Isabella (7 page)

"Why, Lucy," the lady gasped, "what a lovely surprise."

"Lucy, I'm afraid you are crushing Miss Latham."

Isabella looked up from the mass of tumbled curls and cherry ribbons to see the earl frowning down at her. Her pulse quickened, and she blushed. "Lord Hartleigh. Good morning."

In prompt response to her flushed cheeks came the odd sensation in his chest again. As if this affliction were not bad enough, it was now aggravated by the fierce tweak of Envy. Lucy's face glowed as she held on tenaciously to her friend. She loosed her embrace only enough to begin an animated cross-examination. She asked a hundred questions and answered them all herself. She demanded to know where Isabella had been and why she had not come to see her. And she repeated for Isabella's enlightenment all that the earl had taught her about the park and its environs. The child's sudden loquaciousness and uninhibited display of affection toward Miss Latham was most surprising—and not altogether flattering to Lord Hartleigh.

Isabella seemed to sense this. After responding as well as she could to this barrage, she suggested that Lucy release her so that she might converse with her guardian, who was, she noted, being rather impolitely ignored. Thus gently chastised, Lucy let go. As Isabella began to struggle to her feet, Lord Hartleigh waved her back.

"Pray do not rise on our account, Miss Latham. I see you had been working most comfortably until our somewhat precipitate arrival.” That said, he gracefully dropped down to sit beside them, careless of the grass stains and dirt that would later torment his valet.

"I'm afraid it is not work, precisely," Isabella explained, greatly flustered by the proximity of his long, lean body. "Usually I ride in the morning. But my groom could not be spared today. So here I am, making ladylike little sketches. It offers a change." In response to his quizzical look, she went on, nervously, "We are in a turmoil with preparations for my cousins' debut, you see, and I occasionally must come away, to escape the servants and restore my sense of perspective."

"And no doubt to escape the press of morning callers," he added ironically, and then promptly regretted it. He
wished
she would not blush so easily. It had a mischievous effect on his breathing apparatus, which seemed to have suddenly shut down.

"I—I believe I mentioned that I am unused to fine company," she stammered. There was that stern gaze again.
Why must he look so very disapproving?

"I beg your pardon, Miss Latham. I did not mean to imply..." But he didn't know what he didn't mean, and found himself at a loss to continue.

Fortunately, Lucy was subject to no such hesitation. She was oblivious to the grown-ups' discomfort and had grown impatient for the lady's attention.

"I missed you so much," she announced, once more flinging her arms around Isabella's neck. "Uncle Edward takes me to see so many things." She went on, to her guardian's amazement, to list every sight and repeat, virtually word for word, all that he had told her. He never believed she'd been attending to his commentaries at all. Yet his face did not betray his surprise; it seemed only to grow more stern.

"And now you must come, too," the child insisted. "You will come, won't you?"

Since the earl did not appear nearly so eager as his ward, Isabella was puzzled how to respond.

"Well, you see, Lucy," she began, hesitantly, "we are very busy at home just now, and I am not quite sure when it would be possible. Perhaps in a few weeks..." Her voice trailed off, her cheeks pink again. At this, the child's eyes began to glisten dangerously, and Isabella hugged her closer. "And besides," she added softly, "you did not think perhaps that your guardian would like to have you all to himself?"

The hazel eyes looked out from beneath the curls to that gentleman's stern visage, and then turned back to gaze at Isabella in incredulity. Her expression did not escape her guardian, who managed to force out, past whatever inside was trying to strangle him, that he would be honoured if Miss Latham would consent to accompany them one day; and that if there were time in her busy schedule, perhaps she would join them in their visit to an exhibition of landscapes.

"I thought the scenes would be more interesting to Lucy than fashionable portraits," he explained. "I—I know she misses the country." His expression softened as he regarded his ward, and Isabella glimpsed something in his eyes that made her feel a twinge of sympathy.

"I should be delighted."

"Is tomorrow too soon?" Lord Hartleigh ventured.

