But no matter that it was interesting, he found himself regularly looking about the room, hoping to see Lady Isabelle. Was she ill? Had her megrim of the night before presaged something worse? He almost laughed at himself – what business of his was her health and location? None. He turned back to the conversation, and ventured his opinion on the poor manner in which the government had managed the support of permanently injured soldiers returned from the war. His comment set off a round of intense discussion, which actually absorbed his interest for quite some time. Until the moment when he looked up, and saw Lady Isabelle, standing with her sister on the other side of the room.
The winter sun was at its height for the day, and a soft golden light shone through the large windows, drawing her face in gilded sharp relief, a tendril of her hair curled down to fall over her shoulder, and a half smile curved her lips as she listened to whatever her sister was saying. He could not breath. His heart pounded in his chest. He wanted… he did not know what he wanted, in that moment, for the sight of Lady Isabelle had stolen his capacity for coherent thought as well. He realised that he had quite missed the last part of the conversation. He forced himself to turn back to it, to find Lord Selkirk studying him with an annoyed expression.
“I do apologise Lord Selkirk – I was distracted. What was it that you were saying?”
Lord Selkirk snorted.
“Distracted? Ogling young women, I assume. You’ve the reputation for it, so I shouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps you should go and talk to the one who’s taken your fancy.”
“Perhaps I should. But I would like to continue our discussion later, if you are interested.”
“Indeed. You’ve raised some good points, Your Grace, worthy of further discussion.”
Lyon inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, and did as the man had suggested – he moved across the room, towards Lady Isabelle. As he did, Scarpdale approached her, took her hand, and bowed. He held her hand for just a little longer than was proper, then released it as he offered some greeting, and Lady Isabelle said something, giving him a polite nod, although Lyon thought her posture stiff and tense, and wondered again what Scarpdale had said to her, up at the old Abbey ruins.
At that moment, Scarpdale looked up, and saw Lyon approaching. The man’s face twisted into a scowl for a moment, then smoothed to an innocuous calmness. Lyon favoured him with his best darkly brooding glower, and Scarpdale actually paled slightly. He said a few words more to Lady Isabelle, then moved away from her. Lyon was amused – it appeared that Scarpdale found him threatening – the man truly had no courage.
“Good day, Lady Isabelle. I trust that you are well recovered?”
“I am, Your Grace. Much though I like being out in the clear air, I suspect that I took a chill yesterday, which caused my megrim last night. Today I feel much improved.”
Lyon met her eyes, and knew, instantly, that it was a lie. She might be much improved, but it was not a chill that had caused her distress the previous evening. As he held her gaze, she flushed charmingly, and then looked away.
“I am glad to hear that you feel better – let us hope that this evening you will feel well enough to keep company with us after dinner.”
She looked at him for a moment, her face full of consternation, as if he asked something difficult of her. He smiled and waited, but his thoughts worried at the oddness of her reaction.
“I do hope so, Your Grace.”
Her tone implied the exact opposite of her words. Lady Eugenia filled the moment of silence.
“Mother has suggested that we all indulge in parlour games this evening, Your Grace. What do you think of the idea? I find myself of two minds about it, for some parlour games I excessively dislike.”
He dragged his eyes away from Lady Isabelle, and allowed himself to be drawn into a discussion of the relative merits of a range of parlour games, but for every second of the conversation, he was acutely aware of her standing beside him. She was still tense, but not as much as before. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to reassure her somehow – even so small a distress as a tension of the posture was something that he wished to save her from having to feel.
After some time, when the topic had been rather exhaustively explored, he knew that he should move away from her, that monopolising her time was both impolite, and something that would set the gossips going. He did not want to leave her side. But he would do so, for her sake. He excused himself and, unable to resist, took her hand and bowed over it. The touch shot heat to his very core.
