Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
“ T his way.” Malcolm pulled Isobel sharply left when she tried to lead him ahead to Aunt Ursula’s rooms. He kicked open the door of one of the lesser-used upper receiving rooms, surprising frightened squeaks from the two maids dusting off the shelves. “A moment, please, ladies.”
Malcolm’s winning smile had melted most of the female population of London into rapturous puddles at one time or another, and two young country servants did not stand the slightest chance against it. They hurried out, giggling, and Malcolm extinguished his smile the moment the door closed behind them.
“Out with it,” he said, arms folded. “And thank your lucky stars that it’s me paying you a visit, and not Loxwell or Streatham or, heaven forbid, my sweet and gentle wife. Selina will put you under house arrest till your thirtieth birthday if she hears of this. That’s if you survive her initial tongue-lashing.”
Isobel saw at once there was no need to keep up her pretence. In any case, she had something far more important on her mind. “He lied to me!”
“Good lord, Iso, are you utterly bent on causing havoc?” Malcolm ran a weary hand through the blonde mane Isobel’s friends all used to sigh over before he unforgivably betrayed them all by getting married. “Who has lied to you? No, wait – you are trying to distract me! Look, I give you my word I’ll run through anybody who requires it, but first I need you to tell me the truth. Starting from the beginning. In plain English, if you please.”
“He told me he only wanted me to play the heiress to polish up his reputation for the marriage mart,” said Isobel, her hands clenching into fists. “But that doesn’t seem to be the case at all, does it?”
A dangerous light played in Malcolm’s eyes. “Do you mean to tell me that Lucius Whitby has put you up to this? All for a bit of polish on his aura of mystique? Why, that conniving little rat, I’ll see him hanged –”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” For the first time in her life, Isobel felt like punching something. Some one . She wasn’t sure who, and though she was sure she couldn’t hurt Malcolm if she tried, it seemed a little unfair to choose him. She moved away instead, her fingernails biting into her palms, and tried to let out all the wrath boiling inside her with a long sigh of anguish instead. “Lucius didn’t put me up to anything. The only person who did any putting up of anybody else was me.”
“All right. All right.” To her surprise, Malcolm’s voice had gentled. His large hand landed on her shoulder and steered her into a chair. “Take a few deep breaths, old girl, and then – if you can possibly manage it – try making a little sense, won’t you? Shall I ring for some tea, or brandy? A pistol? Whatever you need.”
“I don’t need brandy,” she said, trying to steady her breath. “I need Lucius.”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“I need him to explain why he lied to me.” Isobel replayed that awful dining room conversation in her memory. The triumph she’d felt – as if I’d do as you tell me! – and then the betrayal in his eyes. The hurt. “Oh, Malcolm, it’s all so mixed up! I don’t know what to do.”
“I see.” Malcolm took a deep breath, sat opposite her, and took her hands in his. “Come, now. I am an expert at sorting out messes. I have had years of practice. Now, I am going to ask you some questions, and you only need answer yes or no. Do you understand?”
Isobel nodded. Malcolm gave her hands a fond squeeze and released them.
“Are you really engaged to Lucius Whitby?”
“No.”
“Do his parents believe that you are?”
“Yes.” Her voice dimmed to a shameful squeak, but Malcolm made no sign of censure.
“And it was your own idea to do this thing?”
“Yes.” She winced. “Sort of. It was not supposed to go this far, but –”
“Steady, steady. Stick to yes and no for now.” Malcolm rubbed his jaw. “Does Lady Ursula know?”
“Yes.”
He grinned. “Does she approve?”
“I…” Isobel sighed. “No.”
“I remember Miss Georgiana’s birthday ball. You asked me to dance with you. You hadn’t had many partners, and you wanted to make somebody jealous. Was that person Lucius?”
It took Isobel a moment to remember. That ball – London – the Season – it all seemed a lifetime ago compared to the past short weeks of summer. “No.”
“Didn’t think so.” Malcolm gave her what looked very much like a grin of approval. “Poor Lord Randall is absolutely sick this evening. I really think he might die.”
“You shouldn’t look so pleased about it,” said Isobel. “You are my brother now. You ought to be telling me the error of my ways.”
“I apologise. I’m new to this business of having a family. I’ll try and do better next time.” His eyes twinkled, but Isobel could barely muster half a smile in response. “Very well, my accidental siren enchantress, here’s the crux of the matter: do you love him?”
“Randall? Not a bit.”