Tomorrow was not too soon. A time being settled upon, and arrangements made for the earl's carriage to stop for her, Lord Hartleigh endeavoured to dislodge his young companion.

"Lucy, I am certain Miss Latham cannot breathe when you clutch at her in that way." He did not add that, Lucy having disarranged Miss Latham's hair, various blond tendrils had escaped to tickle a delicate pink ear in the most enticing fashion...He collected himself with a start. "We must leave her in peace now— else she may not wish to see us again tomorrow."

Miss Latham was not destined to be left in peace, however, for her Nemesis (so Basil had come to style himself) was not far behind his cousin. He had come to the park in response to an urgent message from an elegant young woman with creditors of her own to soothe. When Mr. Trevelyan informed the lovely Celestine—with beautifully phrased regret—that the creditors simply had to wait, this interesting meeting had come to an abrupt end. He therefore decided to devote the remainder of a fine morning to planning the next stage of his assault on the Answer to His Prayers.
A broken heart
, he decided,
was best
. He would simply commence to pine away, and let guilt lead her to the altar. He had been staring at the pond, wondering whether an attempted suicide by drowning would be overly theatrical, when his eye caught a flash of colour from the trees beyond. He made out—at some distance—his cousin, engaged in a
tête-à-tête
with Miss Latham. Now here was an unseemly state of affairs: his Intended conversing with a fashionable gentleman and no abigail in sight. Unless you counted as a chaperone the moppet bouncing up and down on her bosom. Thinking of that bosom, he gave a little sigh. Then, realizing there was no one about to hear it, he left off sighing and backed away into a more sheltered spot from which he might await his own turn.

He hadn't long to wait. Edward rose; the moppet ceased bouncing and was led away
. Livelier than she was last time I saw her,
Basil thought as he watched her skip along next to her guardian.

As soon as they were out of sight, he sauntered casually around the pond and, in no apparent hurry, made his way to Isabella's side. A glance back told him that they were not in view of the diverse nurses and their charges.

Not having noticed his approach—no doubt preoccupied with the recent conversation and, in particular, the earl's warm brown eyes—Isabella looked up, bewildered, at his greeting.

"I see you, too, have decided to take advantage of this brilliant morning," Basil observed, peering down over her shoulder at the neglected sketch pad. "But you will make a long job of it without your pencil." And without waiting for an invitation, he flung himself down on the ground beside her.

She had not yet had the experience of being alone with Mr. Trevelyan and, considering his disconcerting effect on her when others were about, did not intend to broaden her education.

"I was just preparing to leave..." she began, turning away from the cat eyes to search for her pencil, which had rolled away into the grass.

"And leave me to my lonely meditations? Yet I fear it is no more than I deserve."

"It is not on your
account
, Mr. Trevelyan," she snapped. It was exceedingly uncomfortable to find him so close. "I have stayed overlong as it is, only I do not know where Polly can have got to. She has been gone this half hour at least."

After amiably suggesting that Polly must have drowned herself, Basil added blandly, "But see, you have had Lord Hartleigh as sentinel, and now that he is gone, here am I to take my turn as your protector."

For what seemed the thousandth time that morning, Isabella felt her face grow hot, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. It was an unsettling experience. The topaz eyes studied her, waiting. He reminded her of a cat crouched, ready to spring. Only he wasn't crouching. He was sitting, leaning back against the tree.

"Lord Hartleigh was only trying to please his ward. She has taken a sudden...liking to me," she said, faltering.

"That is not in the least surprising. But my cousin should beware. The condition is contagious." Considerate of the moppet to have a wrestle with Miss Latham, for that lady's coiffure was in a most appealing state of disarray. A stray cherry-coloured ribbon dangling from her sleeve caught his eye. Apparently without thinking, he lifted it away, but she started at his touch. "Why, Miss Latham," he drawled, "I believe the child has frazzled your nerves. I'm sure I told you I won't bite. I was merely relieving you of this...love token she left behind."

"I shall return it to her," said Isabella, reaching to take it. But he snatched his hand away and pocketed the ribbon.

