Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
I sobel was three hours into the last leg of their journey to Whitby Manor when she realised that something dreadful had happened to her Aunt Ursula. Something so unusual, so impossible, and so frightening, that she could not ignore it any longer. Not even the beautiful new string quartet by Beethoven she had brought to read on the journey could drown out the alarm bells.
Isobel could not say at present what the ailment was, but the terrible fact remained: Ursula had been silent for the entire morning. Not as much as a complaint about the state of the roads had passed her lips. It was the longest Isobel had ever spent in the old lady’s presence without hearing an impudent remark, a piece of unwarranted advice, or a ribald story from the days of the last king.
And worse still, Ursula had the strangest expression on her face. One Isobel had never seen before. Could it be that the old termagant actually looked… guilty?
Isobel closed her sheaf of music and applied a pianissimo to the viola that was trilling in her mind. “Are you going to tell me what the matter is, Auntie, or will you make me guess?”
Aunt Ursula gave a start, then removed a lace-rimmed handkerchief from her duffel bag and dabbed delicately at her forehead. “Really, Isobel. Really. Well, now. What on earth. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Isobel smiled. “Out with it, Auntie. You know you won’t feel easy until you come clean. What’s happened now? Must I prepare to meet an old paramour of yours at Whitby Manor? Or have you made an unwise bet with one of Mr Whitby’s neighbours?” She bit down a laugh and patted the old lady’s hand. “I wish you would not try to keep secrets from me. It troubles me when you are unhappy.”
Aunt Ursula pinched her lips and developed a sudden interest in the trees passing by the carriage window. Isobel sat back with a sigh.
“Very well. I shall wait to be surprised, then. I must admit I can hardly imagine what –”
“No!” Aunt Ursula cried, raising the handkerchief to her forehead again. “No, I cannot do it! I thought it was best, my dear girl, but now – when I am faced with the consequences – I cannot go on!”
Isobel fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Come now, Auntie. I’m sure it cannot be as bad as all that. Remember how I helped you extricate yourself from that business with Lord Foxby? And your feud with Lady Catherine Winton is hardly spoken of any more, since I managed to explain things to her. It has only been a week since your last intrigue, and I can’t imagine you have caused much trouble in that time.”
Ursula winced. “I’m afraid you underestimate me, my dear. The fact is that I made a decision some time ago to keep a secret from you. At the time I was quite certain it was the right thing to do. But now…”
“Now, I assume, your deception is about to be uncovered, and you are afraid you will not be able to sweet-talk your way out of it.” They were nearing the final turn before Whitby Manor came into view. Isobel began packing her sheaf of music back into her valise, allowing her aunt a little respite from her stern gaze. “Don’t worry, Auntie. I have been your companion long enough to be quite unshockable.”
Ursula cleared her throat at great length and very noisily. It was either the result of the cheroot she’d cadged from the coachman or yet another stalling technique.
The carriage turned the corner and crested the hill, and the warm sandstone walls of Whitby Manor came into view at last. Isobel’s mouth fell open as she took it in.
Not because of the splendour of the place – though it was as comfortable a country pile as anyone could wish for.
No, her astonishment was because the entire household – all the servants, standing in two neat rows, and what looked to be every member of the Whitby family – had come outside to meet her.
But it could not be for her , of course, or even Aunt Ursula. They were simply family friends. There had never been any degree of formality about their visits with the Whitbys.
“My goodness, what a sight!” she said. “They must be expecting someone terribly important.”
“I know of only one other guest who awaits us,” Aunt Ursula intoned. Isobel did not rise to her bait.
“Ah. Your old paramour, no doubt.”
“Not mine ,” said Aunt Ursula huskily. Isobel’s fingers tapped a nervous mazurka against the window. It was more than a little intimidating to be faced with such a crowd.
“Yours,” said Ursula. “The old paramour is yours, Isobel.”
Her fingers stilled.
“I don’t know who you mean.”
But there was no use in lying. Aunt Ursula knew her well enough to see that the memories of another, very different sun- soaked summer were rising up in Isobel’s mind. The shame and confusion of them burned in her cheeks.
She wrenched herself back to the present and scanned the neat rows of the Whitby family standing in the driveway with their guests and servants, searching for the face she had not seen in the longest time.
There he was. No longer merely a memory, but flesh and blood. Every second brought their next meeting closer. The air froze in Isobel’s lungs.
