Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
T he orangery at Whitby Manor had always been Lucius’s refuge. Its lofty white walls and arching glass-paned ceiling offered sanctuary from the wildest of the moods of English weather – and Whitby women besides. The manicured lawns and tempestuous relatives of the world beyond dissolved to mere reflections in the elegant glass. The sharp citrus scent of the fruit trees eased the stresses from his breath and breathed calm back into his lungs. Calm, sweetness, and a promise of distant lands, far-off discoveries, adventure. If it were not for the orangery, perhaps he’d never have wanted to travel.
And would never have spent a fortune on such fripperies as adventure .
Lucius paced the aisles of neatly planted trees, letting their glossy leaves brush his sleeves, trying not to calculate how much they’d fetch at auction. Would it be more lucrative to juice the fruit, perhaps, and sell it as a tonic – add a series of lurid claims to the label and travel the country markets as a snake-oil salesman?
Possibly he should be asking one of the gardeners to take him on as an apprentice. The next summer might find him a happy pauper with dirt beneath his fingernails, cultivating exotic fruit and flowers in a luckier, wealthier man’s house.
A pale shimmer amid the reflection of vibrant hothouse colours in the window alerted him to Isobel’s approach. She’d exchanged yesterday’s siren pink for an ingenue’s sprigged muslin. He was glad. It suited her better – and it suited him not to be distracted by the thought of rose silk on bare skin.
Lucius muscled down the nauseating thoughts of finances and the future and turned to greet her with a smile. “There you are. I was beginning to think I’d overstepped by inviting you out here. Was your aunt horrified to see a note arrive from a gentleman?”
“On the contrary, she’d be delighted – if she knew anything about it.” Isobel took a seat on an elegant wrought-iron bench. That one would sell for a decent sum – a lick of paint and it’d be good as new. “Aunt Ursula chaperones me in the manner which she preferred when she was young herself – that is, from a distance, and without spectacles.” She paused, taking a deep breath of the perfumed air. “I must say I have always admired your orangery here at the manor. Is this where you bring all your conquests?”
“I’ve no idea what you mean.” It wasn’t, in fact. Not only because Lucius had always been far too shrewd to introduce the object of a passing tendre to his family. Simply because the orangery was for him, not his sisters or his raucous friends from Eton or any prospective romances. It would not have been much of a sanctuary if he made a habit of opening up its peace to all and sundry.
“You should,” said Isobel, gazing about her with quiet contentment. “It is beautiful here. And it’s easier to fall in love in beautiful places, isn’t it?”
Lucius took out his pocketknife and nipped a ripe tangerine from a bending branch. “The only conquest I am concerned with at present is you, my lady. Paying attention to another at this juncture would only injure you – and be quite averse to our aim of bringing Randall to heel.” He shucked off the dimpled skin and selected a juicy segment for Isobel’s consideration. “Here. Try this. It should be a little sweeter than usual.”
Isobel hesitated for a moment, then pulled the glove from her right hand and accepted his offering.
“Speaking of Randall,” Lucius began – and then Isobel popped the slice of tangerine past her lips, and he didn’t want to speak of Lord Randall any more. Just for a moment, he didn’t want anything more than to watch her eyes fall closed and her concentration narrow to the burst of sweet-sharp juice against her tongue.
It was every bit as arresting as the pink silk.
He cleared his throat. “Randall. The scheme. We ought to discuss our next moves.”
Isobel’s eyes opened again, and she smiled. “It is sweeter than I thought. Why is that?”
“I sent a few plants home from Spain for our gardeners to experiment with,” said Lucius. He took a bite of tangerine himself. The warmth of a Spanish sun on terracotta tiles unfurled in his memory.
He wondered whether those happy times would be forever tainted, now that he knew he should never have had them. That every swallow of Spanish wine was a crumb stolen from his family’s future table.
“Too sweet, I think,” he said, half to himself. “I shall make a note – I ought to try a hybrid with citrus aurantium . Adjust the humidity, too…”
Isobel held out her hand for another piece. “I’ll finish it. I don’t mind a little extra sweetness.”
Lucius tried to pretend that he was only handing her the fruit because she’d asked for it, and not because he’d be able to watch her tongue flicker over her lips to catch every last hint of juice.
She was too innocent by far – so innocent that it was almost an assault. It was something close to cruelty to engage in this scheme with her. She didn’t know the stakes of the game she was playing.
“We ought to set some ground rules before we go any further,” he said. “This meeting, for example – it’s useful to know that Lady Ursula won’t object to this sort of thing, but I’ll need to know exactly what would cause her to intervene. I don’t want to compromise you. Or risk making an enemy of your aunt.”
Isobel grinned. “Does my aunt frighten you more than my brother? Alex is all your father can talk of. His Grace the Duke of Loxwell .” She winced. “I’ll need to know how to behave around your family, too. Things have changed since our dear old cousin died and Alex inherited the dukedom. I hardly know what to do with such, ah, generous hospitality.”