"Although I am all curiosity as to
when
you would have the opportunity, I shall keep in mind what happens to curious cats, and content myself with retaining this—as
my
love token."

" Mr. Trevelyan, you have a highly overactive imagination." Hurriedly, she began gathering up her belongings, preparing to rise. His hand on her arm stopped her.

"I wish you would not leave," he said softly.

Her heart began to pound. The voice and eyes were hypnotic, tempting her in spite of herself. She had only to pull herself free of his grasp. Yet she couldn't, or wouldn't. She had only to say a word to send him about his business, as Mama had suggested, but the word would not come. She had the curious sensation of observing herself, as though in a dream, as the sleepy cat eyes grew larger and seemed to swallow her up, as his fingers touched her cheek, and as she felt his lips on her own. For a moment all thought left her and time hung suspended. The sketchbook dropped from her hands. She felt his arms around her, pulling her closer, his mouth insistent. She felt his heart thudding next to her own. And then, as though from a tremendous distance, she heard a child's cry, and abruptly, the spell was broken. With all her strength, she thrust him away from her and struggled to her feet. He scrambled up after her, catching her before she could run away.

"Let go of me," she gasped.

"I will," he answered, a little breathless himself, "but you must not hate me. Isabella—"

"How dare you?" Angry tears welled up, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.

"I'm sorry I upset you. You must forgive me, Isabella. Here." He offered his handkerchief, which she angrily thrust away.

"Your m-manners leave a great deal to be desired."

"But my darling Isabella, I warned you I was not to be trusted. I told you I was perfectly dreadful. Even my aunt told you. Therefore, it is entirely your fault—"

"My fault?" He made her head spin. "You must be mad, and I madder still to stand here listening to your nonsense. And I am certainly not your darling," she snapped. "You may address me as 'Miss Latham'—if there is any occasion in future when I should be so idiotic as to permit you to address me at all."

"What you permit me to say aloud has no bearing on what I say in my heart. You
are
my darling. And my darling Isabella, you must compose yourself, for here comes your unreliable Polly, who has not drowned in the pond after all, and you don't wish to scandalise her."

Suspecting that the embrace had left physical evidence, she hastily endeavoured to restore herself to rights, and hoped that Lucy's enthusiasm would satisfy the abigail's curiosity as explanation for Isabella's disheveled appearance. As she gathered her belongings and began to move away, he stopped her once more.

"You must say you forgive me, Isabella—"

"You are mad—"

"—for if you do not, I shall kiss you again, in full view of Polly."

Worried that Polly may already have had the pair in her sights, Isabella nodded, and struggled to break free of his grasp. He smiled as he released her, and watched as she hurried away.

The perfidious Polly was subjected to a scolding which left her as red-eyed as her mistress by the time they reached home. Declaring that she would see to her own hooks and buttons, and had too frightful a headache to eat luncheon, Isabella slammed the bedroom door on her maid, flung herself on the bed, and burst into tears.

What a horrid, horrid man!
To leap upon her the moment they were alone—as though she were one of his ladybirds. Oh, she knew he had them. He had probably come direct from a tryst with one of them. And what had she been thinking of, to allow him to kiss her? Of course she knew it would be no polite peck on the cheek.
What a perfect idiot she was! What if they had been seen?

Her face feeling as though it were in flames, she got up from the bed and went to the washstand to bathe her eyes and burning cheeks. The cool water helped calm her. As she forced herself to look into the minor, she knew why she had not prevented his embrace. Madame Vernisse may have been a worker of miracles, but even her powers could not render Isabella Latham beautiful. Or even unusually pretty. There was nothing uncommon about her blue eyes. They were not violet, like those of the infamous Lady Delmont. And while the right light— or the right frock—might enhance their colour, they had no real depth, no real mystery. And it was highly improbable that they were "that deep blue of the Ionian sea, wherein a man might choose to drown himself," as Basil had recently assured her.
If only he
would
drown himself
, she thought crossly. But in doing so, he would drown the only romance that had ever had or would ever enter her life. She stared critically at her reflection as she angrily yanked the comb through her hair.