynolds.

  Isabella shook her head, unimpressed with herself.

  It was fairly easy to determine how many candles had been stolen, using last year’s figures as a comparison. She tallied the numbers on a sheet of paper. The total made her eyebrows rise. Wax candles were an expensive luxury. If the thief had sold them for only half their true price he or she had made a significant sum.

  Isabella laid down her quill. I don’t like this. It was unsettling to think that there was a thief under her roof. No, it was more than unsettling; it was disturbing.

  Major Reynolds kissed her that night at the Athertons’ ball, after supper, when the quadrille was announced and the room they were in momentarily emptied of dancers. The kiss was as intoxicating as wine, and far too brief.

  On Friday he kissed her at Vauxhall, where they managed to part company from Gussie and Lucas as they wandered through the dimly lit gardens. Major Reynolds held her pressed to him. His mouth burned against hers, hungry. She had the sensation that she was drowning in heat. When at last he raised his head she clung to him, dazed. Her pulse beat loudly in her ears. More, it said. More, more.

  They stood in silence for a long moment, breathing raggedly. She felt the warmth of Major Reynolds’ body pressed against hers, the strength, the solidity. One of his hands stroked lightly down her back.

  Isabella trembled with the pleasure of it. She clutched his lapel and closed her eyes. Is this truly me? Have I gone mad?

  “I like to kiss you,” Major Reynolds whispered against her cheek.

  “I like to kiss you, too.” And she turned her head, her mouth seeking his, kissing him again. Yes, I have gone mad.

  On Saturday she looked at herself in the mirror and scarcely recognized herself. Had her eyes always been this bright, her cheeks this rosy? This is what lust looks like.

  Isabella accompanied her cousin and the Peverills to the opera that evening. She searched the boxes with her eyes. Mrs. Westin’s voice, the voices of Mr. and Mrs. Peverill, were a meaningless blur of sound. Major Reynolds had said that he might . . .

  There he was, on the other side of the chamber, scanning the boxes, swiftly examining each set of occupants before dismissing them.

  Isabella’s heart began to beat faster. She held her breath as their eyes caught across the auditorium. For long seconds they looked at each other, and then the major smiled at her, a smile that made her blush with her whole body. A smile that promised.

  Isabella tore her gaze from him. She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. Anticipation hummed in her veins. She barely heard a word her companions said. The music, when it started, was nothing but noise.

  During the first interval their box filled with friends and acquaintances paying their respects. Major Reynolds didn’t visit. She glanced once across at him—leaning back in his chair, watching her, an ironic twist to his mouth—before firmly turning her attention away.

  When the curtain lowered for the second interval, her cousin and the Peverills expressed the intention to visit the Seftons, in a box opposite. “I shall stay here,” Isabella said, as the others rose.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Mrs. Westin asked, her brow creasing with concern.

  “Oh, no,” Isabella said. “I just want to sit here and be quiet.”

  “Shall I stay with you?” her cousin asked, half-lowering into her seat.

  “Oh, no! I shall just sit and watch people.”

  Mrs. Westin looked dubious, but allowed herself to be persuaded. She followed the Peverills, glancing back once from the doorway.

  Isabella looked across at Major Reynolds’ box. It was empty.

  She looked down at her hands. I was untruthful. How had this happened? How had she become someone who told lies, who stole secret kisses from a man she had no intention of marrying?

  I should stop this. Before I can no longer stand myself.

  “Isabella.”

  The sound of her name, quietly spoken, made her heart lurch in her chest. She turned her head swiftly.

  Major Reynolds stood in the shadows at the back of the box.

  “Nicholas!” She rose.

  The clandestine kisses were wrong. Why, then, did it feel so right when the major took her hands and drew her back into the shadows? When he smiled at her? When he bent his head and kissed her?

  His hands were at her waist, strong, holding her closely against him. Their lips clung together. There was heat and dizzying delight, and then Major Reynolds bowed and was gone.

  Isabella stood alone in the back of the box. She touched a trembling finger to her lips. I have gone mad.

  On Sunday Isabella accompanied her cousin to the Chapel Royal, as was her habit when in London. The day stretched ahead unbearably—no ride in Hyde Park with the major, no dancing tonight. No kiss.

  Isabella looked down at her hymn book. It wasn’t just Major Reynolds’ kisses she would miss today, it was his company, his conversation.

  When had the major come to be such an important part of her life?

  Isabella opened the hymn book and stared blindly at the text. And when did I become so infatuated with his kisses that I became blind to the risks? Last night had been the height of foolishness. To steal a kiss in so public a place!

  And yet she had kissed him quite willingly, had in fact lied to facilitate it.

  Isabella frowned at the hymn book. The lines of text were like centipede tracks across the pages, unreadable. The rector’s voice droned unheard in her ears.

  What she was doing was profoundly wrong. I should stop it, all of it: meeting him, kissing him.

  And yet the thought of no longer seeing Major Reynolds brought something close to panic to her chest.

  When had she come to like him so much?

  The answer was easy: At the Worthingtons’ masked ball. When he had made everyone laugh with him instead of at him. When he’d kissed her for the first time.

  The rector’s voice was rising, the s
ermon coming to its climax. Isabella heard none of the words; they were noise in her ears. How much do I like him?

  The answer was terrifying. She looked up blankly and stared at the rector without seeing him.

  There was a rustle of sound and movement as the congregation stood. Isabella scrambled to her feet belatedly. She had no idea what hymn was to be sung.

  The organ music, when it started, made no sense. The words were unfamiliar. Isabella gripped the hymn book tightly, her fingers crumpling the pages. Was it more than lust? Am I in love with him?

  How could she be in love with a man she’d known such a short time? And, equally as important—or perhaps even more important—how could she love a man who had admitted that he wanted to mold his wife to suit him?

  The organ music stopped. Pages turned with a rustle of paper.

  Isabella thumbed through the hymn book at random, opening it to a new page. She stared down at it blindly. What did she know about Major Reynolds?

  He’d been a good soldier, a good leader of men. The best, Lieutenant Mayhew had said.

  He had a sense of humor.

  When he looked at his scar in the mirror he saw how lucky he was.

  He was proud. He was intelligent. He was courageous.

  Was that enough? Do I want to marry him?

  By his own admission Major Reynolds was an autocrat—although surely he’d been joking? But still, joking or not, he was a man used to command, a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed.

  What would it be like to be such a man’s wife?

  The singing stopped. The congregation sat. Isabella followed, half a second later. She tried to recall her first impression of Major Reynolds: A dangerous man. It was difficult to think of him like that now. When she thought of him, she thought of laughter, of kisses.

  Don’t let the kisses fool you; he’s still a dangerous man.

  How many men had he killed in his twelve years as a soldier?