Fallen (4 page)

What was this she was feeling? She felt weak and strong at once, fearful and daring together. She gazed raptly down into his eyes, so close to hers.

They were gold, she mused. Not brown at all. Old gold, like burnished treasures turned up from ancient peat. Gleaming gold, like a tiger's eyes must gleam.

"I told you not to smile at me," she whispered. "Now I cannot remember what we were speaking of."

Blackworth grinned and sat up. "There. Now, why do you believe a ball would be humiliating for you? There are those who find my escort acceptable, even desirable."

Izzy flapped a hand at him. "Oh, it isn't you." She stood and walked toward the window, her hands clasped behind her back.

She had hoped to finally see a few events as Millie's chaperone. The past months had been consumed by the preparations for the Marchwells' young daughter's debut. By distant connections, some through Izzy's late mother, the Marchwells had just enough standing to hope for an aristocratic marriage for their girl.

Izzy sighed, remembering the exquisite fabrics and ribbons her young cousin had chosen for her gowns. No expense had been spared, for it was Millie's role to marry well, advancing the Marchwells' social and financial status.

Even Izzy had received a new gown. A somber dark affair better suited to an octogenarian. Best to keep it plain, Hildegard had intoned, so as to get more wearing from it.

Izzy had wistfully eyed the frothy confection her young cousin was having fitted. It was overdone and silly, but it was a young girl's ball gown, something she herself had never possessed.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled the shreds of her composure about her.

Explaining that was going to be as demeaning as experiencing it. Well, there was no help for it.

"Lord Blackworth, it cannot have escaped your attention that I am no beauty. I know it well. It will become obvious at a ball. I think you should understand how very obvious.

"To go as your betrothed would put me in the glare of scrutiny. All eyes will be on us, and the contrast—Well, I will do it, of course, as I have promised, but do not expect me to enjoy it." She stared out the window, unable to look at him.

"Are you under the impression that all the women attending the ball will be beautiful?" Blackworth asked. If beauty were the criterion, half the
haut monde
would be excluded. Frowning, he studied her where she stood against the glare through the open draperies. Such a contradictory little package, all fears and ferocity.

"Of course. Beautiful ladies and beautiful gowns, and I will be an embarrassment."

The way that she chanted the phrase, it almost sounded like a lesson learned by rote in the schoolroom.

"That is nonsense. Miss Temple, look at me."

She turned, yet did not quite meet his eyes.

"Now, is Lady Cherrymore a beauty?"

"Not particularly, although she does have some spectacular… endowments. But she is older, and a married woman. She is no longer on display."

"Very well then, consider Miss Cherrymore." A plainer girl had never lived, in Eppie's opinion.

The dread in her eyes eased a bit. Then it was back.

"Yet she is so beautifully dressed. One can accept her, because she so clearly fits in."

He still did not understand. And he wanted to. He never stopped to think how out of character it was for him to want to. This woman intrigued him with her careless disregard for society in some ways, and overactive regard for it in others. He wanted her to see and experience a side of life she had missed.

He walked up behind her, then taking her hand, turned her to face him. Looking down at the top of the ugly cap, he said softly, "My dear, you also shall be beautifully dressed and you also shall be accepted. Now, why so reluctant? Just wear your loveliest gown and I will take care of the rest."

She sniffled. "I am wearing it."

He looked down at her in horror. It could not be. That dress wasn't fit for a servant. Dark and shapeless, it bore no resemblance even to the well-cut dresses he had seen on upstairs maids.

She had no ball gown? No gowns at all, apparently, except the ugly serviceable sort. His disgust with the Marchwells expanded. Was there nothing to which these people wouldn't stoop?

Yet, this too, he could repair for her. Smiling, he pictured her in something wispy and blue. She might not look half-bad out of those horrid gowns. She was slender, and judging by the hand he held, delicately boned. At the very least, she would look like a lady of the
ton
. That would have to do, he supposed.

"If I promise to take care of everything, will you go?" he asked.

She nodded.

"My dear Elizabeth, I will not allow anyone to humiliate you. Do you believe that?"

"I do believe you will try." She smiled, then she rallied and fixed him with a mock glare. "Lord Blackworth, I am shocked that you would propose to a woman without first learning her name."

