They were not her friends, nor could they ever be so. But she had to earn their trust to get close to Sir Isaac.
It was not as though he had shown any interest in spending time in her company, however.
A knock at the door startled Millie from her thoughts. She stood and smoothed the skirt of her gown. “Come in.” No one but the servants knocked, she had learned. Lady Olivia and her brother came and went from every room with the full confidence of those who owned the house and everything in it.
The door opened, and a footman stepped inside. He bowed. “Sir Isaac Fox to see you, Miss Wedgewood.”
Her honest shock kept her from doing more than opening her mouth to reply. But the footman withdrew, leaving the door open, and Sir Isaac stepped inside the little art room.
“Miss Wedgewood.” He said her name with less distaste than the evening before. Almost politely. Then he bowed, his dark eyes barely meeting her gaze before looking away.
Belatedly, she curtsied. What had brought him to her? The night before, everything he had said, how he’d acted, had spoken loudly of his dislike for her.
“What is this room?” he asked, his brows drawing down.
She looked about, knowing he saw what she had the first time she entered it. The room was small. Not at all well-appointed. At the rear of the house, away from all the important rooms. The window let in some usable light, but she had taken to keeping a lamp lit upon the table when she worked. The chairs were not even very comfortable, but straight-backed and wooden.
“It is a room for pursuing artistic endeavors,” she said at last, lowering her eyes to her twists of paper upon the table. She hadn’t even been working upon something impressive. He would think her such a simpleton—not that she cared what he thought so long as she accomplished her goals.
“Oh. My sister would say it is unsuitable for such pursuits.” One side of his mouth went upward, as though he meant to smile but forgot how to manage such an action.
“I would agree with her,” she admitted with honesty. Then Millie remembered her manners. “Will you sit down, Sir Isaac? I could send for refreshment—”
He raised his hand to wave the offer aside. “That will not be necessary. I have come merely to look in on you, Miss Wedgewood. You left quickly last night, and my sister told me you were unwell.”
Millie stared at him, shocked. Likely his sister had put him up to the visit, too. “Thank you, Sir Isaac. I am much better today.”
His head jerked downward in what might have passed for a nod of approval. “Excellent. I am glad to hear it.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you remain well.” He appeared as uncomfortable in the situation as she had been the previous evening. Perhaps she ought to extend an olive branch. There was something almost endearing about the way he stood, tall and straight, but with the air of a boy who had been caught in mischief.
“That is most kind of you, Sir Isaac. Thank you. Please, if you see your sister before I do, give her my compliments. She was most gracious when she brought me home, and I am sorry I broke up the dinner party earlier than what was expected.” There. If he would not apologize for his behavior, she could at least make certain to do so.
Sir Isaac finally met her gaze with his, puzzlement appearing in his warm brown eyes. Heavens, but the man was attractive. Perhaps that was where his arrogance stemmed from, knowing that he was handsome. Though one might think the loss of his arm would humble him, that unfortunate result of war did nothing to detract from his appearance.
“No one worried over the early evening,” he said at last. “But there was a great deal of worry in regard to you. My sister and Mrs. Barnes, they have gentle hearts. I know they both hope to count you as a friend. They were distressed that you could not remain.” He lowered his eyes and cleared his throat. “In fact, if there was anything that I did to hasten your departure, I must apologize for it. I am not the best of company of late. I do not always think before I speak, and—”
An actual apology. A moment before, she never would have expected such a thing. She hastened to interrupt him, wishing to put him at ease. “Not at all, Sir Isaac. Please, think no more of it.”
There. She had given him permission to forget the whole evening, if he wished. “I can understand how difficult it is to have a stranger in the middle of familiar friends.” Millie attempted to smile, but he appeared no more at ease in her company than before. “Thank you for coming to inquire after my health.”
Sir Isaac gave another distracted sort of nod. “Of course, Miss Wedgewood. I had best take my leave now. Good day.” He bowed, turned stiffly on his heel, and left the room. She took a few steps after him, stopping in the doorway to watch his retreating back. When he came to the turn in the corridor, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her there. Swiftly, he snapped his head forward again and disappeared from sight.
How odd.
But promising.
“He is a strange one, miss,” Sarah said from her corner, where she had silently stood during the whole of the exchange.
“I quite agree with you.” Millie closed the door slowly. Her thoughts began spinning again. As she tried to put them in order, a new plan formed. She smiled to herself. “Perhaps things are not as dire as I thought. I may yet fulfill Lady Olivia’s demands.”
Sarah frowned, but pressed her lips together rather than give voice to whatever unpleasant thought had occurred to her. The maid had given up trying to talk Millie out of her course of action, which proved a relief. Every time Sarah had tried, Millie had faltered, had wondered if there was another way to regain her family’s place in Society. She could not afford to be swayed. Not now.
Sir Isaac was her quarry, the fox she meant to trap. If she did not, her mother would never let Millie forget ruining their chances. Everything depended upon her success.
* * *
The house stifled Isaac. He woke up every morning with the desperate need to simply get out of his own home. That morning was no different. The comfortable bed he had enjoyed prior to his time in the military had yet to give him a full night’s rest. He would have slept better in a mud puddle out in the fields.
