by Emily Larkin
The girl certainly had the skills to be a seamstress, but . . . Isabella shook her head. She read the next item—Trimming Hats—and shook her head again. Yes, Harriet had the temperament to not mind being indoors all day, sitting and sewing, but . . .
Not an easy way to earn a living, bent over a needle and thread.
Lady’s Maid was the next item on the list. And after that, Kitchen Maid, Housemaid, Nursemaid, and Milkmaid.
Isabella rejected those careers. She looked at the first item again. It was the most promising. Invalid’s Companion. But such a position would be more arduous than the tasks the girl performed here: reading aloud to Mrs. Westin, hemming handkerchiefs and embroidering flowers at the corners. There’d be fetching and carrying, perhaps nursing her employer. And she’s only seventeen, far too young. A child still, not a woman.
She put down the list and looked at Harriet. The girl looked back at her, anxiously. Tears brimmed in her soft brown eyes.
Isabella sighed inwardly. What am I going to do with her? Harriet had been raised to be a gentlewoman, not a servant—although that meant little in these days of economic crisis. Many an indigent gentlewoman eked out an existence as a governess or paid companion, or even a seamstress.
As if Harriet had read her thoughts, she said, “I didn’t put down governess because . . .” She flushed. “Because my grandfather didn’t think that girls need education.”
Of course he didn’t.
Isabella looked down at the list again and thought, not for the first time, how lucky she was. If she’d been born into a different family this would have been her fate: invalid’s companion, seamstress. Or wife, she reminded herself. And that was the best solution for Harriet: marriage. The girl needed someone to look after her.
I need to find a vacant living for Mr. Fernyhough.
And until then . . . could the girl stay as Mrs. Westin’s companion? But openly, without any of the secrecy of the past few weeks.
When Nicholas comes back, I’ll ask him. He deserved a say in Harriet’s future. He had cared enough about the girl to want to marry her.
Harriet was still watching her, her expression anxious. Did she think she was in danger of being thrown out?
“I know you’re dreadfully worried, but you mustn’t be.” Isabella folded the sheet of paper and gave the girl a reassuring smile. “We’ll think of something. And until we do, you shall stay here.”
“I don’t wish to be a burden—”
“You’re not,” Isabella said firmly. “We like having your company.”
Grateful tears trembled on the girl’s eyelashes. “Thank you, ma’am.” She bobbed a curtsy and left the morning room, quietly shutting the door behind her.
Isabella sighed. She looked down at the folded piece of paper in her hand. Damn you, Nicholas. Where are you?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nicholas had needed distance. Distance from London and Lady Isabella, but more than that, distance from thinking. The distance of simply existing in the moment, not remembering what had happened, not feeling any emotions. Yesterday he’d done just that: not thought, merely existed, sitting on the rough wooden bench in front of the inn, a tankard in his hand, the sign creaking above his head, watching the world go by.
Today it was time to make decisions. He chose the bench in front of the inn again and laid the facts out in his mind.
Firstly, Lady Isabella had sheltered Harriet.
For that, he could only thank her.
Secondly, she had named him for an ogre.
He grimaced at memory of Gussie’s ball, the whispers and the sniggers, the sideways glances, his rage in discovering what he was being called. Ogre.
He waited for fury to resurface. It didn’t.
So, Lady Isabella had named him for an ogre. But it hadn’t been intentional. She’d said so, and he believed her. Isabella was someone who rescued kittens from rivers; she wouldn’t deliberately harm anyone. A mistake, then. One that he could forgive.
Thirdly, she had lied to him.
That was the most painful memory. Lady Isabella had lied to his face. He could recall the moment, the time and the place: late afternoon in Hyde Park, with the sun low in the sky and a breeze lifting the leaves on the trees. He’d sat alongside her in the phaeton and spoken of his intention to find Harriet’s benefactress. Isabella had been beautiful. And tense.
I was angry. And she was afraid.
And so she had lied to him.
