Love for all Seasons

by Knight-Catania, Jerrica

  Oh, heavens. This was not good. Isabel could recite sections of encyclopedias, she could speak eloquently for hours on Ancient Egyptian civilization, she could rattle off the anatomy of any number of mammals and reptiles—and fish, too, for that matter—but she’d never, for the life of her, been able to remember the steps of an English country dance. She was about to ruin her sister’s wedding dance.

  Good God above, Isabel was a positively dreadful dancer. She looked like a frightened deer moving about the floor with all the grace and elegance of hippopotamus. Damien wanted to laugh. No, that wasn’t adequate enough. He wanted to collapse on the floor and roll about, letting this image get the better of him. Never had he seen such a sight. And never had he imagined that such a woman would enamor him. To add to her list of qualities that no man would or should ever desire, she was a most horrific dancer.

  It was just her luck, though, that he, her partner in this morning’s dance, was an excellent dancer—excellent enough to guide her through the set without letting on to the bystanders.

  “Relax your forehead,” he whispered when they came together. “Smile. Not like that.”

  “But that’s how I smile,” she replied through clenched teeth.

  He put his hand to the small of her back and gently pushed her to the other side of the floor, where she was forced to partner with Heathfield for a moment.

  When they met again, he said, “I’ve seen you smile. That is not your smile.” She turned under his arm. “No, no,” he muttered, spinning her in the opposite direction. “This way.”

  “This is hopeless.” Her tone held defeat. “I’m just going to leave.”

  Isabel tried to go, but Damien held onto her hand and dragged her back into the dance. “You’re doing fine.”

  “But I’m not—”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “It’s not that—”

  “Isabel.” They were joined by their hands, moving in a circle around themselves now. “Do you trust me?”

  Isabel contemplated his question for a moment, which led to her downfall. She lost her footing and tripped over Heathfield’s boot. She stumbled a bit and would have gone headfirst into the marble floor, if not for Lockwell. Never once did he let go of her hand. He yanked her upright and she was back in the dance before she’d even had time to register what had happened.

  Lockwell gave her a challenging look. How could she deny her trust in him now?

  She didn’t answer, but she didn’t go. She assumed that would be answer enough. Several minutes later, the set finally came to an end, and much to Isabel’s surprise, no one had landed on their backside.

  “Oh, Izzy, when did you learn to dance?” Emma said, rushing to her side. “Everyone’s toes are still miraculously intact.”

  Isabel smiled at her sister. “I—I don’t know. I suppose I owe it to my partner.”

  Emma’s eyes drifted to Lockwell, then back to Isabel. “Izzy,” she whispered. “Do you fancy Mr. Lockwell?” Her eyes lit with excitement.

  “Emma, of course not! Besides, it’s your wedding day. You shouldn’t be thinking about me.” She gave her sister a little shove towards Heathfield. “Go, be with your husband.”

  Once Emma’s eyes found Heathfield, she didn’t even spare another glance for Isabel. Isabel couldn’t blame her; it was possible she was starting to understand how Emma felt about her Heathfield.

  She turned to look at Lockwell. He stood nearby, a smug expression on his face, his hair ruffled, his cravat slightly askew…and all Isabel could think about was kissing the smugness off his face, ruffling his hair even more and tearing the cravat from his neck altogether. However, they were still at her sister’s wedding, in a room full of her kin. Not to mention, Grandpapa was headed right their way.

  “Isabel,” he said, placing a kiss upon her cheek. “How are you holding up, dear?”

  She gave her grandfather a slight smile. “I’ll be all right, Grandpapa. It was just a bit sudden, that’s all.”

  “Yes, I know, dear.” He smiled warmly at her, and Isabel knew it was a smile that not too many people got to see. “But you can’t stand in the way of true love.”

  Isabel nodded, and then her grandfather shifted his focus to Lockwell.

  “I’ll see you in my study, Lockwell.”

