Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
L ucius realised his mistake the moment Isobel sauntered into the breakfast room clad in heart-stopping white satin overlaid with that translucent sea-blue gauze.
And he realised in the same instant that it was a mistake he should never have made at all. He knew Isobel well enough by now to understand that her meek obedience was only for show. Did he really think she would allow him to dictate what she could and could not wear?
He’d pushed her to her limit, and here was his reward. A breakfast in full view of the most distracting gown he’d ever seen in his life, and a ravenous hunger deep inside him that all the toast and kippers in the world would do nothing to satisfy.
Beside him, Lord Randall dropped his fork onto his plate with a loud clatter. Lucius pretended not to notice, though he felt a sudden urge to turn around and give the man a smack.
“Good morning, my lady!” said Mr Whitby, barely glancing up from his bacon and eggs. He was the only one in the room not staring at Isobel in open-mouthed astonishment. “I trust you slept well?”
“I trust she slept at all ,” murmured Lord Bell. “I don’t believe she’s changed her clothes since last night – Ow !”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said Evie, setting down the pot of scalding coffee which she had poured all over Lord Bell’s arm rather than into her cup. “I am so clumsy in the mornings. Hall, will you fetch his lordship a cold compress?”
Lord Bell rolled up his sleeve, revealing a length of painful-looking pink skin. “Not to worry, not to worry,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I am quite all right.” But he accepted the damp towel the footman offered him, and his smile had grown exceedingly strained.
“Please forgive my unusual appearance,” said Isobel, sliding into her seat with an innocent smile that was aimed directly at Lucius, and struck him like an arrow in the chest. “I’m afraid my maid had a little trouble this morning.”
With Lord Bell thoroughly silenced by Evie’s sleight of hand, nobody in the room was ill-bred enough to question her any further. Lucius was no expert on women’s clothing, but it was perfectly obvious to him no possible scenario existed in which a maid could fall ill enough to make every dress in an heiress’s wardrobe unwearable but one.
That one. The one whose shimmering aquamarine perfectly matched the sparkle in her eyes. The one with the swooping neckline that left her shoulders almost bare.
Sweet heaven, the pale smooth skin of those shoulders. Lucius tugged at his collar and forced himself to look deeply into the depths of his scrambled eggs.
Mr Whitby let out a hearty laugh. “My word, you ladies and your little troubles! Not to worry, my lady. I’m sure you look very well indeed.” He gazed fondly down the table at his daughters. “Now, what diversions do you all have planned for the morning? Lord Kendrick invited me and all the gentleman to go shooting today, so you girls will have the house to yourselves.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr Whitby,” said Lord Randall. “I will not be able to join you at the shooting party. I’m afraid I turned my ankle getting out of the carriage yesterday night, and I must rest it.”
Mrs Whitby let out a cry of alarm. Lucius concealed a rather petty smirk. Randall had not accounted for his mother’s tendency to hysteria. “Oh, you poor man! I cannot believe you did not mention it! We will send for a doctor immediately.”
“No, no,” said Randall. A deep red flush was rising up his neck. Lucius did not know whether to attribute it to embarrassment or to Isobel’s blue gauze. “It is nothing really. An old injury. I know from experience that it requires nothing more than rest.”
“Old wounds can be most troublesome,” said Isobel sweetly. “I do hope you will not be too bored spending the day at home with us, my lord.”
Randall was looking at her with a deep intensity that Lucius could not bear to leave uninterrupted. “Don’t worry, old chap,” he said, aware that his voice was far too bright. “I’ve shot more than enough of Kendrick’s birds over the years. I’ll stay behind with you.”
Randall broke from Isobel’s gaze, turning to Lucius with a smile that was positively vicious. “There’s no need for that, Whitby. I hope you don’t think I’m such a clot that I can’t amuse myself for one afternoon.”
“Not another word,” said Lucius, with his own smile-that-was-not-a-smile. “I insist. You are our guest, after all. It would be churlish of me to abandon you. Kendrick can bear the disappointment.”
Randall inclined his head by way of acceptance, his jaw clenched tight. Isobel, either blithely unaware or excellent at feigning blithe unawareness, started on her toast and coffee and began chatting to Georgiana about something to do with ribbons and a new bonnet.
Lucius forced himself to take another bite of his breakfast, though he had never in his life had less appetite for food.
All this time, he’d been operating under the assumption that Isobel was an innocent he had to protect. Now, it seemed that the ingenue had some not-so-innocent ideas of her own. The idea of Randall spending the entire afternoon with her while she wore that flimsy dress and played him sweet music was simply intolerable.
