Chapter 24
On his way to Clarges Street the next afternoon, Nicholas passed the tall townhouse belonging to his brother. To his surprise, the knocker was on the door. Had Gerald returned to London?
On impulse he ran up the steps. His hand was still on the knocker when the door opened. Hampton, his brother’s butler, and his father’s butler before that, favored him with the slightest of smiles and gravely bade him enter.
“Is my brother in?”
“In the library, sir,” the butler said, relieving him of his hat and gloves.
“No need to announce me.” Nicholas strode down the corridor. His mood was buoyant. Isabella was right: the impossible was possible. If Gerald didn’t have a vacant living at his disposal, someone else would. The problem of Harriet would be solved. It was only a matter of time.
He tapped once on the door to the library and pushed it open.
Gerald looked up from the newspaper he was reading. His heavily jowled face seemed to tighten. “Nicholas. I thought you were out of town.”
And you wish I still was,Nicholas thought wryly. “I returned yesterday,” he said, closing the door. “And you?”
“The same.” Gerald folded the newspaper, a brisk, irritated rustle of sound. “What do you want?”
“I came to ask a favor of you.”
Gerald uttered a bark of laughter, a humorless sound. “You?” he said, giving the word a bitter inflection. “Ask a favor of me?”
Nicholas stood silently for a moment, looking at Gerald, seeing the signs of anger: the pinched mouth, the flush of color rising in his brother’s cheeks. “I’ll come back later,” he said, and turned to leave.
“No,” his brother said, in a flat voice. “Ask me now. I want to hear this.”
Nicholas turned back to face him. “Very well,” he said mildly.
Gerald had been prepared for argument, his mouth already open. He sat for several seconds in surprise, bristling, and then closed his mouth.
Nicholas walked over to an armchair and sat. For a moment there was silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Was Gerald going to offer him something to drink?
Gerald folded his arms across his chest. “Well?” he asked. The word was short and pugnacious.
No drink,Nicholas thought wryly.
“What’s this favor?”
Nicholas’s thoughts strayed briefly to Lady Isabella. Some of his optimism returned. “I have a request,” he said. “I don’t know whether you’ll be able to grant it or not.”
His brother grunted.
Nicholas gave a brief account of Harriet Durham’s predicament, carefully avoiding identifying Lady Isabella as the girl’s benefactress. His pity for Harriet returned as he spoke. It was a dreadful fate she had found for herself: to be without family, with no means of supporting herself and with her reputation gone. He introduced Mr. Fernyhough’s existence, and explained the man’s dilemma. “If Mr. Fernyhough were to receive another preferment, then he’d be able to marry Harriet Durham.”
“A jilt!” Gerald said. “What man would want to marry her?”
“Mr. Fernyhough, apparently. If he wasn’t indebted to Colonel Durham.”
Gerald sniffed.
Nicholas leaned back in the armchair. “So that’s the favor. If you have a vacant living, would you consider conferring it on Mr. Fernyhough?”
Gerald’s mouth was a thin line. One of his fingers flicked the arm of his chair, a sharp, angry sound: tap-tap-tap. “Why do you care about this girl? She made a fool of you!”
“I feel some responsibility for her,” Nicholas said. “She was to be my wife.”
Gerald sniffed again.
“I’d like to have her future assured as soon as possible.” Nicholas eyed his brother—Should I tell him now?—and came to a decision. “I’m getting married.”
“You are?” The tapping finger stilled.
“Yes,” Nicholas said. “Isabella Knox has agreed to marry me.” The emotions of last night—the joy, the exhilaration, the wonder—returned. He discovered he was grinning like a fool.
“Isabella Knox? You?”
“Yes,” Nicholas said, his grin widening.
Gerald didn’t congratulate him, instead he sat silently. His face seemed to swell, his cheeks to darken.
Nicholas’s grin faded. “Gerald?”
“I have a vacant living,” his brother said, his voice thick with rage. “But if you think I’ll give it to your Mr. Fernyhough, you’re vastly mistaken.”