  Damien resisted the urge to shout, “Now?” at the old duke, but instead, he simply nodded his head, winked at Isabel and then followed the man from the room. They were silent as they walked down the corridor together and Damien remained slightly behind Danby.

  Eventually they came to a stop, and Danby led him into a study that was very typical of a man of his stature. Dark wood, dark furniture, strategically placed bottle of brandy and scotch.

  “Sit down,” the duke instructed.

  Damien sat.

  “Scotch?”

  “Please.”

  “Do you care for my granddaughter?”

  “Eh, that depends. Which one, my lord? You do have a great many of them.”

  “Ah, so you’re a clever one, aren’t you?” Danby handed over a tumbler of scotch and then sat in the towering leather chair behind the desk.

  “I do endeavor to be, Your Grace.”

  “Do you endeavor to be in my granddaughter’s bed?”

  Damien was taken aback by the blunt nature of the question. “I—I…”

  “You will marry her first, will you not?”

  Damien sputtered and stuttered some more. He hadn’t realize the duke had been watching him, though when he thought about it, he and Isabel had been thick as thieves the last day or so. He just couldn’t help it—if she was in the room, he wanted to be near her. It was her conversation he longed for. Her smile, her laugh…

  Damn it, he’d really gotten himself in a pickle now, hadn’t he?

  “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, admitting defeat. “I will marry her first.”

  That afternoon, Isabel was able to finally escape to her room. She needed some time to think—to reflect on the night before, that morning, and her feelings in general, which were spinning out of control. She wished she could talk to Emma about all of it, but obviously, the days of running to Emma with her problems were behind her.

  There were a good many cousins in the castle now, many of them female and of her approximate age, but none that she knew well enough to trust with her deepest, innermost thoughts.

  Isabel sighed and plopped onto her bed, wondering what it was that Grandpapa had wanted to speak with Lockwell about.

  She bolted upright. Oh, no. Hadn’t Grandfather insisted on a meeting with Heathfield just last night? And now Emma and Heathfield were married, mere hours later.

  Bugger. There were those blasted mixed feelings again. Part of her thought it might not be so bad to be wed to Lockwell. All right, most of her actually thought it would be more than pleasant to have him for a husband.

  However, the rest of her—the parts of her that had ruled her life since she could read and speak and think for herself—realized what a hideously ridiculous idea it was to fall in love and marry.

  She cocked her head to the side, staring blankly out the window. Why did she think that? Two days ago, she was sure she would have had an answer, but now…

  A scratch came at her door. “Enter.”

  Nancy poked her head through. “Your mother wishes to see you, Lady Isabel. Says you ought to be hosting your cousins, not hiding away in your room.”

  Isabel rolled her eyes. “I knew it was too good to be true, Nancy.”

  “Sorry, miss.”

  “Is it too much to ask that I get a few moments of peace this week?” She stood from the bed and smoothed her now rumpled skirts.

  “I think so, miss. Best to just accept that so you don’t get your hopes up.”

  Isabel nodded. “You’re right, Nancy. There is nothing worse than false hope.” Which was exactly why she needed to reassess her feelings and expectations regarding Lockwell. Of course they weren’t going to get married. They hardly kn
ew each other. It was one thing for Emma to marry Heathfield—they’d known each other for years. Heathfield was a long-time friend of the family, and Emma had pined for him for years. It was only natural that it ended up as it did.

  Lockwell, however, was still a scoundrel and a wastrel. He may have been kind to her, and he may have knocked her off her toes with that kiss last night, but a wolf in sheep’s clothing was a still a wolf. Wasn’t he?

  That evening, all the family gathered in the drawing room after dinner for another evening of wassail and general merriment. Even the happy couple (who had been mysteriously absent all afternoon) joined them.

  Lockwell sat at the pianoforte and several of the cousins circled ‘round to sing carols with him. Isabel had already made a fool of herself once today; she would stay as far away from the pianoforte as possible this evening.

