Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
I sobel was not often accused of being too proud. So it was always a surprise when something hurt the little vestige of pride that she did have.
And oh, it did truly hurt to see the panic in Lucius’s eyes when he realised that there was no way to escape.
She preferred not to dwell on unpleasant things, particularly when they could not be helped. But it did cross her mind, just for an instant, that there must be something truly dreadful about the prospect of being entangled with her. Randall was one sort of man, a careless, insubstantial sort whose cruelty – though painful – lacked any poison in its barb.
Lucius was different. She valued his opinion. She’d told him not moments earlier – like a little fool – that she felt safe with him.
But clearly even one or two exquisite kisses could not save her from the curse of being eternally undesirable.
Now, sipping impromptu champagne amid the joyous celebrations of the Whitby family, all Isobel wanted was to return to that moment alone with Lucius – to have a minute’s quiet and privacy in which to discuss what had passed between them and set forth a plan.
But Lucius had not met her eyes since she had forced his hand by announcing that they were engaged. She’d gone too far, that was plain enough. She’d known it even as she pressed her mouth to his and lost herself for one brief shining moment in his kiss.
Perhaps he’d never forgive her, even when he understood she’d only done it to protect Georgiana. All she could do was catch him alone, explain herself, and hope.
“Father, please recall that I have not yet spoken to the duke,” Lucius was saying. The deep strain in his voice made Isobel cringe. “I do not think that we can call our… arrangement… official until I have Loxwell’s blessing. It would be extremely premature to put out a notice in the papers. In fact, I am sure he would think it insulting.”
“Gracious, my dear Mr W!” interjected Mrs Whitby, clutching at her husband’s arm in fright. “The young duke is such a stern, serious fellow, I dread to think what would happen if you upset him!”
“I will write to Loxwell myself,” said Mr Whitby. “I will be able to explain everything to him, man to man. There will be no objection, my dear boy.” He turned his benevolent smile on Isobel, who endeavoured to reflect back a faint shadow of joy. “It is plain to see that our Lady Isobel is head over heels for you. Her brother would not be so cruel as to keep you apart.”
“ You will do no such thing !” Lucius’s voice lashed out, a whip cracking over the heads of the whole party. A hush followed, everybody turning to him with wide eyes and open mouths.
No newly betrothed lover had ever used such a tone. There was nothing of love in it, or the anticipation of future joy.
Isobel’s composure was growing ever harder to maintain.
Lucius cleared his throat, loud in the silence. He extended a hand towards Isobel, his eyes commanding her to take it. What could she do but obey?
“My sweet Isobel has explained to me a little of her brother’s character,” he said, a false lightness ringing harsh in his voice. “Loxwell will expect me to ask for Isobel’s hand in person, and I cannot risk offending him. I must ask you all to keep the happy news between ourselves. So you see, Father, your kind offer is unnecessary. Isobel knows the way to manage her brother.” He planted a smacking kiss on her white glove. A false kiss, showy and brash. The very opposite of the intimacy they had shared before. “And I will not allow anyone to cross me when it comes to Isobel’s wishes.”
“Gracious,” said Cassie, and let out an enormous yawn. “I had no idea you had it in you to be such a romantic .”
A ripple of nervous laughter followed her pronouncement. Lucius hung his head, feigning embarrassment, but made a great show of not letting Isobel take back her hand. For the first time, the warmth of his touch gave her no pleasure. She wished he would let her go.
Cassie met Isobel’s eyes with a distinctly unimpressed expression and flounced off to seek out better entertainment. There was a warning in her gaze, and an invitation for Isobel to follow, if she wished.
But before Isobel could think up an excuse to go after her, she was cornered by the one person she least wished to see in the world. For once, that honour had been wrested from Randall by the conniving brigand, Lord Bell.
“I am sorry to see you look so unhappy, my lady,” he said, leaning towards her with a nasty leer and solicitousness dripping from his voice like honey. “It was so unfortunate that Mrs Whitby and I stumbled on your private moment. I trust there is nothing else amiss?”
She knew perfectly well that he was fervently hoping for something to go wrong. She’d fooled Mrs Whitby by claiming the puzzle purse, but Bell was harder to deceive. He still posed a danger to Georgiana.
“I admit that I was caught off guard,” she said, with her blandest smile. “I have a retiring character, Lord Bell. I had hoped to enjoy the news in private, just for a little while.” She lowered her voice as though imparting a great confidence. “And, speaking of privacy, there is a certain item that I would be much obliged if you could erase from your memory.”
