Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
T he orangery, again. But this time in moonlight.
The neat rows of trees, such familiar friends by day, had transformed into ethereal statues in the darkness, their outlines picked out by moonlight. Their green leaves now were deep black, their heavy fruits a silvery mystery. The tiled paths between them glowed with reflected moonbeams. It was a glorious night, stars thronging in the heavens, their dainty patterns visible, though distorted, through the glass roof.
Lucius leaned against one of the narrow greenhouse pillars, its ironwork chilling through his jacket, the scent of earth and growing green things lulling his mind with the promise of good things to come.
Promise that would never be fulfilled.
When Isobel appeared at the far end of the hothouse, clad in a white nightdress, he thought for a moment he had dreamed her. But she stepped forward across the moonlit tiles, arms wrapped around herself as though something chilled her despite the warm air, and called his name.
“Lucius?”
He let his eyes fall closed and let himself pretend, for just a moment, that it would all come good. Told himself that he wasn’t about to hear the sound of his name on her lips for the last time.
“Lucius? You are here, aren’t you?” Her voice moved towards him. He opened his eyes and stepped out from the shadow of the pillar to join her in the moonlight.
“I’m here.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice, but the sight of him relaxed her. As a cloud passed across the moon and shadows fell across the orangery, he thought he could feel rather than see the tension leaving her shoulders, the smile blessing her face like sunlight.
“Oh!” He heard her stumble into something, and he smiled. That hadn’t occurred to his fevered imagination. “Now I can’t see!”
He moved towards her, not needing the moon to guide him across the well-trodden aisles of fruiting trees. “You didn’t bring a candle?” Or a coat. Or even a dressing gown. He was fairly certain he’d seen lace at the neck of that nightgown. The thought made him burn.
“I didn’t want to be caught – oh!” This time the exclamation was a glad one, as his outstretched hand found hers. He held her tightly, his fingers surprised by the warmth and strength in hers.
But of course she had strong hands. The sort of music Isobel played didn’t come easily.
He might have pretended he was clutching her bare hand so tightly merely to steady her, if Isobel had not responded by pulling herself towards him, drawing herself closer. Tantalisingly close, in the dark.
“I’m sorry about Malcolm,” she said. “He’s a fine one to preach about propriety!”
“He cares about you.” And wasn’t that just an extra sprinkle of salt over the bleeding wound of it all? Of course Isobel was a favourite relation of Caversham, whom Lucius counted among his oldest friends. How could she not be? It was becoming more obvious by the hour that everything that would be perfect for Lucius, Isobel already was.
Except an heiress, of course. Except that.
“Fond of me – terrified of my sister – one or the other.” Her voice warmed with the sound of that playful smile she usually kept hidden. She’d freed it now, in the darkness. With him.
“I thought they were a love match?”
“Very much so.” She hesitated, her fingers loosening their hold on his. “I think… I think there is always a little terror, when love runs very deep.”
“Isobel…”
The clouds shifted, and moonlight crept slowly in through the orangery once more, and her face shone with an inner glow that was more than moonlight, and – heaven help him – she was only inches away.
Her eyes held his for a moment, then dropped as she spoke. “You said you’d give me an explanation. But first, I owe you an apology. I gave my word, after all, that I’d follow your lead. And then I deliberately set out to frustrate you. I’ve no excuse. I did it because –” Her eyes rose back to his, and there was such a spark in them that, despite everything, he wanted to laugh. “Because you made me so angry with your silly posturing! Your ridiculous put-on of the silly, vain, fortune-hungry rake. And you thought I’d believe it, Lucius! How could you?” She shook her head, biting her lip to quell everything that was fighting to spill out. “Wait. I am supposed to be apologising. I am sorry. My only excuse is that I had no idea the consequence would be as grave as it evidently is.”
“And why should you have known?” He did let himself laugh then, but it was bitter. “I kept it all from you.”
Isobel dropped his hand, wrapping her arms about herself again, though she could not possibly have been cold. “Why does your father need so desperately for you to marry an heiress?”
Now, when the moment finally came to unburden himself, he found it harder to do than he’d imagined. All this while he’d felt the truth building up like water behind a dam, and he’d been certain that at any moment his silence would crack, and it would all come gushing out in a torrent. But he couldn’t find the words. “Can’t you guess?”
There was no reproach in her eyes, no judgement. Only concern. “What happened to the money?”
“Misspent. Badly invested. Gambled, drunk, frittered away on a thousand little luxuries. There’s no great sin at the heart of it, Isobel. Only my father’s lack of judgement.”
She touched a hand to her lips, concern turning to contemplation. As though a few moments’ thought might turn up a solution where Lucius’s long hours of labour had failed. “I’m sorry. Is there nothing to be done?”
“My father was relying upon Evie to catch Lord Henry Claremont last Season.” He grimaced. “It seems one of us must be sold to save the others – or at least buy us more time. A love match would have been a happy by-product, but…”
He stopped. Looked at her – really looked at her, as though by studying each moonlit detail of her face, he’d imprint her in his memory forever. And leave a part of himself behind, standing here at midnight in the Spanish-scented orangery, gazing into the eyes of a woman who’d walked straight out of a dream.