“Generous is not the word,” said Lucius drily. Avaricious is more like it. “But you are quite right. My family will be watching you just as closely as Lord Randall does, and we must take care not to leave the wrong impression or make any lasting impact on your reputation. To that end, I suggest a strict limit on any physical affection. You may take my arm, for example, but not clutch at it the way you did on your arrival. Gazing across the room is acceptable, but gazing into one another’s eyes is not. As for – I’m sorry, is something amusing?”
“Not at all,” said Isobel, though the hand at her mouth was covering what he knew was a smile. How many of her wallflower years had been spent concealing that teasing grin behind a prim white glove? “Do go on. Your expertise is fascinating.”
“As for dancing,” said Lucius doggedly, “I will be your partner at every given opportunity – unless there is waltzing, in which case you will stand up with one of my sisters.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Isobel. “I am quite accustomed to being without a partner. Happier that way, in fact. And at intimate gatherings I’m invariably asked to play for the dancers, not join them.”
“That won’t do at all. How am I to convince anyone I’m mad for you if you spend all your time trapped behind an instrument?”
She frowned. “I’d have thought you could come up with something . Musicians are not universally condemned to celibacy, after all. Else how would new little musicians be made?” She caught his expression and rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. I am not a musician – I am a lady . And ladies, apparently, fall in love while dancing. Whatever happened to music being the food of love?”
“For an internal, hidden, heartfelt sort of love, I expect music is all very well,” said Lucius. “But we need something quite different to ensnare Lord Randall.” Not to mention Horace Whitby. Lucius’s beloved father was not known for responding to subtlety. “The entire scheme will collapse if you spend all your time hidden away behind a sheaf of music. We must dance together. Often.” For Randall’s benefit. And Evie’s salvation. Not because any part of Lucius wanted to feel Isobel’s slender form moving in tandem with his own.
“Gracious,” said Isobel, cold enough to chill the hothouse air. “Well, in that case, I shall resign myself to becoming a flibbertigibbet. Georgiana will be thrilled. She’s always pestering me to have more of what she calls fun .” She set aside the remaining half of the tangerine and produced a pencil and a small notebook from her reticule. Lucius watched in amazement as she tucked an overhanging lock of hair behind her ear and began to make a neat series of notes, using the music staves on her paper as lines for her writing.
“Is this really so confounding that you need to write it down?”
Isobel glanced up, and he was afraid he’d hurt her. A light glow suffused her cheeks. “I never do anything without serious study, Mr Whitby. I nearly made a fool of myself trying to improvise yesterday. Flirtation is not like music. There’s no rhythm to this that I can follow, no melody to sing along with. You suggested that we should lay out our rules of romance, and I intend to learn them.” She dotted the i in dancing – her handwriting was as clear and precise as her piano-playing – and raised her eyes to him, waiting for more. Lucius hadn’t realised how much his bafflement showed on his face until she frowned and asked, “Have I offended you?”
“Not only me, my lady. Every poet in existence.” He gestured vaguely at the citrus-scented air, trying to encompass the entirety of human emotion in one movement, and failing miserably. “Love is not something that can be learned by rote! You must know that, surely. There cannot have been anything mathematical in what you once felt for Lord Randall.”
She stiffened. But at least she set her pencil down. “I would prefer to leave actual feelings of love out of our arrangement, Mr Whitby. I don’t need a confidant. I need a conspirator.” She narrowed her eyes. “You have not informed me what it is you need from our arrangement, and you will notice that I am yet to ask. I hardly think either of our true feelings are relevant.”
The rebuke was timely. The last thing Lucius wanted was to give Isobel any hint of his family’s predicament.
“Make your notes, then,” he said, though it irked him deeply to watch her pick up her pencil, and he couldn’t say why. “Dancing aside, we ought to spend as much time as possible in one another’s company. Not alone, like this – not unless there is something vitally important to discuss. We must be seen together. It should be obvious to everyone that you are my first choice of companion for every activity, and that I am yours.”
“ First choice of companion ,” Isobel murmured as she wrote it down. “Yes, that seems wise.” A flicker of apprehension crossed her brow. “What sort of activities usually occupy you in the country?”
“Oh, the usual,” said Lucius, trying not to grin. “Riding, hunting, fishing. Long, muddy walks. Racing about in my curricle. The horses need the exercise, you see.”
He would not have thought it possible, but Isobel’s indoorsy pallor grew a shade paler still. “And you want me to join in with all of that?”
“Chin up,” he said brightly. “A little fresh air will do you the world of good. And it’ll be interesting, won’t it, to let Lord Randall see a different side to you.”
“Even though that side doesn’t exist?”
Lucius shrugged. “None of this exists, really, does it? I am not falling in love with you. I am not really Randall’s rival. But I promise you that the loss of a sparky, active, exciting sort of girl will cause him much more regret than the loss of a homebody wallflower.”
Isobel’s eyes drilled a hole into him. “The loss of me , you mean.”
