Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The drawing room hummed with the polite chatter of ladies at tea, the delicate clink of china that almost sounded like rhythmic music in the background of their conversations.
Isobel sat among them, a cup of tea cooling in her hands, playing the part of the bride-to-be who was eager to be wed in a handful of days.
She tried to focus on the conversations surrounding the latest fashion and the weather rather than the memory of Richard's hands on her body mere hours ago.
She could still feel the ghost of his touch, the way his fingers had worked magic between her thighs, the commanding tone of his voice when he had told her she was his. Heat flooded her cheeks at the thought, and she quickly took a sip of tea to cover her reaction.
“Are you feeling well, Valerie?” Bridget asked from across the small table, her expression a strange mix of reproach and concern. “You seem rather flushed. If you are going to faint, do so in your room so you do not spoil the afternoon for the rest of us.”
“I am quite well, thank you,” Isobel replied quickly, willing herself to come to her senses, whilst ignoring the dig from her cousin. “The tea is simply a bit hot.”
“You must take care not to overtax yourself,” another lady – Mrs. Pemberton, if Isobel remembered correctly – chimed in. “You only recently recovered from your illness, after all.”
“I assure you, I am quite all right, but thank you for the concern,” Isobel said with what she hoped was a convincing smile.
She was saved from further questions by the arrival of Deborah, who swept into the room with an air of pleasant authority.
But as Isobel's aunt settled into the chair beside her, Isobel noticed something different about her demeanor.
There was a tension around Deborah's eyes, a tightness to her smile that had not been there before.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Deborah greeted warmly, though Isobel detected a slight edge beneath the pleasantness. “What a lovely gathering.”
The other ladies welcomed her with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and conversation resumed. But Isobel felt Deborah's gaze on her repeatedly. Each time she looked at her aunt, the older woman would smile pleasantly, and the act would make Isobel strangely wary.
“Valerie, dear,” Deborah said after a few minutes, leaning closer in a conspiratorial manner. “I was just thinking about your childhood the other day. Do you remember that summer when you were perhaps seven or eight, and we all went to Brighton?”
Isobel's heart lurched, and it took all her strength not to portray her fear on her face. She had no such memory because at that age, she had been in Scotland, learning to fish in mountain streams and helping her mother in the garden.
“Brighton?” she repeated, buying herself time to think.
“Yes, surely you remember!” Deborah pressed, though her smile did not quite reach her eyes. “You and your father stayed at that lovely house near the shore. You were so frightened of the waves at first, but by the end of the visit, we could barely get you out of the water.”
Isobel's mind raced as she wondered what the story could be and if there was any way to escape this without ruining whatever progress they had attained this far.
Was this a genuine memory Deborah was recounting, or a test?
The way her aunt was watching her, the subtle intensity beneath her pleasant expression – it felt like a trap.
“I...” Isobel started, frantically trying to decide how Valerie might respond.
Would she remember clearly, or might she have lost some memories as a result of a childhood illness?
Clearing her throat, she took a shot in the dark, hoping she had not just pointed the gun at her own feet.
“I'm afraid that particular summer is a bit... vague in my mind.”
“Vague?” Deborah's eyebrows rose slightly. “But it was such a memorable trip. Surely you recall the sandcastles we built? The éclair chef who came by every afternoon?”
The other ladies were watching now, sensing something in the exchange, though perhaps not understanding what. Isobel felt panic beginning to claw at her throat. She opened her mouth, unsure what words would come out –
“Miss Wightman.”
Richard's voice cut through the tension like a blade. Isobel's head whipped toward the door, where the Duke of Dellamere stood, looking every inch the powerful nobleman despite the careful way he held his right side.
Relief crashed over her so powerfully she nearly gasped aloud.
“Your Grace,” she managed, setting down her teacup with hands that she hoped appeared steadier than they felt.
“Forgive the interruption, ladies,” Richard said with a polite bow that somehow managed to convey both respect and authority.
“But I was hoping Miss Wightman might join me for a walk around the grounds. The weather has held, and I thought she might enjoy the fresh air after being confined indoors these past days.”