In that context it was understandable. More than that, it was forgivable.
Nicholas sighed.
Isabella had planned to tell him, to reveal her lie. Nicholas, she had said. There’s something I must tell you. About Harriet Durham.
But he’d been too angry to listen, too hurt by her deceit, too betrayed.
Nicholas grunted. Idiot. Isabella had made a mistake, several mistakes, but her intention had never been to harm him.
Everyone makes mistakes. It’s part of what makes us human.
And he’d made a mistake, too, calling on her immediately after Mr. Shepherd’s visit, allowing his hurt pride to rule him, accusing her of keeping her friends close and her enemies closer.
He could hear her voice, see the tears shining in her eyes: It wasn’t like that at all!
And he had known that, even when he’d thrown the accusation at her. What had grown between them, the friendship, the laughter, the kisses—that had been genuine, it had been real, it hadn’t been a game.
I love her. And I think she loves me.
No, he corrected himself. It was possible that Lady Isabella had loved him—and even more possible that she no longer did. Because the mistake he’d made on Wednesday was quite as bad as any she’d made.
Nicholas pushed to his feet and strode around to the stableyard, calling for the ostler. “My horse! As fast as you can!”
Isabella called at Major Reynolds’ house in Albemarle Street on Friday afternoon. He was still out of town.
“Would you like to leave a message, ma’am?” the butler asked.
“No,” Isabella said. No messages, no ink on paper.
She turned away and walked down the steps. Partridge said nothing. She was wearing her expressionless servant’s face. What did she think of this second trek to Albemarle Street?
Rufus was easy to read. He didn’t care. He lifted his leg against one of the steps—fortunately the butler had closed the door—and then pranced ahead of her, sniffing the fence railings in passing.
When they reached Clarges Street, Isabella’s steps slowed. She halted outside her house.
Partridge halted, too, silent. Rufus sat on the doorstep and waited.
Isabella stared up at the house, at the blank windows. She didn’t want to go inside, to sit with her regrets and her grief, her helplessness.
I need to face the world. She needed to do. Something. Anything.
Accordingly, at five o’clock, she drove to Hyde Park in her phaeton. Her appearance caused a slight stir. People stopped their carriages to greet her, to ask whether she’d been unwell.
Isabella smiled and kept her replies vague.
No one inquired whether her two-day disappearance from the parks and ballrooms had anything to do with Major Reynolds’ abrupt departure from London, but she was certain some of them were thinking it.
Isabella found that she didn’t care. The fresh air, the sunlight, the breeze on her face, lifted her spirits. No more hiding, she told herself as she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. From now on I face the world.
She unbuttoned her gloves and pulled them off. “I shall be going out tonight, Partridge. The Griffiths’ ball. I shall wear . . . the cream slip and the peony red robe.” Red for courage.
“Very good, ma’am.”
Isabella dined with her cousin and Harriet, and then went upstairs to change. She surveyed herself in the mirror once she was dressed—the cool folds of cream silk falling to her ankles, the red crêpe robe fastened over her bosom with rosettes of
pearls, the long gloves, the satin dancing slippers, the pearl and ruby earrings dangling from her earlobes.
A maid tapped on her door. “The Washburnes’ carriage is here, ma’am.”
“Excellent,” Isabella said. She took a deep breath—Courage—and picked up her reticule and fan.
The Griffiths’ ball was one of the larger events of the Season, and the mood of the evening—gay, hectic—caught Isabella up almost as soon as she and the Washburnes entered the brightly lit ballroom. It was easier than she’d expected to lock her emotions away and fix a smile on her face. She enjoyed it all: the music, the conversation, the laughter, the dancing. Especially the dancing.
After a particularly energetic contredanse, Isabella retired to the side of the ballroom to drink a glass of champagne and fan herself. Gussie and Lucas joined her. Lucas was red-faced and panting. “I’m too old for this,” he said. “If you have any compassion, Isabella, you’ll lend me your fan.”