The instructions delivered by letter were not working. Lucius would have to think up some new way to keep her from harm.
And judging by Isobel’s expression as she met his eyes across the breakfast table and very deliberately drew her lower lip between her teeth, he had his work cut out for him.
If there had really been anything wrong with Lord Randall’s ankle, Lucius reflected bitterly, Isobel had certainly found the way to cure it. Her music was sweet enough to be a panacea for all ills. In vain, he had suggested any number of activities which would have excluded Randall from their company. A turn around the gardens? Out of the question. Isobel was not dressed for the weather. Her maid’s mysterious malady had not cleared up by the afternoon. The blue bobbin net, as everybody agreed, was far too lightweight to wear outdoors.
A game of sardines, then? Lucius allowed himself a moment to imagine the forbidden pleasure of finding himself alone in a tight space with Isobel – before he remembered that he would, of course, have to spend that forbidden private moment telling her exactly what he thought of her response to his instructions that morning.
No, no, such frivolous party games were out of the question! Mrs Whitby did not allow her daughters to run mad through the house as though they were at Vauxhall pleasure gardens. If her eldest son wished to indulge himself in that sort of game, he was very welcome to return to London and reacquaint himself with his dissolute friends there.
Isobel, of course, was far too well-mannered to actually laugh at Mrs Whitby’s dressing down. But Lucius saw the mirth in her eyes clearly enough.
No, it seemed the only possible way for Isobel to pass the day was to sit behind the piano, there in the drawing room surrounded by all Lucius’s sisters, and serenade poor dear ailing Randall with her favourite pieces.
“Let me turn the pages for you, my lady,” said Lucius, endeavouring to throw the offer out, casual and offhand.
Isobel met his eyes coolly. “There’s no need to trouble yourself, Mr Whitby. I am playing from memory.”
Lucius smiled through gritted teeth. It could not be more obvious that Isobel anticipated exactly what he was minded to say to her and was doing her best to avoid having to hear it. Lord Randall was reclining on the chaise, his arms crossed behind his head, his catlike smile widening each time the lady foiled Lucius’s attempts to draw her away.
Lucius couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t she see that it debased her to cater to Randall’s whims? Once again, she was playing the saucy temptress without any real understanding of the game in which she was embroiled. Randall was mocking her just as much as he mocked Lucius.
But Lucius would save her. He would not allow Randall to keep smiling at her in that self-satisfied manner, a cat batting an unusually musical mouse between its paws.
“I am sorry to see you so laid up, Randall,” he said, making a show of walking up and down the room as he spoke. “That ankle must really be hurting you. Are you sure we should not send for a doctor?”
“A little rest is all I require,” said Randall, unperturbed. “Are you quite well yourself, Whitby? You look as though something is troubling you.”
Lucius cocked his head, returning Randall’s cool stare. “Troubling me? Far from it. It is only that I find this piece of music excessively moving. Lady Isobel, is this another one of your charming compositions?” Before she could answer, he glanced over his shoulder towards her and added, “I only ask because I am almost certain that I heard something like it once before. It must have been in some salon or another as I visited Paris. Tell me, where might I have heard this lovely piece?”
Randall let out a bark of laughter. “Whitby, you old philistine! This is Mozart . I’d wager you could hear this played in every drawing room in Europe. Though, not, of course, as well as Lady Isobel plays it now.”
He offered Isobel that eminently punchable smile again and shrugged his shoulders deeper into the chaise cushions.
But Lucius had calculated correctly. Isobel stopped playing and rose to her feet with a frown. “You are too kind, my lord,” she said, not even glancing towards Randall. “Do you know, Mr Whitby, I believe you are right. I would greatly benefit from a little fresh air. I will ring for Peggy. I should think she has had enough time to recover from her…”
“Her unhappy accident with the laundry,” Lucius supplied, smiling as blandly as his amusement would allow.
Isobel did not return the smile. She closed the piano’s fallboard with an uncharacteristic snap.
“You must borrow my shawl, Isobel,” said Evie, her attention drawn from her book by the noise. “There is no need to wait for your maid.”
As Isobel left the room, Lucius laid a heavy hand on Randall’s shoulder to prevent him from following her. “Please, Randall, don’t stir from this couch! I’m sure my mother will not be easy unless she sees that you are resting properly. Pray tell me what you are after, and I shall fetch it for you.”
“Nothing at all, dear fellow,” said Randall, sinking back against the cushions, defeated. “Thank you for reminding me of my disability. It is exceedingly hard to sit and be idle – I very nearly forgot myself just now and put some weight on it!”