  “Izzy.” Emma came up beside her and looped her arm through Isabel’s. “Will you take a turn about the room with me?”

  Isabel raised her brows at her sister. “A turn about the room? When have you ever asked me to take a turn about the room?”

  Emma smiled sadly at her. “I know it’s horribly formal, but…well, I don’t anticipate that we’ll have much time to talk going forwards. Not like we used to anyway.”

  Damn her sister, she was going to make her cry right here in the middle of a room full of people. Isabel looked up at the coffered ceiling, took a deep breath and then exhaled. There. Much better. “Well, then I guess we’d better make do with a turn about the room.”

  They started off, slowly making their way to the perimeter of the room. When they were out of earshot of anyone else, Emma asked, “How are you, Izzy?”

  It seemed like a silly and pedantic question for a sister to ask her twin, but it was leaden with concern and deeper meaning.

  “It’s not going to be easy, but I will survive.”

  “I’m so sorry, Izzy. I never expected for it to happen so quickly. I hate to think of you here all alone.”

  Isabel started to laugh at the notion of being alone—it was hard to imagine when the castle was overrun with relatives. But then she thought ahead to after Christmas. After everyone left, including Emma. Then she would truly be alone. How very depressing.

  Here she was, desperate for a moment to herself, complaining about all the blasted cousins taking over her home, but in a few days she would have no one. Except her parents and Grandpapa, of course, but they hardly counted.

  Oh, dear. What would she do without Emma at music lessons? Or the embroidery circle Mother forced them to participate in? Emma always embroidered something for Isabel the night before, so she could simply pretend to embroider and then show her mother a finished product when the time was up. There would be no more hiding behind Emma now. Her mother would truly know what a disappointment she was to the fairer sex.

  However, Isabel was not about to let on to her sudden case of despair over the whole matter. She patted Emma’s hand and smiled kindly at her. “You mustn’t worry about me, Em. I shall be fine. And you know how much I value my solitude. I shall never even know you’re gone.”

  Emma started a bit, and tears formed in her eyes. Oh, bother. She’d buggered it up, hadn’t she?

  “Oh, Em. I didn’t mean it that way,” she amended. “Of course I shall miss you tremendously. I just don’t want you to worry for me. Really, I will be fine.”

  It was too late to stop the tears—they trickled down Emma’s cheeks, despite her smile. “I will always worry for you, Izzy.”

  They embraced one another and when they parted, Heathfield appeared beside them. Isabel gave him a smile and then nudged Emma in his direction.

  “Shall we retire, sunshine?” he asked, but it was obvious that mere sleep was not on his mind.

  Clearly, Emma felt the same way. She nodded, then took Heathfield’s arm, and left the party. Isabel looked about the room. She should try to make conversation with her cousins, but she truly wanted nothing more than to retire herself.

  “Isabel, you are not being a very gracious hostess.” Her mother’s censure slithered over her, bothering her even more than it usually did.

  “I know, Mother,” she replied. “I’m sorry. I think I’m feeling ill.”

  “Isabel, I know you prefer quiet and solitude so you can…read your books,” she said, biting out the words as if they were poisonous. “But you will not shirk your duties. Go and talk with your cousins.”

  Desperate times called for desperate measures. Isabel wanted to leave, and so leave she would. But rather than argue, she simply sought to prove her point with her actions.

  She brought her hand to her mouth as she pretended to be sick to her stomach. It was simple, really, to make herself nearly vomit. When she was ten, she’d practiced for hours trying to make it look and sound real. All her hard work had paid off. Mother backed up in horror, and then put her arms around Isabel’s shoulders.

  “Oh, dear. You really are ill, aren’t you?” she said as she ushered Isabel from the room.