Nicholas stared at him blankly. “Gerald? Why—”
“Why?” Gerald heaved himself out of his chair. “Because it’s what you deserve, you son of a bitch.” His hands clenched into fists. “Don’t ever ask a favor of me again!”
Nicholas stood slowly. “Gerald—”
“Get out of my house!”
Nicholas looked at his brother’s face, congested with anger, and silently obeyed. He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment in the corridor. What had just happened?
He walked slowly back to the entrance hall. The butler met him with his hat and gloves.
“Lord Reynolds isn’t in the best of moods today,” Hampton remarked in a voice that was utterly expressionless.
“No,” Nicholas said. He accepted his hat and stood holding it, staring back towards the library. What the hell had just happened?
“Master Harry has decided to join the army,” Hampton said. “The Rifle Brigade.”
“Ah,” Nicholas said. Understanding dawned. He felt a brief flare of outrage. He thinks I talked Harry into it. He thinks I broke my word.
Nicholas took a step towards the library, halted, and turned back to the butler. “I’ll come back later.”
“Very good, sir.” Hampton opened the door. A blustery wind gusted in.
Nicholas walked slowly down the steps. He stood for a moment on the street, turning the hat over in his hands, frowning. Gerald thinks I broke my word. He glanced up at the townhouse, at the flat, gray stone, the blank windows, and felt oddly disturbed.
Later. He gave himself a shake. He’d deal with Gerald later. Now, he was late to see Isabella.
His grimness stayed with him until he turned into Clarges Street, but with Lady Isabella’s house in sight it was impossible not to feel the joy again. She’s mine. She’ll be my wife. And that word—wife—encompassed so many things: the person he would live the rest of his life with, would talk with and laugh with forever, would make love to and sleep beside. The person with whom he’d raise a family. The person he belonged to.
Wonder filled him. How had this come to be? That he belonged to Isabella Knox, and she to him?
Nicholas paused in front of Isabella’s house. He recalled her words the evening they had met: I’m an eccentric. He shook his head in disagreement as he climbed the steps. Isabella was different from other ladies of the ton, but she wasn’t eccentric; she was herself.
Now, if she took to dressing Rufus in clothing and letting him dine at the table...
He swallowed a laugh and plied the knocker to the door.
The butler bowed him in, took his hat, and told him he was expected. Nicholas trod up the stairs behind a footman with a light heart.
The footman opened the door to the morning room. Isabella stood at the window, bathed in sunlight. She turned to face him. The smile in her eyes—For me alone—made him breathless. She came towards him with her hands outstretched. He took them as the footman closed the door, drew her to him, embraced her. Mine.
* * *
When one of the kittens began to sharpen its claws on the major’s boots, they broke apart laughing. Isabella picked up the kitten. It started to purr immediately, a warm rumble in the palm of her hand. “See?” She stroked a light finger over the kitten’s brow, tracing the letter. “She needs a name that begins with M.”
“Moppet,” the major said, bending to pat Rufus.
Isabella sat on the yellow damask sofa, holding the purring gray-striped kitten. “She’s not a Moppet.”
Major Reynolds sat beside her, a smile in his eyes. How did I ever think of him as hard-faced? “Molly,” he suggested.
Isabella shook her head. “One of the maids is called Molly.”
The major leaned closer. “Marry Me,” he said.
Isabella pursed her lips and pretended to think about this. “That doesn’t really sound like a name for a kitten.”
“How about, Kiss Me?” he asked softly, in her ear.
“That doesn’t begin with M,” Isabella said primly. She glanced at him, trying not to let a smile escape, and failed.
“Doesn’t it?” One of his fingertips trailed along her collarbone. It traced a light, tickling path up the side of her neck, and then along her jaw, stopping beneath her mouth. “Are you certain?”
“Yes,” she whispered, lifting her mouth, kissing him.
Long, lazy, sunlit minutes passed. The kitten fell asleep on Isabella’s lap while Major Reynolds kissed her gently and thoroughly, and while she kissed him back, trying to tell him without words how much she loved him.
“I think Kiss Me is a good name,” the major said, when at last he raised his head. He put an arm around her, settling her against the warmth of his body, and pressed a light kiss to her hair.
