Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
“ S tupid, stupid, stupid.” Isobel clenched her fists so hard her fingernails pinched her palm through her gloves. Thank goodness for Evie and her innate sense of when to talk and when to be silent. Isobel was sure that Evie could hear her whispered self-castigation, but of all the denizens of Whitby Manor, she at least could be relied upon not to pry. And Isobel could curse herself in peace.
Why had she chosen to play that piece? To spite Randall, surely? Remind him of Brighton, and thereby give a vicious twist to the dagger that she hoped her flirtation with Lucius was driving into his chest.
No, that was not the reason. She’d had a baser motive even than that. It was pride – worse, arrogance. That composition was one of her greatest successes. She’d wanted Randall to remember it, true – but more than that, she’d wanted Lucius to hear it. She’d let his appreciation of her music go to her head like wine, even though she knew it was all for show. Just another move in their secret game.
Even now, the memory of his closed eyes and part-open mouth as he listened sent an unworldly thrill through her. He’d been rapt. It was intoxicating.
No, she reminded herself sternly. He’d feigned rapture. And he did it well. Randall, for one, certainly believed the show.
As for Isobel, she’d drunk so deeply of Lucius’s heady admiration that she’d forgotten how recently he’d been travelling through Europe. Even the sort of philistine Evie painted him as could not fail to recognise the music that Isobel very well knew had been the sensation of the summer throughout Austria the year before. The first great success of one Isidore Babbage , a mysterious composer who issued new music via an understanding publisher, received his cheques care of one Lady Ursula Balfour, and who had never shown his face to the public.
“Stupid,” she murmured to herself again, but this time, it was with a smile. She was only human, after all. Pride was a human failing. And, heaven help her, she was proud of what she’d achieved.
Which made it all the more important not to slip up again. There was too much music at stake to risk on such inconsequential things as gentlemen.
Evie was watching her with a politely raised eyebrow.
“I’ve forgotten what comes next in my new composition,” Isobel explained, with a wry smile. “I should not have let Mr Whitby distract me.”
Evie returned her attention to her needlework. “I must admit, I am surprised,” she said. “I have seen you sit in a corner throughout an entire ball without a care for any partner, thinking only of the music. Now, without anybody having any idea of how, it seems Lucius has supplanted every other passion.”
Isobel flushed. It wasn’t only that she was lying to her friends – she’d grown quite accustomed to deception over the last few years. A gently bred young lady could not possibly pursue a career as a composer without keeping herself concealed. No, Evie’s words only brought to light certain fears that Isobel had been trying, unsuccessfully, to hide from herself.
She had begun to lose sight of the true reason why she had embarked on this – whatever on earth this was – with Lucius.
He had made it too exciting. She’d been having fun. And fun made her lose her focus.
So why did she let it continue? Randall’s attention was caught – that alone was more than she had dared hope. She did not yet have his love, true, but since she had never truly had that in the first place, it seemed foolish to hold out for it now. With a little imagination, she could surely find a way to humiliate him – and then be done with it. With Randall, and with Lucius, too.
It was past time. By her calculations, they had now reached about five on Lucius’s ten-point scale. Any further could do her reputation real damage.
“You’re imagining things, Evie,” she said, forcing herself to speak lightly. “Your brother and I are simply good friends.”
“Interesting,” said Evie. She took up her embroidery scissors and snipped through a scarlet thread. “Very interesting, considering Georgiana and I never saw you exchange more than a polite greeting with Lucius before you arrived here this summer.”
“I am not the sort to hold a kindred spirit at arm’s length simply because we are but little acquainted,” said Isobel. “I find myself enjoying Mr Whitby’s company, and I see no reason why I should not continue to enjoy it.”
Evie’s sharp, bright eyes flicked up from her needlework. Isobel had the uncomfortable sensation that her deception was being unpicked as carefully as the snarl in that embroidery.
“It makes me worry for you,” Evie said. “You have an open heart, Isobel, and I can see that Lucius’s attentions flatter you. I only hope that you have your wits about you. You see, Lucius is…” She set down her needlework, sighed, and folded her hands atop her work. “Don’t misunderstand me. I love my brother dearly. But he is not like you, Isobel. He has never been the sort to feel things deeply. I’m afraid that, for him, this flirtation is no more than an amusing diversion.”
“I would hardly call it a flirtation,” said Isobel, knowing that her protest would fool no one.
She would have done better not to deny it. Evie’s eyes filled with concern.
“Please, Isobel, tell me that you are not entertaining serious hopes of my brother?”
Isobel laughed. She was surprised to hear that her merriment had a brittle, false quality, as though she were trying to play a symphony on a toy glockenspiel. “Oh, Evie, is it too much to believe that I, too, am simply enjoying a little summer’s fun?”
Evie sat back, letting out a sigh of relief. “I am so glad to hear it. Anyone who does not know Lucius as I do might easily believe that his feelings were more than they truly are. Part of the trouble with Lucius is that he has never really understood how attractive a prospect he is to the right sort of woman.” She let out a fond chuckle. “He has very little idea of his own charm or good looks. You’ll not believe me, but I think if he didn’t have Clarkson to pull him into shape, he’d arrive at the dinner table in stained buckskins and a workman’s shirt, covered in mud from the gardens.”
“How lucky he is unaware of his own charms,” said Isobel dryly. “I dread to think how proud he might be otherwise!”
Evie laughed and returned to her embroidery. Isobel took up her pencil again but was disturbed to find that when she set it to the paper, she could no longer remember the shape of the melody she had been writing.
She ran her eyes over the last few bars of music. The notes sounded in her head, clear as day, but the moment she reached the end of what was already written, her imagined melody came to an abrupt stop.
Only a few moments ago she had been chiding herself over one sort of pride. Now, it seemed yet another had reared its ugly head. Her pride – her vanity – was hurt to hear that Evie thought it impossible that Lucius could truly have feelings for her. And it had ruined every hope of finishing her composition that day.
Isobel shook her head, mentally taking herself by the shoulders and shaking some sense into herself. She set down her pencil.
“I have dallied here too long,” she said, rising to her feet. “I must go upstairs and check that my aunt has everything she needs. I will never hear the end of it if her afternoon tea was overbrewed, or her slice of cake not substantial enough!”
As she went to the drawing-room door, Lord Randall rose from the card table and began walking towards her. His attitude was casual, but his pace deceptively fast. He reached the door just as she did and nodded her through, following swiftly after.
Isobel had intended to leave him standing in the hallway, to hurry upstairs to Aunt Ursula without a backward glance.
It was inexplicable, then, that she found herself waiting, patient, meek, and mute, while Randall ran those imperious green eyes over her and began to speak.
“I was rather glad to hear you play that old tune again,” he said. “It always amazes me how a certain sight or sound can transport one back in time.”
“Indeed,” said Isobel, hoping she sounded aloof rather than insipid.
“I have been recalling more and more of our summer together in Brighton,” said Randall. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, his eyes fixed on Isobel with a glitter in their emerald depths.
“Really? I can barely recall it at all,” said Isobel. Or rather, that is what she meant to say. What actually emerged from her lips was only the first word, in an embarrassing, high-pitched squeak. “ Really ?”
Randall rewarded her inarticulate noises with the sort of smile that would once have made her knees tremble. “Do give my regards to your aunt.” He bowed and returned to the drawing room, leaving Isobel trying to steady her legs enough to manage the stairs.
It seemed that a mere five out of ten was not enough. Randall was very far from humble.
She did not go upstairs to Aunt Ursula, afternoon tea be hanged. Instead, she hastened to the orangery.
It was time to modulate the key of her latest little deception.