“Poor Lord Randall!” cried Georgiana, setting aside her embroidery so enthusiastically that she did not notice when it slid to the floor. “Shall we sit and read together? Or will you allow me to sing for you? I’m sure there is nothing I would not do to help you bear the pain.”
Lucius winced. His sister’s love of flirtation was awkward enough when there were plenty of gentlemen to dilute it; in this intimate setting, it was downright uncomfortable.
Thankfully, Randall did not react to Georgiana’s provocation. He accepted the offer of a song without any indication that she had overstepped and reclined back on the sofa with his eyes closed – the better, presumably, to appreciate Georgiana’s sweet but unpractised voice.
“I must get back to my bookkeeping,” Lucius announced, to nobody in particular. Evie’s eyes followed him suspiciously as he left the room, but she did not stir from her quiet reading corner.
He did not, of course, go anywhere near his father’s study and that accursed pile of mismanaged accounts. He marched straight into the garden, where a few minutes’ searching revealed Isobel strolling past the herbaceous borders. They had grown a little ragged in the absence of the under-gardeners, but Lucius did not mind the wildness.
As he drew closer, he began to see that Isobel was not strolling, in fact, so much as pacing. Marching. Stomping – if that indelicate word could ever properly describe her and her too-lovely blue gauze. And when he reached her –
“I suppose you think you have a very good explanation for this!”
Lucius closed his mouth, utterly bemused. He could have sworn he had come into the garden to remonstrate with Isobel about her inappropriate choice of dress. Why, then, was he not the one doing the remonstrating?
And, judging by the furious flush in Isobel’s cheeks, would he be lucky enough to escape the garden with all his limbs still attached?
“I – I beg your pardon?” He rallied. Sometimes attack was the best form of defence. “That is, I am not the one who needs to explain myself. You agreed to follow my instructions to the letter. Were we transplanted to the Antipodes overnight? Am I to understand that when I give you an instruction you will now do the opposite? Or is it simply that you have lost your mind?”
Isobel’s fists were clenched at her sides. “If you intend to punish me over the dress –”
“It is not my place to punish you. I gave you my word that I would guide you, and I intend to keep that promise whether you like it or not. A silly stunt like this will not help your cause.” He took a step towards her, and she did not back down. There was a violent fire burning in her blue eyes. She radiated so much heat that Lucius was struggling to keep a cool head. He put his hands behind his back and clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked, as an acceptable alternative to grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking some sense into her. Or kissing her senseless. He really didn’t know any longer which he was more likely to do. “Do you really not understand the impression you give when you cavort about the place dressed in that – that thing ?”
“I understand perfectly that you find it unacceptable,” said Isobel, lowering the temperature all the way from blazing hot to icy as the frozen pole. “But that is your problem, Mr Whitby, not mine. If you cannot bear the sight of me in this dress, you must simply learn to control your masculine urges.”
Lucius was sure he’d had several more very sensible things to say, but his tongue skidded to a halt. “My – my what?”
“It is hardly my duty to control the thoughts that an excitable gentleman might have about my perfectly ordinary choice of attire,” Isobel continued, cheeks still flushed, tone still cold, clenched fists perched on her hips – a stern little schoolmistress in a coquette’s flimsy gown. “I am sorry to learn that it upsets you to admire my figure, but I must ask you to deal with the consequences of that admiration on your own, without involving me. I am not about to put away all my nice things simply to indulge your lack of self-restraint.”
“Oh, is it I who lacks self-restraint?”
She glared up at him defiantly. “Well, you are the one who kissed me.”
Lucius gave a guilty start and looked about to check that none of the remaining gardeners were within earshot. “Have you utterly lost your senses?” he demanded, taking Isobel by the arm and steering her forcefully into a nearby arbour. It was not exactly private, but at least from here they could not be seen from the house. “What if someone had heard that?”
Isobel wrenched her arm from his grasp and sat down primly on the edge of the love seat beneath the climbing clematis which, like the herbaceous borders, had started running wild. “What if somebody had walked into the orangery and seen you kiss me? Or is it only my transgressions that require correction?”
Lucius bit down the response that first came to mind. The situation demanded delicate handling. He needed a moment to collect himself.
But then she looked up at him with a flash of that wicked smile breaking through her indignation, and he said it anyway. “I won’t apologise for the kiss.”