Her eyes met his, startled – had she felt it too? He did not know, but he treasured that warmth when he moved away from her. He sought out a footman, and requested a cup of coffee, then found an unoccupied chair in a corner of the room, where he could sit in peace with the drink, and watch everyone around him. Really, he thought to himself some time later, that should have been ‘where he could sit in peace and watch Lady Isabelle’ – for that was what he found himself doing.
She did not move far from her sister or her brother and his wife, almost as if she was using them as a shield against too much contact with other people – with Scarpdale? Eventually, there came a point when he needed to move, to slip out of the room for a short while, to use the necessary. He felt oddly unhappy about letting Lady Isabelle out of his sight, and chided himself for his foolishness – yet the feeling remained.
Once he had done what was needed, to his better comfort, he returned to the hallway. As he did, he saw the flicker of movement in the opposite direction from the parlour. He turned that way, and saw Lady Isabelle go through a door, which must lead into an area towards the back of the house. Where was she going?
Without conscious intent, he found himself moving down the hallway, in the direction of that door. When he reached it, he paused, his hand almost at the handle. What was he doing? Surely this led to a private part of the Castle, and he would be intruding? Yet, almost as if independent of his thoughts, his hand still reached out and turned the door handle. As surely as a magnet, she drew him.
Through the door, he found himself in a short corridor, with another door at its end. There was nothing else.
He moved to that other door as if in a dream, and gently opened it. It let into a conservatory. The rush of warm air tingled across his skin, and the scent of growing things assailed his senses. He stepped through, and shut it quickly – to allow the cold into a place such as this would be a terrible act, for it would likely kill the carefully nurtured plants.
He moved quietly further into the room. At first, the plants blocked his view – a veritable forest of lemon and orange trees in large pots – but once he stepped past them, he saw her. She sat on a marble bench, which was carved all about with lifelike vines and roses. It was just wide enough for two to sit side by side. Her eyes were focused on the glass wall before her, where the conservatory faced upon a small courtyard, set about with cultivated beds which most likely supported a flourishing growth of herbs in the warmer months.
He stood, captivated yet again by her unaffected beauty, and simply watched her. Slowly, without her having moved, or made a sound, he saw a tear slip from her eye and run down her cheek. The sight tore at him, as no more dramatic exhibition of distress ever could. He moved again, without any thought but to comfort her, but to wipe that tear away.
He reached her in a few strides, and she started as his footfalls rang on the stone flooring, and spun towards him. her expression was unguarded, and initially full of fear, which then, as she looked at him, and, he assumed, recognised who came towards her, softened into an almost welcoming look. He sat beside her, presumptuous enough not to ask her permission, and reached out a finger to brush away the tear. Their eyes never left each other, and neither spoke. The tropically warm air wrapped around them, a caress against all chills.
It all seemed dreamlike – a dream that he did not wish to wake from. He leant forward, ever so slowly, and brought his lips to hers, completing the movement that he had begun that morni
ng in the icy gardens. Her lips were soft beneath his, and she did not push him away – indeed, after a moment of stillness, she relaxed, and allowed her lips to open, a small sigh escaping her. He traced those lips with his tongue, delicately exploring, and his arms reached out to enfold her, to pull her to him. She allowed it, indeed, she responded to the kiss, her lips moving against his with unexpected hunger.
Time ceased to exist. There was nothing but Lady Isabelle – her softness under his hands, her scent around him, subtle and intoxicating, and her lips against his. The intensity of the molten heat of desire which ran through his veins shocked him – never had he felt that strongly before. Not even with thrice damned Josephine.
The thought was enough to jar him out of the dreamlike state. What was he doing? What would she think? Here he was, accosting his host’s sister, alone, in a secluded spot. Enough, should they be discovered, for her to be ruined, for a marriage to become mandatory. Even so, he could not regret the kiss. But sense prevailed. He drew away from her gently, let his hands slip down to hold hers. Her eyes were wide, sad, almost bereft, as he drew back.