Isabella laughed and handed it to him. “Where’s yours?” she asked Gussie.
“Lucas stepped on it,” Gussie said, pulling a face. “And it was made of ivory!”
“Not my night,” Lucas Washburne said ruefully, fanning himself.
Gussie reached out and took his free hand.
The glance that they exchanged—loving, amused—made Isabella’s throat close. She looked hastily away and swallowed a mouthful of champagne.
The dance floor was empty. Guests milled around the edges, talking and drinking and laughing. At the far end of the ballroom, a man paused beneath the arch of the doorway. His face was in shadow but he had a soldier’s bearing, a soldier’s way of standing quietly and observing.
He could almost have been Major Reynolds, except that the major wasn’t in London.
Isabella averted her gaze. She took another hasty swallow of champagne. Her pleasure in the evening had evaporated. I want to go home.
“Nicholas is here,” Gussie said.
Isabella looked around.
The man had stepped into the blaze of light from the chandeliers. He was walking towards them. His hair was brown, his face tanned. A scar was livid across his left cheek.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lady Isabella stood tensely, watching him approach. She was dressed in rich cream and deep, flowing red. Pearl and ruby earrings hung from her earlobes. A sybaritic outfit, if she hadn’t been so pale, so tense.
“Evening, Gussie,” Nicholas said. “Lucas. Lady Isabella.”
The musicians struck the opening notes to a new dance as he bowed over Lady Isabella’s gloved hand. A waltz.
“May I have this dance?” he asked her.
Lady Isabella seemed to grow even tenser, even paler. She swallowed. Her eyes meeting his were . . . what? Scared, he realized. She thinks I’m still angry.
He smiled to reassure her and repeated the question. “May I have this dance?”
Isabella hesitated. He watched her inhale a shallow breath, watched her swallow again. She nodded.
Nicholas held out his arm. After another hesitation she laid her hand on it.
They walked out onto the dance floor, something they’d done dozens of times before. Tonight it was different. Isabella was a queen in that outfit, the cream and the red, the rubies and the pearls, and yet she had shrunk into herself. She was tense, uncertain.
A bow, a curtsy, and her hand was in his, but their dancing was awkward tonight. Isabella’s grace, the ease with which they’d matched steps, were gone. This was a foolish idea. He should have waited until tomorrow, waited to speak to her alone.
“Isabella,” he said softly.
Her head was bowed. She didn’t look up at him.
Words gathered on his tongue. I forgive you for lying to me. I haven’t come to upbraid you, I’ve come to ask you to marry me. I love you.
Nicholas opened his mouth, looked up, and met the gaze of Lady Faraday. She was dressed in a frilled gown of jonquil yellow. The yellow made her look sallow, the frills old. Beneath a tall headdress of dyed ostrich feathers her eyes were bright and interested.
Nicholas shut his mouth. He steered himself and Isabella in the opposite direction.
“Nicholas.” Her voice was low, so low he barely heard it.
He bent his head.
“Nicholas, I—” Isabella’s voice choked. Her hand shook faintly in his. She’s trying not to cry, he realized suddenly.
His throat tightened. Something clenched in his chest. He drew her more closely to him and guided her to the edge of the dance floor.
Isabella didn’t look up when he halted, releasing her. “Nicholas,” she said again. He heard tears trembling in her voice, as the ruby and pearl drops trembled from her earlobes.
“Not now,” he said, placing a hand in the small of her back and guiding her with gentle pressure towards the nearest open door. It was the refreshment room, empty except for a liveried servant replenishing the lemonade.
“Forgive me,” he said, lifting a hand to touch her cheek and then halting the gesture, aware of the servant. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No.” Her voice was low, rushed, barely audible above the strains of the waltz. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. For everything that happened.”
Behind them the servant bustled, collecting used glasses on a tray.
“Nicholas . . .” She raised her head and looked at him.
Lady Isabella had looked at him like that once before, with tears shining in her eyes. Then, he had walked away; now, he had to clench his hands to stop from reaching for her.