He was just as she remembered him. Just as handsome. His eyes just as piercing, his shoulders as broad, his coat as impeccably tailored, his jaw as firm.
He was watching her carriage approach with an unreadable expression.
“Not him,” she murmured. As though by fervently wishing for it, his presence might turn out to be one of Ursula’s embellishments. “Please, no – not him. What is he doing here?”
Ursula was biting down on a tightly clenched fist. “I knew you would not come if you knew,” she explained, around her fingers.
A flash of something hot and bright – rage, perhaps, or fear – tore through Isobel’s chest. “How could you leave me so unprepared?”
“Everything is different now,” said Ursula, leaning forward and whispering urgently. “Your brother is a duke. Your sisters have married so well. And you, my darling girl, you are so much stronger than you were –”
“Enough.” Isobel dragged the curtain across the carriage window. She knew that every particle of pain was all too visible on her face, and she had only seconds to master herself before she had to face him.
“It will be different this time,” said Ursula. “You’ll see.”
Different .
She had only seconds to prepare, but those seconds were enough time to seize on Ursula’s words and make a solemn vow.
Yes. This time, everything will be different .
A shiver of heat tingled through Isobel’s chest. Like a fever, if a fever could afflict someone’s heart. He was unchanged. Just as tall, his back as straight, his gaze as clear and penetrating. They were green, those eyes. Green and pale as an unquiet sea. He inclined his head slightly to listen to something Mrs Whitby was saying to him, and his handsome mouth turned up at the corner in an indulgent smile. Still proud, then. And still so certain of himself, of his place in the world, as Isobel had never been.
He was every bit the man she had known in Brighton.
Lord Randall Graves. The man she had loved.
But not anymore .
She forced herself not to meet his eyes. To let her gaze pass over him as though he meant nothing, as though she remembered nothing. She took in her friends without really seeing them – Cassandra standing awkwardly, skirts muddy to the knee – Evelina with red-rimmed eyes and a drawn expression – Georgiana, beaming and laughing as always –
And then, like a lightning bolt crashing to earth, the way forward was illuminated.
It is all different now.
I am different.
And she would do anything rather than give Lord Randall the satisfaction of knowing she remembered him. Of revealing even the smallest hint of the hole he’d burned into her heart.
She walked past him without so much as a glance, following the lightning bolt of her inspiration to Mr Lucius Whitby, whom she fixed with a gaze that approximated the way the cook’s tomcat looked at cream. She boldly extended her hand, as though they were dear and intimate friends… or more.
“My, my, Whitby,” she said. “It has been far too long.”
Lucius Whitby stared at her in frozen astonishment.
Isobel and Lucius were not intimate friends. They were barely even acquaintances. He’d spent the past few years gadding about the Continent, and she’d spent them – well. Mourning Lord Randall, for one, blast his eyes. And when she wasn’t doing that, she was studying music. Playing, practising, composing.
She was quite certain that Lucius Whitby, frequenter of gentleman’s clubs, follower of expensive fashions, and spendthrift heir to a fortune, had less than nothing in common with her.
But none of that mattered, because the most important thing about Lucius was that he was the only eligible gentleman in the vicinity other than Lord Randall “Tear a Girl’s Heart to Pieces” Graves. Lord “Smash a Woman’s Hopes in the Mud” Randall, younger son of the Earl of Abrington. Lord “Eyes so Green They Haunt her Dreams Still, After All These Years…”
But enough of that. It was a choice between certain death by humiliation, and only potential death should Lucius Whitby fail to play his part in Isobel’s hastily constructed plan.
Play along, Mr Whitby. Take my hand. Isobel’s smile froze as she willed Lucius to understand what she needed from him. Her heart was thumping a military tattoo so vigorous it was liable to leap out of her throat. And then, no doubt, all the world would see Lord Randall’s name still inscribed on that sorry organ.
She waited. Lucius stared. The servants stared too. Mrs Whitby’s mouth hung open. Georgiana let out a giggle. Isobel could not say what Lord Randall was doing, because she would not let herself look at him.
“Lady Isobel,” said Lucius, his brows drawing lightly together. And he either sensed her desperation or understood her unspoken pleading, for he took her hand – no, he clasped it, with both of his own, as warmly as though they were dear, dear friends. “I have been bereft without you.”
Isobel remembered how to breathe.