"What?" She had left him behind once more with the swift darting of her mind. Where a moment ago she had seemed lost, now she stood before him in a challenging pose, her fists on her hips.

"My name is not Elizabeth, but Isadora." Izzy broke her stance with a laugh, making a face. "Nearly as bad as Eppingham, I think. Oh dear, I suppose you like your name. I'm sure it has some significance for you, after all." She gave him an embarrassed look.

He grinned. "No, I loathe it. I always have. Although my brother's name was worse."

She raised a brow. "Worse?"

"Mandelfred."

"Mandelfred? And Eppingham?"

"My father insisted." The look of amused horror on her face made him smile. "But you must inure yourself to it, Isadora. If we are to put on a convincing betrothal, you cannot keep weaseling out of it by addressing me constantly as 'my lord.' " He recaptured her hand and led her to sit with him once more.

"Oh my. You noticed. I am sorry, but I simply cannot call you Eppingham with a straight face. We must come up with an alternative."

"Well, those close to me call me Eppie—"

She snorted. She actually snorted. Clapping her hands over her mouth, she dissolved into a fit of laughter. Her embarrassment spurred the giggles higher, until she turned away to bring herself under control.

Blackworth leaned back and basked in the rippling sound, letting the husky giggling wash over him like sunlight.

He rarely spent so much attention on a woman without bedding her, yet he had a feeling that time spent with Izzy could prove quite satisfying in its own way. A little surprised at his own conclusion, he studied her again.

Her pose as she leaned her small rear against the back of the settee, fighting for breath with her arms wrapped around her midriff, was not seductive in the slightest. Accustomed to the considered posturing of the ladies of his world, he was impressed again by how natural this girl was, like an unspoiled child or perhaps a wild woodland creature. She seemed very free. He wondered if it really was her lost reputation that gave her such freedom. If so, he hesitated to restore it.

Smiling at her with new warmth, he watched as she wiped her streaming eyes. No, he preferred his little Izzy to remain just as she was. A surge of possessiveness swept him but he refused to acknowledge the emotion.

It was only that their peculiar situation made him feel responsible for her. He was indebted to her for her defense of him that night. He knew well enough he wasn't capable of any finer feelings for her than that.

"If you are quite able to continue, my dear, we do have things to discuss," he reminded her.

"Oh, yes, I know. I'm sorry. My imagination does run away sometimes. I was just picturing—"

"Stop." He held up a hand as her shoulders began to shake once more. "Restrain that wayward thought, Miss Temple, or I shall be forced to call down Cousin Hildegard to restore your decorum."

"Eww." She drew a deep breath and smiled at him.

"There, my lord, I am quite restored. You do see, I'm sure, that I simply cannot call you by those names. We shall just have to be more formal than most." She settled near him on the settee. "Unless you have an alternative?" She smoothed her skirts and cocked an inquiring eyebrow at him.

"Well, I do have a second name, although I have never answered to it. I quite prefer it myself, but no one has ever given me the option."

"Really?" She leaned toward him. "You must tell me!"

"My second name is…" He hesitated, curious for her reaction. "Julian."

"Julian? What a marvelous name," she breathed. She drew back, considering him from boots to brow. "Yes," she decided. "It quite suits you. I shall have no trouble at all addressing you as Julian, my lord." She offered her hand playfully. "Perhaps we ought to renew our introduction. Hello, Julian, my name is Isadora."

He clasped her small hand and brought it to his lips. "Good afternoon, my dear Isadora." He smiled at her, enjoying her play. Still holding her hand, he brought it to his heart and slid from his seat to kneel before her.

"And now that we have been properly introduced… Isadora, my heart, my love," he teased, "will you make me the happiest man on earth? Marry me, my Isadorable!"

He must have imagined the tremor that went through her at his words, for she merely laughed and smacked him on the shoulder with her free hand.

"Stop it, you great buffoon."

"Not until you agree, my precious bon-bon!" He brought her hand to his lips, then loudly and repeatedly smacked it. "My sweet, my only, my sugar-dusted comfit."

"Oh, very well, Julian, you silly lout, I suppose I will marry you if I must." She assumed a bored tone and studied her nails with a distracted air.