Lord Bell’s smile turned sour. Isobel drew the puzzle purse out from her reticule.
“I am so glad that you were the one to find my silly puzzle,” she said. “A less honourable man might have used it to his own advantage.”
Bell was no longer smiling so much as baring his teeth. “I thought it was my duty to keep hold of it. This sort of thing could cause a great deal of damage to a young lady if it fell into the wrong hands.”
“I quite understand.” Isobel held the puzzle purse by one corner and touched it delicately against the nearest candle. Once the flame had taken hold, she dropped it into the fireplace, where it turned to ashes. “And since Lucius and I are now engaged, I hope you can forgive my little indiscretion. I will make sure he understands precisely how noble you have been. I’m sure he will wish to thank you himself, when he knows the whole truth.”
Bell went pale. Until that moment, Isobel had harboured a few faint doubts as to whether he truly believed Georgiana’s saucy poem was intended for him. Now, she saw that he was perfectly aware it was not.
She shuddered to think that of the pain his scheming could have caused Georgiana. What would be the worse choice – marrying Bell to keep him quiet, or risking her absolute ruin if he made that puzzle purse public?
Bell bowed and moved away without another word. He set aside his champagne and left the room at once without so much as a nod to his hosts. Isobel rather suspected she would not be seeing him again. He was wise enough to know how Lucius would react when he understood what Bell had tried to do.
But there was no hope of speaking to Lucius privately now, either for her own sake or Georgiana’s. She and Lucius were the centre of everybody’s attention. As soon as Bell was disposed of there was Sir Ivor, offering congratulations as limp as his handshake, and then she was overtaken by the twin explosions of delight that were Mrs Whitby and Georgiana. They seemed to be competing with each other to suggest the most outrageously extravagant decorations for the wedding. Isobel did not fail to notice that Lucius’s jaw ticked tighter with every fresh garland of roses and firework display that adorned his mother’s imagination.
It was a relief when a footman approached her to pass on a note from Aunt Ursula, who had declined to join them for the celebration. Isobel was wanted upstairs, and at once. Ursula had underlined the last two words of her note in thick dark pencil. Don’t dawdle .
To Isobel’s surprise, she found Ursula quite calm. The old lady was sipping at a glass of sherry and leafing through some of the large pile of correspondence beside her bed.
“Ah, there you are! Sit down, my dear. And do help yourself to a little tot of sherry.”
Isobel usually drank nothing stronger than tea unless it was a particularly special occasion. But in this instance, she thought it could only help.
She was engaged, after all. To all intents and appearances. It might not call for a celebration but, as occasions went, it was certainly special.
“I hear I am to wish you joy,” said Aunt Ursula, just as Isobel took the first sip. She choked on it.
“Auntie –”
“I thought it best not to come downstairs,” said Aunt Ursula, adjusting her spectacles as she peered down at her next letter. “I was considered quite the actress in my day, but I am afraid my best performances are long behind me. I don’t have the patience to play make-believe any more. So tell me, Isobel, when was it that you first knew you would marry Mr Lucius Whitby?”
Isobel set aside her glass, straightening her spine. She refused to be embarrassed. “When Lord Bell tried to use a salacious note from Georgiana to blackmail her into marriage, and I saw no other option but to claim I had written it myself.”
“Ah.” Aunt Ursula’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “Well, that won’t go down as one of the great love affairs of history, but as reasons for matrimony go, I’ve heard worse.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Auntie. I am not married yet. Nor do I intend to be.”
“Is that so?” Aunt Ursula fixed Isobel with a steely gaze over the top of her spectacles. “You had no business getting yourself engaged, then. But we shall set that aside for a moment. What I really wish to know is what you foresee happening at the end of all this. I know well enough that I started all this confusion by neglecting to mention that you would find Lord Randall here at Whitby Manor. But you have done such a marvellous job of entangling yourself that I can no longer make out where the play-acting ends and reality begins. Oh, preach all you like about your intentions to remain single and live as my companion. I know you too well for that, Isobel! You have a good heart, and it deserves someone who appreciates it. Now, it seems, there are two gentlemen presenting themselves as candidates. I would like to know which of them is a serious prospect. Randall or Whitby?”
“I really wish you would not speak as though I am choosing between two offers, when the reality is that neither of these gentlemen has asked for my hand at all.” Isobel tried to sound careless, as though the subject meant nothing to her, but Ursula’s knowing smile soon let her know she had failed.