“Good. It was quite delightful. It would be a pity if you spoiled it by rueing the day and begging my pardon.” She forced the grin from her lips, re-assuming her mien of outrage. “However, I would certainly appreciate it if you begged my pardon for all your hinting and needling regarding the music. And I should very much like to know how you found out about Mr Babbage in the first place.”
“Mr Babbage?” Lucius frowned. “I don’t know the fellow. Who is he, the next would-be victim of your vengeance?”
This utterly failed to raise a smile from Isobel. “Don’t be coy, Mr Whitby, it doesn’t suit you. You went out of your way to remark that you find my music extraordinarily reminiscent of music you have heard elsewhere.”
“I’ve offended you?” He thumped a hand against his forehead. “Ah! I’m afraid Randall is right in this regard – I’ve always been something of a philistine. It’s hardly your fault that I can’t tell the difference between your compositions and Mozart. Would you consider it a compliment?” But that was not true, he realised as he spoke. He had noticed her adorable frown of annoyance the first time he’d confused her music for the piece he’d heard in Prague. He’d brought the notion up again because he knew it would rattle her. Not only to get her out into the garden, where he could address the issue of the blue gauze. There was a wicked satisfaction in teasing her. He’d been as clumsy as a schoolboy pulling at his sweetheart’s braids.
Isobel narrowed her eyes. “I can’t tell whether you are toying with me, and this subject is too serious to be toyed with. Are you quite certain that the name Babbage means nothing to you?”
“If I knew anything of serious consequence to you, I do not like to think that I should keep it a secret.” Lucius spread his hands wide. “Come now, there are no secrets between us.”
“Apart from your secret motivation for wishing to show the world that you are besotted with me,” she countered, unimpressed. “Our entire acquaintance is built upon secrets, Mr Whitby. You can hardly expect me to have much faith in your word now.”
That stung. A great deal more than it should have done, and a great deal more than was fair to her. “If that’s the case, it raises some serious questions about your judgement,” he said, his jaw aching under the weight of all the other words he was holding inside. “You have placed a great deal of trust in me, and I assure you that I am well aware of the honour. I will not ask you to explain any further about Mr Babbage. I can see that it upsets you. And no, I am not telling you every concern that flits through my mind. But I hope that does not make me unworthy of your trust. If it does, perhaps it would be better if we left well alone. I hate to think of you becoming uneasy on my account.”
Isobel took a long while to answer. The unseen clockwork wound tighter in his chest.
Why on earth should it matter to him, after all, whether Isobel Balfour thought he was trustworthy? He could hardly pretend that he had shown her the best side to his character. Nor could he truthfully say that he had any right to her confidence. She was clearly not telling him everything – which was perfectly acceptable, since he was keeping several very significant things from her.
But in that pause, while Isobel pondered Lucius’s character with a light frown and parted lips, Lucius’s personal inner ratchet nearly reached breaking point.
“I am not uneasy,” said Isobel. “Though by all rights I should be. Very well. I accept that it is a mere coincidence that you have been teasing me about – about certain things the importance of which I cannot share with you. I feel safe with you, Mr Whitby. Is that foolish?”
The winding ratchet suddenly dissolved from cold iron into soft yellow butter. “No,” said Lucius quietly. “No, on my honour and on my family’s name – if I am not worthy of your trust, I shall at least always strive to be.”
Isobel dropped her gaze, a little of that old wallflower demeanour returning. “That’s very sweet. I hope that you also feel safe with me.”
He answered her with a warm smile, though beneath it he felt as though he had just been pushed over the brink of a precipice. An unpleasant falling sensation churned through his stomach.
It wasn’t the dress, and it wasn’t the heat of the summer or distress of his financial position. When Lucius was with Isobel, he was in significant danger.
But she had requested quite clearly that he should restrain what she termed his masculine impulses . And, even if she had invited him to continue, it would do neither of them any good at all.
So, forcing those impulses down, he took up her hand and pressed a swift kiss to it. “It would be unwise of me to stay out here,” he said. “We had agreed, hadn’t we, on restricting our private meetings to only those that are absolutely necessary.”
And he had certainly shown her why such restrictions were necessary, hadn’t he? His behaviour in the orangery was beyond the pale.
And yet here he was, with her hand still in his, her eyes still gazing up at him, and the moment impressing itself into his memory like a blue cornflower pressed between the pages of a book, to be taken out and admired in the depths of winter.
Another trinket of his past wealth to warm the long, cold winters of his future poverty.
A murmur of voices outside the arbour recalled him to his senses with a jolt. He dropped Isobel’s hand – or tried to. As he let go, she held tighter, and pulled him close. Her eyes were wide. Before Lucius could ask what was wrong, she had pressed a finger to his lips.