“It was a mistake. I only ever said it once. Ask Gussie, she was there.”
The servant departed with a tray of dirty glasses.
Nicholas unclenched his hands. He reached for Isabella, pulling her towards him. “I don’t need to ask Gussie,” he said, speaking the words against her temple. His lips brushed her skin. Her hair was soft against his cheek. “I believe you.”
She inhaled a quick, shaky breath. He felt her tension, the faint shaking of her body. She was close to the humiliation of being seen crying in public. My fault. I should have waited until tomorrow.
“Did you come with Gussie?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Go get your wrap. I’m taking you home.” He released her, stepping back. “I’ll tell Gussie.”
Isabella nodded. Her head was bowed, gloved fingertips pressed to her mouth.
Nicholas clenched his hands again. He wanted to take her in his arms, to hold her as tightly as he could. “Go,” he said. “I’ll meet you in the vestibule.”
Isabella lifted her head. She looked at him. “Nicholas . . .”
Tears, shining in those gray-blue eyes.
Nicholas cleared his throat. “Go,” he said again, his voice hoarse, and he reached for her, cupping the nape of her neck with one hand, bending his head and kissing her brow, her skin smooth and warm beneath his lips, then he turned on his heel and strode from the refreshment room. A servant stepped back to let him pass, bearing a tray of fresh glasses. The waltz was still playing.
Lady Isabella was waiting for him in the vestibule. She stood pale and silent beside him as a linkboy hailed a hackney. Nicholas took her hand as soon as they were inside. The interior was musty and smelled faintly of onions.
“I apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come tonight. It was ill-judged of me.”
“I thought you were out of town.” Her voice was a whisper. “Your butler said—”
His butler said that she had called twice, asking to speak with him.
“I was. I should have come back sooner. I’m sorry.”
“Where were you?” A diffident whisper, as if she had no right to ask him.
“Getting some distance.” Nicholas tightened his grip on her hand. “I apologize for leaving so abruptly on Wednesday.” He’d been afraid he would say something unforgivable, had in fact come very close to it in his rage, in his hurt pride. “The things I said to you were—” Unpardonable, ine
xcusable. “I allowed my anger to rule me. Can you ever forgive me?”
Silence filled the carriage. He was acutely aware of its sway, of the rattle of wheels on stone, of the clop of the horse’s hooves, and even more acutely aware of Isabella’s silence. She’s going to say no.
And then he realized that her head was bent, her free hand pressed to her face. “Isabella?” he said, reaching out to touch her cheek.
She was weeping.
Nicholas’s heart clenched in his chest. He moved closer on the lumpy seat, putting an arm around her. “What is it? Please tell me.”
She didn’t lean into him, as he’d hoped. She stayed stiff and tense, miserable.
“Please,” he said. “Isabella . . . tell me.”
For a long moment she was silent, then she inhaled a shuddering breath. “You’re asking me to forgive you, when it’s all my fault—”
“Ah,” Nicholas said, finally understanding.
“I called you an ogre,” she sobbed.
“Yes,” he said, stroking the nape of her neck lightly with his thumb. “You did.”
“I wish I’d cut out my tongue before I said such a thing!” She was crying in earnest now.
Nicholas drew her closer. He put both his arms around her. “As I understand it, it was a mistake.”
“And then I lied to you.” Isabella was crying so hard that the words were hard to decipher.
Nicholas rested his cheek on her hair. “That was my fault,” he said. “You were afraid of me.”
She shook her head against his chest. Her sobs were deep and wrenching.
Nicholas held her, rocking her gently, his face pressed into her hair. Have you been this miserable, my lady? “Shh,” he whispered. “It’s all right.”
Her head moved again, a shake, a negation.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s in the past. A mistake we made, you and I. And one day . . .” He drew in a deep breath—Listen to me, Isabella. Hear what I’m saying. “And one day, we will laugh about this. When we’re married.”