Their play halted when the parlor door flew open with a bang and Hildegard Marchwell surged into the room.

"Izzy, you wretched girl! Spears informed me that you are entertaining a man, alone—"

Stopping with a gasp, she surveyed the two on the settee, and the classic pose of the marriage proposal.

"Oh! Oh, my! Lord Blackworth!" Bug-eyed with surprise, Hildegard could only gape for a moment. Her opportunistic nature made a swift recovery.

"Oh, I should have known a man such as yourself would never dishonor an innocent girl like Izzy. Oh, we must… We must plan the wedding! Oh, it must be soon. We can have the banns read the coming two Sundays and then—"

Rising, Lord Blackworth cut into her flustered babble. "No, Mrs. Marchwell. This will be no hurried affair." Pulling Izzy to stand with him, he placed an arm about her waist. "Isadora will not be embarrassed by an emergency ceremony. We plan to wed at the end of the season."

"But… but that is more than four months off," stammered Hildegard. "What if… I mean to say, well, there may be circumstances—" She gulped to a halt at the thunderous look on Lord Blackworth's face.

"My dear lady, I hope I may count on you to disregard common gossip. Isadora's virtue shall not be questioned, by you or any other. The future duchess of Dearingham must have no stain follow her."

"Duchess!" Hildegard paled, then reddened as her gaze locked on Izzy.

Izzy fancied she could see the wheels turning in her cousin's head. Perhaps Hildegard was remembering the many small indignities she had heaped on Izzy over the years: the small cold bed chamber, the cheap gowns, the rudeness, the demands. As Izzy watched Hildegard's color deepen, she wondered if her cousin was recalling the last hellish week, the accusations and the shrieking tirades.

Izzy smiled serenely. No more abuse from that quarter, at least for four blissful months. Then she would be gone. Across the sea and far away.

The next afternoon brought another surprising caller for Izzy.

"Lady Bottomly to see you, miss." Spears, the butler at Marchwell Manor, was on his best behavior. Although in the past he had referred to her as Temple, like a housekeeper or governess, he was now deference itself.

No doubt angling to enter the future duke's service, Izzy thought, as she tripped lightly down the stairs. She often felt like running these days. Running and laughing and, when no one was near, even singing—although her singing voice was putrid.

Now, burning with curiosity as to what had prompted the divine Celia to call, she entered the same yellow parlor where Lord Blackworth had been received.

This time, Hildegard had raced her there and had Lady Bottomly pinned down with her bombastic manner.

"Hildegard, if you'll please excuse us, Lady Bottomly and I have so much to talk about."

Sputtering in shock at such rudeness, Hildegard swung about to deliver a sound reprimand. Meanwhile, Izzy had slipped around her and now sat with Lady Bottomly.

"Oh, and Hildegard, dear, please ask Spears for a pot of tea and some cakes. Lady Bottomly will be wanting some refreshment shortly." Smiling in dismissal, Izzy turned back to the woman on the settee.

Huffing with offended dignity, Hildegard left, giving the door a decided slam.

Izzy sighed. "I apologize, my lady. I am not rude by nature, but my cousin does bring out the worst in me. Please, tell me what I can do for you."

Lady Bottomly looked back at her for a long moment. Then she stood and paced before the fire, the fine silk of her skirts whispering with each restless movement.

The lady's voice was musically breathy, and suited her ethereal looks to perfection.

"You know, don't you?" Gloved hands twisting, she looked away. "You know about that night… Lord Blackworth and myself?"

"I suspected." Part of Izzy wished Lady Bottomly would deny it. She didn't.

"Miss Temple, have you ever wanted a dream to be true so badly that you would throw out everything you have been taught, just to make it so? Or the truth to be merely a dream?"

Celia raised tear-filled eyes that shone like jewels, looking so enchanting that Izzy was torn between pure hatred and unconditional surrender. How did the woman do it? Izzy's own tears, rare as they were, left her looking like a turret gargoyle. Lady Bottomly looked like a heartbroken angel.

The lady sniffled. Even that was charming. "I do not know why you did what you did. I know I should be grateful. You saved me from discovery, but you also kept me from my last chance for a bit of happiness."