Malcolm held up a finger. “That’s not who I was asking about. As you know very well.”
Isobel dropped her gaze to her floor. Somewhere, down there beneath the Persian rug and the oaken floorboards, her heart had fallen, too. “I don’t think there’s any question of love between me and Lucius.” He’d lied to her.
And she’d hurt him. Perhaps… perhaps she’d even wanted to hurt him. At the very least, she’d wanted to show him that she wasn’t prepared to follow along with that silly primping of his masculine pride.
She didn’t dare look back at Malcolm. He might be new to the family, but he already understood her far more than she liked. Which was a rare talent, because at that moment, she barely understood herself.
“It doesn’t seem such a terrible mess to me, Iso,” said Malcolm gently. At last, Isobel found the ghost of a smile. She thought how mortified the fearsome Duke of Caversham would be if anyone overheard him coaxing his sister-by-marriage from the brink of despair as gently as he’d nurse an injured kitten. “I’ve known Whitby some years now. He’s a thoroughly decent fellow. In fact, a little less decency might have steered him better in this regard. Heaven knows how you managed to persuade him into this mad scheme. But here you both are, and the fact of the matter is it’s no bad thing to find yourself betrothed to someone you –” He caught her expression. “To someone you are very fond of. And who, by the looks of things, is head over heels in fondness for you.”
“He lied.” And so had she. And had she really expected anything better? Everything between them was founded on deceit.
“Yes, about that.” Malcolm drummed his fingers on his knee, frowning. “I wouldn’t describe your little announcement downstairs as delicate , but the elder Whitbys certainly seemed upset by more than your manners.”
“Why should it matter to them whether Aunt Ursula is rich?”
“Why, indeed.” Lucius was standing in the doorway, face drawn, eyes weary. Leaning against the doorpost at a nonchalant angle as though there were the slightest hope she’d believe he was not miserable.
Isobel wanted to leap to her feet. To run to him. To slam the door in his face. To kiss him. To ask how long he’d been there. To pray that he hadn’t heard anything, and to hope against hope that he had.
“Give me a moment to collect myself, and I’ll tell you,” said Lucius. “I’ll tell you all of it, if that’s what you want.”
He took a step into the room and glanced pointedly at Malcolm.
The duke laughed. Not a merry laugh. A warning. “No. I think I’ll stay right here.”
“Malcolm,” Isobel pleaded. He settled back in the armchair, arms folded, crossing an ankle lazily over the opposite knee as though he intended to stay a good long while.
“Don’t ask me to give you a moment alone, Iso, because I won’t. I can’t. Heaven knows I’m nobody’s idea of a chaperone, but here I am, and I’m not moving.”
“She is my betrothed, Caversham,” said Lucius. “What harm could come of it?”
“Plenty.” Malcolm shrugged his shoulders back into the chair, almost as though he were relaxing, but there was no doubting the hint that he was squaring up for a fight. “Don’t push your luck, Whitby.”
Isobel leaned forward, fixing Malcolm with a glare. “I’ll tell Selina you’re not in London.” He didn’t blink. “I’ll tell my brother what happened at the inn in Twynham the day of the election.”
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “How do you know –”
Isobel sat back with a satisfied smile. “I was only guessing, until just now. Give us five minutes, Malcolm.”
“ No .” He stood. “It’s getting late, Isobel. Whatever’s cooking between the pair of you can keep until morning. I’m not going to be responsible for leaving you alone, upstairs, late in the evening, with a man whose behaviour towards you has been questionable at best .” The last words lashed back at Lucius, sharp and biting. Lucius took it, still leaning on the doorframe, unflinching, face set.
Malcolm held out a hand to Isobel. “I’m going to escort you to Lady Ursula’s chambers. Don’t insult me by trying to change my mind.”
Isobel was accustomed to dukes, to their tempers, their orders, and their particular habits of always getting their own way. She recognised that tone and knew there was no use arguing with it.
But she also knew how to get her own way, regardless. The secret, quiet way that looked like acceptance but was anything but.
The wallflower way.
“It’s a lovely evening,” she said to Lucius, as Malcolm led her swiftly past. “It’s just as I imagine that night in Spain.”
His eyes locked on hers. And she knew, without a word passing between them, that he understood. “Goodnight, Isobel.”
“Goodnight.” She turned away, let Malcolm steer her to Ursula, let him berate her at great length about suitable company and chaperones and we both know you know better .
Let him think her smile was only for show.