“I… I apologise. I…”
She shook her head, her expression momentarily full of that bright volatility he had first seen in her.
“Do not apologise. I…” she paused, and he waited, curious. “Your company is welcome… as is your kiss…”
She blushed as she spoke the words, and he was, again, completely sure that she was, essentially, an innocent. An innocent who he was equally sure had been kissed before, but nothing more.
“Then I thank you, my Lady. Please forgive my rashness in coming here. I will admit that I saw you disappear through a door, and my curiosity got the better of me. I cannot regret doing so, but I should leave you – for it would not aid either of us should we be discovered alone.”
She laughed, a slightly brittle sound, higher pitched than her normal voice tones.
“I could, in the difficulty I find myself in… actually welcome such a situation. But that would be most unfair to you, Your Grace. And I would never intentionally entrap a man – no matter that I am wanton enough to enjoy your kiss. I am foolish, and selfish at times, but I would not seek to entrap you to solve my own problems. I would, given the choice, do as my brother has, and marry for love.”
Lyon felt rather as if the ground had shifted under him, as if, in those few sentences, she had made all that he knew of women untrue. But her words had hinted at things far more complex than simply dealing with his importunate behaviour, as had the tear he had brushed from her cheek.
“My Lady, you speak of problems, and I found you here, silently crying. Is there anything that I might do…”
“Your Grace, you have already done all that you can do, by giving me this moment of wanton enjoyment. My problems are mine, all of my own causing, and cannot be solved by anyone else. Although I thank you for asking…”
There was a bitter sadness in her words, and she turned her face away, staring again at the bare herb garden outside the glass. But she did not withdraw her hands from his.
~~~~~
Isabelle felt dizzy again. Dangerfield seemed to have a great ability to cause her to feel so. At least now, she had the reality of his kiss to remember, not just her fevered dreams of it. Such things might be utterly precious if she must face a life with Lord Scarpdale. For she could see no way out of his trap.
She would prefer not to have her ruin taint her entire family in society’s eyes, and what Scarpdale required seemed the only way to prevent that happening. She did not, for a moment, doubt that Lord Scarpdale would do as he had said, if she did not comply with his wishes.
For a moment, as they talked, she had been tempted to tell Dangerfield all of it, to lay her wanton foolishness before him, in all its dreadful detail. For he seemed to care, seemed not to make assumptions about her – unlike almost every other man she had ever met.
But she could not allow the words to fall from her mouth. For was he not well known to be a rake, a dueller, a sometime gambler? A man who was more like to break a woman’s heart than to help her, and certainly not a man who would welcome being caught in a compromise, and forced to marry.
She deluded herself if she thought that she was anything to him, beyond the momentary pleasure of a kiss, no matter how honourable his words sounded.
“Then, Lady Isabelle, I will leave you, rather than stay and risk being found with you, to the detriment of both our reputations. But know that I am observant, and I cannot help having noticed that all is not right with Scarpdale, and whatever he said to you at the Abbey ruins. It is your choice whether you tell me anything of it, or not, but no matter what you may tell me, I can only recommend that you do not trust the man, in any way. If my reputation is reprehensible, his is worse – well, in all but duelling.”
Isabelle gasped. She had not thought that Dangerfield had observed so much, and it troubled her that he had. Who else might also have noticed? But regardless, it made no difference – she could tell no one, and there was no way out of Scarpdale’s trap that she could see. Her foolishness seemed likely to have lifelong consequences – but better that happen to her alone, than to all of her family as well.
“Thank you for your advice, Your Grace.”
He nodded, understanding what she did not say. She would not tell him any more of it.
He bent forward, and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips for a moment – a kiss which spoke of care and concern, not the carnal desire of a rake. Then he rose, bowed, and walked quietly back out of the conservatory, leaving her sitting as she had been.