“That’s…” Drat. That was exactly what he’d meant, wasn’t it? “Just trust me,” he said. “I’ve fallen prey to the green-eyed monster once or twice in my time. I know how to make a fellow jealous.”
Isobel looked down at her notes, sighed, and closed the book neatly before slipping it back into her reticule. “You’re right. He’s already lost the real me once without a trace of regret.”
And there was no helping it. He simply couldn’t bear that calm resignation. Her simple, sad acceptance, without a shred of self-pity.
Randall wasn’t there to have some sense pummelled into him, so Lucius would have to do the next best thing. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
He led her past the citrus trees, through the blooming sprays of oleander and bright hibiscus, to the far end of the orangery.
It wasn’t much to look at. He was quite certain, in fact, that the rows of glass boxes were supremely uninteresting to the untrained eye. A tilt of glass here, a furnace-box there – the subtle adjustments that increased heat or humidity – it would mean as much to Isobel as the concept of a dominant seventh meant to him.
“My personal collection,” he said.
Isobel looked, with nothing more than politeness, he thought – until she said, “They’re all different, aren’t they? This one here has a pointed roof – and that one more ventilation. You’re testing different glasshouse designs.”
“Exactly.” He couldn’t suppress a smile, though it was rueful. The latest experiment would be his final one. Glass was too costly to waste on a mere pastime. “It’s this one I particularly want you to see. Call it… My own private wallflower.”
She frowned, as though trying to decide whether or not he was joking. “It isn’t flowering,” she pointed out.
“It has never flowered. Nor has any other orchid of its kind – not outside its native country. It’s not the sort of plant that adapts to fluctuating temperatures or variations in humidity. The conditions must be kept constant – perfect.” He gave the tilted pane of the glass box roof a fond tap. “But when I get it right – or, more likely, when someone far more talented than I eventually manages it – the flower will be magnificent.” He drew her attention to the sketch pinned above the struggling plant: a tiny, delicate orchid with petals like hearts, the whisper of their true colour daubed in with watercolour red.
Isobel winced. “Yes, I see. And I’m sure I am just like the orchid. A frail, delicate thing that requires coddling and coaxing and a great deal of effort before anyone can admire it.”
“No, no.” Drat, again. It was all so clear to him that he hadn’t stopped to remember that not everybody spent hours studying glass manufacture and temperature charts all for the sake of one elusive, exotic flower. “What I mean is… This orchid is already spectacular. It doesn’t bloom for just anyone. It doesn’t conform to every environment. But that’s the fault of the gardener, not the plant. This orchid contains beauty that men would pay a fortune to possess. You may not see it, but it is there nonetheless.”
She gave him a wry smile. “So, some wallflowers are rare orchids. If you are clever enough to spot them.”
He grinned wickedly. “And I’ve never considered Lord Randall a particularly observant man.”
A loud crash shattered the peace – and their brief moment of connection. Isobel stumbled backwards, as though the glass boxes were something too intimate to be caught admiring. As though she hadn’t deliberately chosen to meet Lucius there, where they might be seen, and compromised.
“ Mama !” came Cassandra’s strident cry. “What on earth are you doing hidden away there? You gave me the shock of my life!”
“Oh, hush, child, hush!” Mrs Whitby sounded unusually flustered. “I am not hidden, Cassandra. I don’t know why you would say such a thing!”
Isobel relaxed at the sound of Mrs Whitby’s excuses. She caught Lucius’s eye with a mischievous sparkle that filled his mouth with tangerine sweetness.
Cassandra’s tall, thin form strode into view at the end of the aisle of neatly pruned orange trees. She stopped abruptly when she saw Isobel and Lucius. She planted her hands on her hips and fixed them with an accusatory glare.
“If you were not hiding on the lookout for my brother, Mama, he is here,” she said. “He seems to be giving Lady Isobel a lecture on horticulture.” She seized up a broom that was leaning against the windowpane, shook it in Lucius’s direction as though she would happily use it to beat the life out of him, and carried it off to sweep up the pieces of whatever it was she had knocked over.
“Lady Isobel, how lovely to see you!” cried Mrs Whitby, hurrying towards them with cheeks pink as strawberries. “I had just popped in to – well, I was on my way past and – goodness me, Cassandra has left me all in a flutter!” She pressed a hand to her chest and looked eagerly from Isobel to Lucius. “I do hope I am not interrupting?”
“Not at all, Mama,” said Lucius. “I was just apologising to Lady Isobel for disturbing her contemplation. I certainly did not mean to intrude upon her. It is all quite a coincidence.” He gave Isobel a bow and made off towards Cassandra, hoping against hope that it was not one of his fresh seedling trays she had smashed.
He glanced back over his shoulder, just once, to see Isobel talking quite calmly to his mother. There was not a trace of embarrassment on her face. Just as though the girl had been caught alone in perfumed orangeries with gentlemen every day of her life.
Her eyes briefly met his, as though she sensed him watching her, and he saw the briefest flash of triumph.
It looked as though their plan was already bearing fruit.