“Oh, but we were just having such a lovely conversation,” Deborah protested, though her smile had grown strained. “Perhaps later –”
“I'm afraid I have commitments later this afternoon,” Richard interrupted smoothly.
“And I did promise husband-to-be that I will ensure that her health and wellness are taken care of. Especially after the brief bout of illness she suffered from.” He turned his gaze directly on Isobel.
“Unless you are too fatigued, Miss Wightman?”
“Not at all,” Isobel said quickly, already rising from her seat. She could not keep the smile from her face, could not hide the way her entire being seemed to light up at the sight of him. “I would be delighted. I simply need to fetch my cloak and gloves.”
“I will wait,” Richard said, his voice gentle in a way that made her stomach twist with warmth.
The softness in his tone, the way he looked at her as though she were the only person in the room – it was almost too much. Isobel felt something flutter anxiously in her chest, something that felt dangerously close to hope.
“If you will excuse me, ladies,” she murmured, already moving toward the door.
She practically fled from the drawing room, acutely aware of the curious gazes following her departure. One gaze in particular felt heavy, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Once in the hallway, she paused to catch her breath, pressing a hand to her racing heart.
That had been too close. Far too close. If Richard had not appeared when he did –
“Miss Wightman.”
Isobel jumped slightly, turning to find Richard had followed her into the hall. “You frightened me.”
“My apologies.” He moved closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. “Are you all right? You looked rather distressed when I entered.”
“My aunt was asking me about a childhood memory I do not have,” Isobel admitted quietly. “I think... I think she suspects something.”
Richard's expression darkened. “We will need to be more careful. But for now, fetch your things. A walk will do us both good, and it will remove you from her scrutiny for a time. We can talk some more outside.”
Isobel nodded, grateful beyond words. As she hurried to collect her cloak and gloves, she found herself marveling at the strange turn her life had taken.
Less than a week ago, she had thought Richard Harte insufferable.
Now, he had filled several roles in her life, one of which was the role of protector, when he had every reason to distance himself from this mess.
When she returned, properly bundled against the cold, Richard offered his arm – his left arm, she noted, protecting his injured shoulder. She took it without hesitation, and together they made their way outside.
The afternoon air was crisp and clean, the snow crunching beneath their feet as they walked across the grounds. For a few minutes, they simply moved in comfortable silence, putting distance between themselves and the house.
“Thank you, again,” Isobel finally said. “For rescuing me back there.”
“There is no better blessing to a gentleman than knowing he was there when he was needed. It was my pleasure,” Richard replied coyly.
Isobel giggled, and the walk continued, both of them casually discussing the most mundane topics. This was the most Isobel had spoken to someone who was not her sibling. It was truly strange how quickly she had adapted to the duke’s presence.
He glanced at her, something unreadable in his expression. After a few moments, he spoke up.
“I have a question for you.”
“I can only hope I have an answer,” she teased with a smile, but upon noticing his serious expression, she said, “You may ask whatever you wish.”
“You said before that you planned to become a nun after this business with your sister is resolved. I find myself... curious about that decision.”
Isobel felt her earlier contentment begin to waver. “It seems the most sensible choice.”
“Does it?” Richard pressed gently. “You have a family who loves you in Scotland. What about your siblings? Surely they could help you make a good match if you wished it.”
“I do not wish it,” Isobel said, more sharply than she intended. She took a breath, trying to moderate her tone. “They are all married and are busy with their families. I do not wish to burden them, and I have no desire to marry an Englishman.”
“Any Englishman?” There was something odd in Richard's voice, almost offended. “That seems rather... encompassing.”
Isobel was quiet for a long moment, wrestling with whether to tell him. But after what they had shared, after the intimacies they had explored, was honesty truly too difficult to offer?
“I had a London Season,” she began quietly. “Three years ago, when I was twenty. My siblings thought it would be good for me, an opportunity to see more of the world beyond Scotland. And I...” She laughed bitterly. “I was excited, foolish girl that I was. I thought it would be an adventure.”
Richard said nothing, simply listened, and somehow that made it easier to continue.