The eyes of the entire Whitby household were still fixed on her, but now she had requisitioned a partner in her impromptu dance of envy and spite. And she was no longer afraid.
Lucius cocked his head to one side, silently inquiring as to what on earth she was doing. She responded by taking his hand and tucking it into her arm with a slow, deliberate motion that forced him to take a step closer.
She thought she heard Lord Randall cough, but she still did not let herself look at him.
Lucius’s eyes were wide. She noticed their colour for the first time – a crisp, clear grey. A strong colour. She felt bold enough to hold his gaze brazenly, keeping the flirtatious smile on her lips. “I hope you will escort me inside, sir. There is so much for us to discuss.”
Hopefully he would not actually expect anything of the sort. Isobel could not think of a single thing she had in common with Lucius.
“Isobel, my dear girl!” said Aunt Ursula, tapping her on the shoulder. “If you wish to eat young Mr Whitby for breakfast, you can at least sit down at the dining table first!”
Georgiana’s giggle became a delighted splutter of laughter. The rest of the gathering came back into focus for Isobel. Mr Whitby was rubbing his hands together with ill-disguised delight. His wife was yet to remember herself enough to close her wide open mouth. Cassandra Whitby was frowning, but Evelina was pale and withdrawn, seeming not to notice anything that was happening around her at all.
And Lord Randall Graves stood swinging his arms at his sides as though he did not know what to do with his hands. As if he was wondering why he was not the one to whom her hand had been proffered, and to whose arm she clung. The smirk remained, but it no longer reached his eyes.
“Lady Isobel,” Mr Whitby was saying, bowing to her again, “I cannot tell you how delighted we are to have you back at Whitby Manor.” His bright gaze darted from his son’s face to hers. “You must make yourself at home here. Our only desire is for you to enjoy the summer.”
Isobel gave Lucius another tomcat smile. “Is that so, Whitby? Is that also your… desire ?”
She let that last word linger on her lips, emerging hot and damp with her breath. Lucius’s arm jerked under her hand, but, to his credit, he did not show a hint of surprise on his face. He did draw himself up a little more stiffly, holding his arm at an angle so that Isobel was pushed to a chaste distance. It was her turn to take a step – this one backwards, and away from him. “Welcome to Whitby Manor,” he said. His voice was flat and stern.
Cassandra strode forwards with a grimace that suggested the sight of flirting turned her stomach. She pinned Isobel with a glare of pure outrage .
“Hello, Iso. Georgiana and I will show you in,” she said, the underlying meaning clear. Leave my poor brother alone!
Isobel squeezed Lucius’s arm before letting go, feeling as giddy as though she’d drunk a bottle of champagne. “Pity.”
She could have sworn she heard a squeak of delight escape Mrs Whitby.
“What’s gotten into you?” Cassandra hissed, as she steered Isobel towards the house.
Isobel merely shrugged. “The carriage ride was so tedious. I am in a peculiar mood.”
“I’ll say.” Cassandra glanced back at her bewildered brother, then towards the rows of curious servants.
“Lordy,” cried Georgiana, catching them up and seizing Isobel’s hand. “Poor Lucius. When Lady Ursula made that remark, I thought he’d shrivel up and die!”
“Girls, girls!” protested Mrs Whitby, waving them frantically back. “We have not yet introduced Lady Isobel to Lord –”
“Randall,” said Isobel, as the three of them halted. Here, with a friend on either side of her and Lucius Whitby staring as though she were a puzzle whose pieces had all turned blank, she felt quite equal to meeting Randall’s eyes. “Lord Randall Graves,” she added, to mitigate the use of his first name.
Those eyes – so green. So deep. So cold. So unlike Lucius’s, which warmed somehow despite their cool grey colour.
“I think I had the pleasure of your acquaintance two years ago in Brighton, my lord,” she said to Randall, as though the memory were nothing.
“That’s right,” he replied. “Though it’s been three years, I believe.”
Isobel gave him a polite nod and let Cassandra and Georgiana turn her away, the two Whitby girls dissolving into laughter as they glanced back at their brother. Isobel didn’t let herself follow their gaze, though every nerve in her body fizzed with the need to assess the confusion she’d wrought.
Aunt Ursula was wrong. Isobel wasn’t going to win Lord Randall back.
She was going to destroy him.
And Lucius Whitby was going to help her.