Despite the stone house’s generous size, and the fact that Isaac and the servants alone lived there, an oppressive weight hung in the air. Perhaps it was merely the disapproval of all his ancestors, staring down at him from their portraits. At least one antiquated painting hung in each room of the old house.
After he deftly put his coat on, something he had practiced many times until getting it precisely right, Isaac tucked the mostly empty sleeve up and pinned it into place. His valet stood behind him, waiting for permission to adjust Isaac’s cravat. “Will you be going far this morning, sir?” Matthews asked, adjusting a fold in the white cloth at Isaac’s neck.
“Not too far, I should think.” His morning walks had become a habit. He took a small breakfast in his room, then rambled about on his estate or by the seashore before returning to the house to see to his daily affairs. In the afternoons, he went riding. The routine had become both blessing and curse. He knew precisely when he might escape the confines of the house and company, but he had tired of the sameness of every day some time previous. The hours spent out of doors cleared his head and relaxed him, but he could not very well set up a canvas tent and camp in his own gardens.
People might think him as mad as he had tried to lead Miss Wedgewood to believe.
Miss Wedgewood.
Isaac trotted down the front steps of his house, walking stick tucked under one arm. This time, he did not smirk to himself over the memory of Miss Wedgewood’s expression when he had described the baronet as touched in the head. Not since the night at Jacob and Grace’s dinner table had he been entertained by that particular memory. It would not do to paint Miss Wedgewood with the same brush as Lady Olivia merely because the two of them kept each other company.
He did not adhere to the usual paths that day, but marched directly through the estate’s meadow, making for the lane. Leaving the c
onfines of the house was not enough. He needed to escape his lands entirely, if only for a few minutes. So he tromped across the grasses, pushed through the hedge, and came to the road. Anyone else who traversed the lane might see him and think his exercise unusual, but he hardly cared.
Most of the neighborhood seemed uninterested in his doings. When Miss Wedgewood had said, during their very first meeting when she had no idea of his identity, that women would flock to a man with his looks, it had taken him by surprise. True, he was still a decent enough catch for women of the gentry class. At least those who did not mind an old title with little prestige.
But Miss Wedgewood had called him handsome. She hadn’t stared at the place his missing arm ought to be, nor had she asked wide-eyed questions about it the way some of the misses in the neighborhood had in an attempt to pretend they understood his difficulties.
Actually. He had almost enjoyed their first meeting. Only the recollection of whose house she occupied bothered him.
He really hadn’t been fair to her at all.
Isaac walked, as though with a purpose, but with no destination in mind. He breathed deeply. Marched in time to an imaginary drummer.
A little more than a year before, he had been presumed dead in one of the last skirmishes between French and British forces. His family had mourned him, and he had arrived barely in time for them to cease preparations for his memorial service. A plaque still graced the church’s wall, actually, though his death date had thoughtfully been removed after Jacob Barnes became vicar.
A man ought to maintain gratitude in his heart to go from dead to living as he had. Yet sometimes, in the loneliness of night, in the midst of his dreams, Isaac wondered why he had lived while so many others, men under his command, his superior officers, his friends, had never come home to England again.
But he could not go on blaming the past for his foul moods or rudeness. Especially to a young woman who had done nothing wrong, save show a bit of curiosity.
His jaw tensed and he used his walking stick to lash out at a branch that dared hang too near the road.
“Dear me,” a voice said from his left, across the dirt track. “Whatever did that bush do to earn your wrath?”
Isaac jerked around, startled. Standing parallel to him was none other than the distracting Miss Wedgewood. “How long have you been there?” he asked, then swallowed when he heard the offensive tone he had used. He had to do better.
She turned and pointed at a break in the trees. “I stepped through there a moment ago and saw you walking. I hadn’t made my mind up whether to call out to you until I saw you mistreating the flora.” Miss Wedgewood faced him again, her expression clear and bright as the morning, one corner of her mouth higher than the other. “Someone must come to the defense of our native plants.”
Whatever did she mean, jesting with him in such a familiar way? He narrowed his eyes at her, attempting to categorize her behavior in a way that made sense. She had been cowed by him at the vicar’s dinner party, generous when he apologized, and now acted as though they were on good terms. No one was that quick to forgive and forget.
Miss Wedgewood did not cross the road to his side, but she took up her walk again. He gave her one glance before doing the same. Eight feet of road divided them.
“You look as though you wish to pick a fight with me again,” she observed, tone amused. “I wish you would tell me how I have offended you, so I might make things right between us. I thought, after your visit, we might be on more friendly terms.”
“That does surprise me. Many in your place would hold me in contempt.” He gave her a swift glance, noting the way her dark auburn hair peeked from the back of her bonnet. In profile, she was quite lovely. Though one might mistake her for a much younger woman, given her stature. “I appreciate the direct approach in your conversation today.”
“Interesting. I was told being direct with you would be a waste of time.” Her lips pursed prettily, and Isaac nearly walked into a branch. He barely stepped around it in time to avoid choking on a mouthful of leaves. “Given your apparent distaste for the family hosting my time in Aldersy, I should not be surprised the advice was ill-conceived.”