“Marry Me is even better,” Isabella said, resting her cheek on his shoulder. She drank in the sensations—his warmth and solidity, the firmness of his shoulder and the strength of the arm that held her, his clean male scent. Contentment filled her, so pure it was almost painful.
She closed her eyes. What did I do to deserve this man?
“When would you like to marry?” the major asked, stroking her hair.
“As soon as you’ve met my brother, Julian. I think he’d be hurt if we married before he met you.”
“Of course,” the major said. “He lives in Derbyshire, doesn’t he? Would you like to marry there?”
Isabella opened her eyes. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”
“I’ll get a special license,” Major Reynolds said. “We can travel to Derbyshire next week and marry without waiting for the banns to be read.” He paused, and then said, “About Harriet...”
A light, timid knock sounded on the door.
They pulled hastily apart.
“Come in,” Isabella said, as the major stood and walked to the window. The gray-striped kitten was mewing in her lap. She placed a hand on it, soothing, shushing, as the door opened.
Harriet stood in the doorway. Her face was pale and her eyes, as she looked from Isabella to Major Reynolds and back again, were dark and frightened.
“Harriet?” Isabella glanced at the major, standing at the window. His face was utterly expressionless.
“I . . . I wish to speak with you.”
“With me?”
“With both of you, ma’am.”
“Then please come in.”
Harriet stepped inside and closed the door. Rufus trotted over to greet her. The girl shrank back.
“Rufus.” Isabella clicked her fingers. Poor Rufus, she thought, rubbing the dog’s warm, silky head when he came to her. Nearly a month and she’s still afraid of you. “What is it, my dear?”
Harriet came no further into the room. She stood with her back pressed to the door. “I wish to...” She swallowed. Her gaze flicked to Major Reynolds and away. An emotion crossed her face too swiftly for Isabella to identify it. Fear? Revulsion? “I wish to apologize for jilting you, Major Reynolds.” She spoke the words to his shoulder, not his face.
“Thank you, Miss Durham.” The major bowed slightly. His voice was light and pleasant, polite.
“And . . .” Harriet clasped her hands tightly together and visibly gathered her courage. “And I wish to marry you.”
Isabella saw the astonishment on Major Reynolds’ face, saw his blink of surprise.
“It was wrong of me to disobey my grandfather, and wrong of me to jilt you, and I’m very sorry, and... and I wish to make it right and marry you.” Harriet finished in a rush, still not looking the major in the eye.
Isabella exchanged a glance with Major Reynolds. She was too shocked to speak. Fortunately, the major wasn’t. “I’m sorry, Harriet,” he said gently. “I’m betrothed to someone else now. I can’t renew my offer to you.”
The words brought Harriet’s gaze to his face. She stared at Major Reynolds. Isabella saw her dismay, saw tears well in her eyes.
“Lady Isabella and I are getting married,” Major Reynolds said, even more gently.
Harriet’s gaze jerked to Isabella.
Isabella attempted a smile.
“Oh,” Harriet said, the sound almost a sob. “I wish you happy.” She gave a tragic, watery smile, then turned and ran from the room.
There was a long moment of silence, and then Major Reynolds turned to Isabella, his expression baffled. “Why the devil does she want to marry me now?”
“I imagine she’s afraid for her future.” Isabella scooped the kitten from her lap and stood. “I’d best go after her.”
The major caught her hand. “Give her some time.” He drew her into an embrace.
Isabella didn’t try to pull free. She felt quite shaken. “Nicholas, are you certain that—”
“If you dare to ask whether I’d rather marry Harriet than you—if you dare even to think it—then I swear to God that I’ll beat you soundly.”
Isabella managed a weak chuckle. Some of her tension eased.
The major’s grip on her tightened. He whispered in her ear, “I will never beat you.”
“I know,” she whispered back. And then she sighed. “Why do I feel guilty? As if I’ve stolen you from her?”
“You haven’t,” he said. “So don’t think it.”
“No.” She sighed again.
Major Reynolds rested his cheek on her hair. “Harriet Durham may have been my first choice and Clarissa Whedon my second, but you, Isabella Knox, are my best choice. Don’t ever doubt it.”