  Mother waved a servant over and instructed him to call for Nancy. Isabel felt a little bad at calling Nancy from her sleep, but it couldn’t be helped. They continued towards the staircase—Mother was absolutely terrified that Isabel might toss up her accounts in the middle of the corridor. Nancy met them on the stairs and took over the duties of escorting Isabel to her room while Mother returned to the party.

  Once they were safely inside her room, the door shut firmly behind them, Isabel collapsed on the bed in a fit of giggles.

  “Have you lost your mind, miss?” Nancy asked, coming to the edge of the bed.

  Isabel wiped tears from her eyes. “I think that is a definite possibility, Nancy.”

  Damien watched Isabel leave the room, hunched over with her mother’s arms around her shoulders. Dear God, was she ill? Why did his stomach plummet at that thought? Why did he want to chase after her and mop her brow until she was better?

  And why, why, why hadn’t he run screaming from the castle when the duke asked if he wanted to marry Isabel? How utterly disturbing to realize that in the course of one day, a man such as himself could be brought to his knees by a woman.

  “You play beautifully, Mr. Lockwell,” one of the cousins said. What was her name again? It started with an E…or perhaps it was a C?

  “Thank you,” he said evasively. “Though I fear my hands are getting rather tired. Perhaps someone else would like a go of it?”

  “I’m not nearly as well trained as you, Mr. Lockwell, but I will do my best.” The girl with the E name—or C name—slid into the chair, then looked up at him expectantly. Clearly, she wished for him to linger and tell her what an accomplished player she was, but he had no desire to loll about.

  “Well, enjoy!” he said, and then quickly made his escape.

  Lady Norland had returned, which meant that Isabel was alone in her bedchamber. She could not have been that ill, since her mother felt it was all right to return to the party.

  Damien practically ran the corridors and then he took the stairs two at a time, until he found himself on the floor that housed the twins’ bedchambers. It was easy to figure out which door belonged to Isabel, for there was a great deal of laughter coming from inside of it.

  “Oh, Nancy, you should have seen Mother’s face! I nearly sent her into an apoplexy!”

  “Be careful, miss. You don’t really want to send your mother to an early grave, do you?”

  The laughter died down a bit. “No, of course not,” Isabel said, though he wasn’t certain she told the whole truth. “But it was great fun, and now I don’t have to spend the evening with those…people.”

  Damien took a bit of offense to that since he was, in fact, one of those people.

  “They’re your family, miss!” Nancy sounded appalled.

  “Most of whom have never bothered to darken our doorstep in years. Only because they think Grandpapa is dying and might leave something for them in his will have they returned.”


  “Come now, where’s your Christmas spirit? Why don’t you try seeing the good rather than the bad?”

  Damien had to agree with Nancy. Besides, if he hadn’t assumed the best of Isabel, he never would have followed her to the library yesterday.

  “Oh, fine,” Isabel said. “I will try…tomorrow. For tonight, I just want to go to sleep.”

  “Very well, miss. Do you require anything before I go back to bed?”

  “No, I’m fine, Nancy. Thank you.”

  Damien quickly slid into the shadows as Nancy emerged from Isabel’s bedchamber. Once she was good and gone, he went to the door and scratched.

  “Enter! Did you forget something?”

  Damien slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. Isabel sat at her vanity in nothing but her underclothes. Her long, chestnut hair tumbled over her shoulders and down her back, shining in the candlelight.

  “I forgot to kiss you goodnight,” Damien said.

  Isabel whirled in her chair, obviously startled. “Lockwell, how did you—”

  He crossed the room in few strides and lifted her from the tufted stool so that she stood before him. “Shh, not so loud. You’d think this place would have thicker walls, but I could hear every word you and your maid spoke.”

  “You were eavesdropping again?”

  “I thought you were ill. I came to check on you.”

  She blinked up at him. “Why?”

  Damien couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “But somehow…” He took a deep breath. “Somehow I’ve grown to care about your well-being, Lady Isabel.”

  “You have?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, then you’ll be glad to know that I faked the entire thing.”