Isaac kept his eyes trained upon the path ahead of him, determined not to allow her to distract him again. “I much prefer direct and honest conversation to jests. Anyone who knows me well should know that. I imagine it was Lady Olivia who told you otherwise.”
“Lord Neil, actually. Though I think some of his counsel may have been sound.” She made a thoughtful humming noise, keeping pace with him on her side of the lane. “As you say you prefer directness, might I assume you give the same to others?”
He almost smiled and darted a look at her, finding her expression almost peaceful. “That would be a safe conclusion to draw.”
“Wonderful. Then I hope you will answer my earlier question. What have I done to offend you?” She stopped walking, turning to face him. Her posture was stiff, her chin tilted at precisely the same angle as that of a soldier awaiting inspection. But that peaceful look remained in her eyes, watching him, studying his response with care.
He tucked his walking stick beneath what remained of his left arm as he studied her. Directness. That was what she wanted. What they both wanted. “Your trespass upon my lands, accompanied by your blatant curiosity, followed upon by what you clearly meant as a flirtation at the marchioness’s dinner party sowed the first seeds of distrust. Finding you suddenly turning up near my sister, my friends, deepened my suspicions.”
Even from his distance, he easily saw the way her eyes gleamed at him. While he shared his surname with a creature known for its cunning, he had the sudden thought that Miss Wedgewood appeared more the fox than he did. The shade of her hair contributed greatly to the intelligence reflected in her eyes.
“Your suspicions of what, Sir Isaac?” That corner of her mouth moved upward again, revealing a dimple in her cheek. Did she have another, on the opposite side of her heart-shaped face, to match?
“That you are up to something.” Isaac winced as soon as the words escaped from him. He had no proof. Only a feeling that Miss Millicent Wedgewood had a purpose, a story, she would not be quick to share with him or anyone else.
Quiet laid between them, stretching across several seconds. Her amusement did not fade, but her posture did not relax, either. Finally, she brought her arms up to cross them over her middle while she tipped her head to the side. “I will tell you what I am up to, Sir Isaac. I am here at the home of the marquess to appease my mother.”
He tipped his head back and crossed his single arm over his middle, taking hold of the stick tucked under his war-shortened arm. It was his best way to approximate her guarded stance. “How so, Miss Wedgewood?”
“My family is out of favor with the fashionable set,” she said, and a muscle in her jaw twitched. “We have been for some time, due to circumstances outside of our control. My mother finds the situation deplorable. Unsuitable. When Lady Olivia offered a path back into the good graces of the elite, I was given my orders to make myself useful in whatever way possible.”
She spoke plainly enough, yet Isaac wondered at how she cast her eyes downward at the end of her speech. Miss Wedgewood did not reveal all. Though he hardly blamed her for it. Despite his preference for honesty, he rarely expected to receive it from those outside of his more intimate friends. English Society was built upon the keeping up of appearances, after all, and the forming of alliances. Not from stating the truth baldly and boldly.
Miss Wedgewood continued before he could voice his observations, which he fully intended to do. “Lady Olivia is not overly fond of my company. I think she finds me dull. But I am here, waiting upon her pleasure, until after the marquess’s house party.” Her tone changed, becoming almost indifferent, which made him focus his attention on those words. The indifference was feigned. The way she cut her eyes to one side, the disappearance of the dimple, indicated a deeper emotion than she expressed.
“D
oes it trouble you to be unwanted?” he asked, his usual blunt speech easily slipping from his tongue. He closed his mouth over the question, knowing Essie would take him to task for his lack of gallantry.
But Miss Wedgewood’s shoulders drooped, and she met his gaze squarely again. “Yes. It leaves me quite lonely. And I did flirt with you,” she added, further surprising him. “Because that is what a woman does to gain attention from a man. I also trespassed upon your land to ask questions about you, because what your neighbors said of you intrigued me.” She lowered her eyes and uncrossed her arms, giving her attention to adjusting her gloves. “And I rather like your sister, so the last several times we met had little to do with you and more to do with seeking out her company.”
Her tone undoubtedly indicated a wish to deflate his vanity. Strange, he hadn’t thought he still possessed any of that particular vice. Losing one’s arm tended to keep a man from thinking too highly of himself.
Isaac peered down one end of the road and then the other. No one was about. He crossed to her, tired of keeping the distance between them for no reason other than stubbornness. She watched him come, her eyes widening, but she did not retreat. Instead, she took up that soldier-like posture again, waiting for him to decree whether she passed muster or not.
“Miss Wedgewood, what is it you want?” he demanded, voice lowered as he stared down at her. He did not break eye contact. Did not allow her to look away, either. He watched for the telltale sign of a lie, a truth concealed. Isaac trusted his observations of people more often than he did their words. Even before his military career, he depended upon what his friends had called an ability to discern a person’s true character. The ability came naturally and served him well.
Her clear toffee-colored eyes studied his, as though she practiced her own version of his unique talent. “I want a place in Society. I want people to care whether I exist. I want friends.”
Engaging Sir Isaac: An Inglewood Romance Page 8