The tears returned to her eyes, and she let them fall, thinking that perhaps his kiss might be the last caring touch she ever felt from a man. He had been in the conservatory with her for perhaps a mere quarter of an hour, yet, in that time, he had had a profound impact upon her. If they had been found together, she would have gladly married him.
But she doubted that he would have gladly married her!
His kiss had changed everything, and nothing at all.
Chapter Eight
The next two days were a form of subtle torture for Isabelle. At every possible chance he had, Lord Scarpdale watched her, when he walked past her, he always managed to brush his hand against her arm, or her back. Everything he did was designed to remind her that she had no choice, that he would have her, and her dowry, not matter what she wished, and that she would even co-operate, for Eugenia’s sake.
Equally, Dangerfield was never far away, and his eyes also followed her, though with a far gentler look in them. His presence made her remember, over and over, the pleasure of his kiss, the gentleness with which he had brushed the tear from her cheek, and the intensity in his gaze when he had warned her never to trust Lord Scarpdale. The contrast was so extreme, that it was as if she was torn in two. She found herself looking for Dangerfield at every opportunity. He felt safe, and she could no longer pretend that her attraction to him wasn’t there. It was, oh so very strongly. She very much suspected that she could love the man, had circumstances been different.
But circumstances were as they were.
Isabelle was full of despair – for her deadline from Lord Scarpdale was approaching - the Ball was to be the following night - and she didn’t know what to do. The thought of marrying him disgusted her, but if she chose to refuse him, she knew that he would be true to his word, in that at least, and tell Garrett. Garrett would be horrified, but Isabelle was quite certain that he would refuse to pay, would refuse to be blackmailed so.
And then, with no way to obtain what he wanted, Lord Scarpdale would be vindictive, and tell the world at large. At which point, she would be utterly ruined. So, no matter what happened, she was doomed – there was no point in her daydreaming of the Duke of Dangerfield, for when the truth came out, especially in the no doubt lurid form that Lord Scarpdale would cast it, Dangerfield would, like any rightminded man, reject her. A Duke would not want a wife touched by that sort of scandal!
Isabelle almost laughed as her thoughts reached that point. Here she was, dreaming of the idea of marrying Dangerfield, when she barely knew him, all for the sake of one kiss, and the fact that he was kinder to her than Lord Scarpdale. Her imagination was running riot, no doubt because thinking about what life would be like when she was forced to submit to Lord Scarpdale’s demands was so unpleasant that she needed distraction.
She suspected, also, that even if Lord Scarpdale did reveal it all to the world, he would then come back, and offer to marry her – tarnished or not, so long as she came with her dowry. For he would expect, in that situation, Garrett to be glad to be rid of her.
He did not know Garrett very well.
But that was cold comfort – in such a case, she would still end up a disgraced and unmarriageable spinster. And poor Eugenia might end that way too.
Every hour of the day, it all ran around in her mind, an endless spiral of despair, only lightened by the times when Dangerfield spoke to her, or simply stood nearby, looking rather like a ferocious watchdog, as he glowered at Lord Scarpdale. It might have been funny, had her situation not been so dire.
By late afternoon that day before the Ball, she could no longer stand it. Her mother had asked her, twice already that day, if she was quite well, and Isabelle had found it difficult to answer – lying did not sit well with her, but truth was not an option. In the end, she slipped from the room, as most people were playing yet another childish parlour game, and fled to the conservatory. It was rare for anyone else to ever go there, and it was a place where she felt at peace, as much as that was possible at present.
~~~~~
Lyon had never felt so useless in his life. For two days now, he had stayed as close to Lady Isabelle as he could, without generating gossip and attention of the wrong kind. He watched her, wanting more and more to take her into his arms and comfort her, as she became paler and more tired looking, flinching from Scarpdale’s presence every time that he came near her. He still had no idea what Scarpdale had said to her that had stolen the brightness from her, but he intended to find out.
To Dance with the Dangerous Duke: Clean Regency Romance (The Nettlefold Chronicles Book 2) Page 6