“You will understand when you read it, my dear Mrs Whitby, that I was duty-bound to show it to you.”
Was that Bell? Why wasn’t he out shooting with the others? Lucius cocked his head, asking Isobel a question without daring move his lips, but she shook her head frantically and motioned with the other hand for him to listen.
“My goodness! Oh! Lord Bell, I am simply horrified!”
“I knew you would be,” came Bell’s smooth reply. “But, if I may, while Miss Georgiana has expressed her feelings in an… unconventional manner, I am not a cold-hearted man. It is clear that I must ask for her hand before she takes any more drastic action. I have no intention of letting her indiscretion put me off –”
They were rounding the corner and would soon come upon Isobel and Lucius in the arbour, and he would have stepped away in plenty of time if Isobel had not turned the finger on his lips to a confident and inescapable grip on his chin, and pressed her lips to his.
At school, Lucius had learned that certain secret societies in Ancient Greece initiated their members by forcing them to spend the night lying on an ice-cold stone slab next to a blazing fire. Those torturous extremes of heat and cold could not have compared to what he felt at that moment.
On one side – Isobel, the softness of her mouth, her sweet clean scent of fresh cotton and lavender, her fingers tightening in his hair, pressing him closer to her, as though his kiss were the only thing she wanted in all the world, the roar of blood in his ears and the blooming of sweet heat in his chest – even with only seconds to spare, his body responded with its own craving, and his traitorous arms caught her up, and his mouth made its own reply to hers.
On the other hand, his mother.
“Oh, my dears, my dears!”
Lucius came to his senses and pushed Isobel away. But it was too late.
Mrs Whitby was rushing towards them, hampered only by the fact that her hand was still on Lord Bell’s arm, and he was far less keen on running than she was.
In fact, he was dawdling along with what seemed to Lucius a rather unhappy expression. In his hand was a folded piece of paper, decorated with delicate forget-me-nots and red hearts that called to mind Lucius’s prize orchid.
“I was so certain that there was something between you two!” Mrs Whitby drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “You could not hide it from me, you know!”
Isobel put a hand to her mouth, covering the place Lucius’s lips had just vacated. He had the sudden mad thought that if she lowered it, the imprint of that kiss would glow like the sun.
“Isobel,” he said. It was a reproach, but an unjust one, because he had kissed her back, deeper and longer than she could have intended.
“And has she accepted you, Lucius?” asked Mrs Whitby, pressing a hand to her heart. “Oh, Isobel, to think that after all these years you will at last be part of our family! It’s simply too much!”
“Mother,” said Lucius urgently, “you are running away with yourself. Lady Isobel and I –”
“Lucius.”
He’d never heard his own name spoken that way before. Soft, urgent, intimate.
Isobel laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke again. “Lucius, there’s no reason to hide it any longer. I am quite sure my brother will not object. Let’s not keep the happy news from your parents.” She turned a sunlit smile on Mrs Whitby and Lord Bell. “And at least, now that you know we are engaged, Mrs Whitby, you may be perfectly at ease regarding the contents of that puzzle purse. I beg you not to read any more of it. I would be so embarrassed if my private sentiments were known. Lord Bell, I cannot thank you enough for finding it for me. When I realised I had lost it in the maze, I was quite mortified!”
Mrs Whitby gave a little start. “Are they really your sentiments, my dear?”
“This cannot be yours,” said Bell, his tone staying just on the right side of polite. “These flowers were painted by Miss Georgiana. I have seen her paint many such, just like these!”
“I’m sure you have,” said Isobel, smiling as she extended her hand for the folded paper puzzle Bell still clutched. “It is a watercolour technique we developed together.” She waited, hand out, until Bell reluctantly surrendered his plunder. “I am sorry to shock you, Mrs Whitby. The lines are from a poem by Mr Donne. And I should never have dared write them if I were not absolutely certain that my beloved Lucius did not return my affection.” She turned her face to him and very nearly broke his heart on the spot.
That happiness, that innocent joy, the sparkle of mischief in those eyes – she made it all so very real. So wonderful. So tempting.
Lucius touched a hand to her cheek, his eyes scanning her face, desperately seeking some hint of what she was truly thinking. But all he saw was a delight he could not return, a trust he did not deserve, and a half-finished kiss that he still – despite himself, despite every better instinct – longed to resume.
Lucius’s imagination conjured up, sharp and clear, the jaws of a trap springing closed.
But he was not the one caught in its teeth. The innocent victim, though she did not know it, was Isobel.