“A love match would have been heaven.” There. That was as close as he dared come to the heart of it. His voice hoarsened around the words. But Isobel nodded, and he knew she understood. “I didn’t intend to entangle you so deeply.” It was urgently important that she knew that. Knew he wouldn’t have used her – even if there had been a fortune – even if he’d had the chance. “I only wanted to buy myself some time to think. To search for another way out.”
Perhaps it had worked, after all. Perhaps there was now sufficient distance between Evie and Lord Henry that his father would give up his desperate idea of blackmail.
Or perhaps, cruellest of ironies, that cocksure lie he’d told her would come to pass. Lucius Whitby, gentleman-about-town, freshly returned from Europe and breaking off his engagement to Isobel Balfour without so much as sigh for her fabulous wealth. It would certainly give him a dreadful kind of allure. To a particular sort of wealthy woman, he’d be appealing. The thought made him sick.
“You may yet find something.” Hope glimmered in her eyes along with the starlight. And something worse still – trust. “Have a little faith in yourself. And… have a little faith in me .”
She trusted him. Despite everything.
Lucius managed half a smile. “Do I have the pleasure of meeting the famous composer, Mr Babbage?”
She took a step back and made an ironic little bow. “Isidore Babbage, at your service.” She straightened up and wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t call him famous. But he has built up a comfortable income.” She took his hands again, those strong fingers sure and steady. “I wouldn’t cost you anything as a wife, Lucius. I would even be able to help a little.”
He lifted her hands to his face. Let her fingers trace along his jaw, her cool palm press against his cheek. He closed his eyes to savour it.
So sweet. So tender. A luxury beyond claret and cologne and hothouse flowers.
He couldn’t bear to end it. He felt as though the effort would rend him in two. But, somehow, he found the strength to fold his hands over hers, and gently push them away. “Could Mr Babbage help me out to the tune of fifty thousand pounds?”
He heard her sharp intake of breath and opened his eyes to find her staring at him, frozen. She’d left her hands in his. He gave them a last, longing squeeze, and let them go. “Isobel, if it were only my future at stake…”
He’d choose her in a heartbeat. He’d be on his knees before her at that moment. He wouldn’t let another second pass before swearing himself to her forever.
She wrapped her arms around herself again. Perhaps she felt the aching absence of his body, just as he ached to hold her. “I know,” she said. “I know.”
“My sisters deserve better.” He shook his head, searching within himself for that resolve which had seemed so iron-clad only days before. “They’ve no idea of the danger we’re in. Even now, they think I’ve broken off the engagement over some simple misunderstanding. My father managed to keep his real objections contained until we were out of the room. And I don’t intend for them ever to find out the truth.”
“I won’t breathe a word of it,” said Isobel.
Lucius smiled. “I know. I have faith in you, too.”
A moment stretched between them. A shimmering, moonlit moment in which all that mattered was the warmth of the alliance between them, their shared admiration, their shared secrets. Then her smile grew brittle.
“So I must release you from our arrangement. To find a real heiress.” She spoke with false brightness. And no wonder she’d made such a perfect partner in deception – if Lucius wasn’t very nearly certain of the truth, he’d have been wholly taken in by that ersatz cheer. “Have you anyone in mind? Some wealthy widow, perhaps? I’m sure my aunt has some friends who might do.”
“ Don’t .”
“No. You’re right. I won’t tease.” Her eyes glittered with more than moonlight. “Well, I’m glad if our little misadventure was any help to you. Even if it was only a little space to catch your breath.”
“It’s meant a great deal to me.” A great deal more than it should have done. But that couldn’t be helped now. “And you? Did you get what you wanted?”
She laughed, soft and low. Not at him – at herself. “No. Or rather – I did, but not in the way I imagined. Do you remember, when I first dragged you into this mess, that I asked you whether I was wicked, to thirst for revenge the way I did?” She lifted a shoulder, a little half shrug. “I hardly recognise the girl I was that day. The girl I’d been for years before. It seems that thirst has been quenched.” She looked at him, arch and knowing. “Perhaps you cleansed my soul, Mr Whitby.”
“You give me too much credit.” He traced a finger down her cheek, brushing the teasing smile from her lips. “And you are incapable of taking anything seriously.” He cupped her face with his hands. “But if I helped you, I am glad of it.” A cloud covered the moon once more, plunging them into darkness. And under the secrecy of that dark veil, Lucius laid one last reverent kiss on her lips.
“You were wrong about one thing,” she whispered, her breath hot and fierce on his mouth. “I don’t regret this. I don’t regret it at all.”
And she was gone.
Lucius let himself sink down to the tiled floor, careless of the spilled soil staining his clothes. He took a breath of the air, still and sun-warmed despite the darkness, and watched as moonlight and cloud chased each other in fragile glimmers across the row of glasshouses.
A single clear moonbeam picked out a tiny flower, newly blooming, red petals unfurling like little bleeding hearts.