“Come now, my girl. One of these fellows has wounded you. Not that old wound you had in Brighton, the poison of which I trust has now been excised by your mischief. Something new is troubling your heart. Is it once again Randall? Or has he been supplanted by young Whitby? There is no use denying it. I am determined to get it out of you.”
Isobel sighed – a long, mournful sigh the strength of which surprised her. “I do like Lucius,” she said quietly. “I admit that over the past weeks I have grown to like him very much. But I cannot allow myself to do more than that, for I am very nearly certain that he feels nothing more than friendship for me. Outside a few minor indiscretions, all his admiration is nothing more than pretence.”
Ursula was looking at her so sceptically that Isobel was forced to re-examine what she had just said.
It was not quite true, after all. He’d objected to her wearing the blue bobbin net and given no excuse when she accused him of doing it to subdue his own desires. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with such depth of emotion – emotion to which she could not put a name, but which encompassed fondness and surprise and admiration all at once. When he looked at her that way, it was all too easy to believe that they were no longer really pretending.
And he’d kissed her. How he’d kissed her! Held her face in his hands and told her she wielded power and, more than that, made her really believe it too. Just for the brief moment when his lips were on hers.
But if he did feel something, why was he always so careful with her? So precise about what was and was not part of their arrangement. Quick to remind her that it was all merely an act. And out in the garden, when they’d been caught, there was nothing but horror in his eyes. No hint of any secret pleasure, no hidden feelings set free.
That horror was not feigned. Something about the prospect of marrying her filled him with dread.
“If he does feel more,” she said slowly, “it is not as simple as falling or not falling in love. I cannot quite work him out. There is something complicated at play – something which he does not wish to tell me.” She brought a hand to her temple, not feeling a headache as much as a dissonance. A note was out of place in the melody of her thoughts. “And while there are so many layers of secrets and pretences and complications, I do not know how I can possibly begin to solve the mystery of him.”
“May I make a suggestion?” Aunt Ursula laughed at her own question. “Nay, I will make a suggestion whether you wish to hear it or not. It seems to me that you and Mr Whitby have got entirely too tangled up in this idea of your marvellous deception. And in the end, the only people you have managed to deceive are yourselves. You need to unpick this tangle one thread at a time. Start by imparting a confidence to him. I mean something much more significant than your old heartbreak over that fool Randall. Offer him something of value about yourself. See if he reciprocates. You cannot ask him to open his heart without opening yours.”
“You don’t mean… Tell him about Mr Babbage?” Isobel glanced over her shoulder, half in jest, half really checking to be certain that nobody was there. “Auntie, I cannot think of a surer way to ensure he would find me completely unmarriageable.”
“Hm! If that’s so, he is certainly not the fellow for you. But you are right. That one is a confidence best saved for the man you are actually going to marry – not any of the men you are merely tormenting.” Aunt Ursula took an unladylike swig of sherry and let out a cackling laugh. “No, I had something else in mind. It seems that Mr and Mrs Whitby have got the idea that I am sitting on an enormous stash of money – and I dare say that a great deal of their attentions towards us have been inspired by the dream of that fortune. I rather wonder what young Whitby’s reaction would be if you broach the subject with him. You are indeed an heiress – of the Balfour name, and the usual Balfour dowry. See what he has to say about that. That will give you a better idea of his intentions.”
Isobel frowned. It was uncomfortable to think that her friends’ affection might be motivated by money. The Whitbys lived an extremely comfortable life – an extravagant one, even. In their position, Isobel would not have cared whether anybody might be an heiress or not. But she had to admit that she often found herself thinking quite differently to the way most people did. And Aunt Ursula was right that Mr Whitby had very nearly suffocated her with his attempt to be the perfect host.
But Lucius was not like that. Lucius was generous and honourable and passionate about citrus fruit and glass houses… In addition to being exactly the sort of insubstantial rake who kissed women in hothouses and had salacious thoughts about perfectly ordinary dresses.
Drat. She really could not make sense of her own feelings any longer. And, at times like that, there was only one thing left to do.
Isobel kissed Aunt Ursula, made sure the old lady had everything she needed, and slipped away, taking the servants’ staircase to avoid bumping into anybody who might offer her their congratulations again.
Words might fail her. Gentlemen certainly would. But one thing she could always rely upon was the inimitable Mr Babbage.