The Maiden At Midnight (24 page)

It had been typical of her mother, trying to
take the pressure off and relieve the inevitable necessity of
marrying well. Everybody knew that was why she was there… her
mother, her sisters and her aunt. Nobody but the imminently
practical Aunt Geraldine ever spoke of it, unwilling to make her
feel worse about an unpalatable situation.

Of course, their concern only served to make
Isabella more determined to do the best she could and she tried to
shake off her preoccupation. Life continued on and one kiss, no
matter how breathtaking, did not mean a thing. Not when the man who
had bestowed it had no intention of pursuing her.

And that, Isabella decided
after three days had passed, was
extremely
annoying. Harry Carstairs
had fought with her, insulted her, chided her and then – the most
infuriating thing of all – had kissed her so well that she could
not forget it. It was completely unacceptable that he should have
done so. Not the kiss, not that. Even if she could, Isabella
doubted she would want to erase that from her memory for nothing
had ever stirred her so well. No, it was the fact that he had
chosen to ignore it after the event and, more to the point, the
fact that she could not. A slow simmer of anger started up inside
her when she considered the man’s behavior. And, as the days passed
and she did not see him, that anger began to bubble inside her like
a witch’s cauldron over the flames.

It was almost a week before she encountered
him, once again walking in Hyde Park. There was a particularly
fetching female was on his arm, a fact that did not improve the
meeting at all in Isabella’s eyes. His steps faltered at the sight
of her and for a moment she wondered if he would cut her
completely. But such crass behavior, it seemed, was beyond even him
for he stopped and removed his hat before offering a bow. Isabella,
out taking the air with Alora and Audrey, also stopped. The female
attached to Mr. Carstairs arm eyed the small group with interest.
She wore the most ridiculously fashionable bonnet, a glorious
creation of lace and velvet somehow woven magically into a small,
pert cluster that sat on her shining chestnut curls most
delightfully. That, coupled with a walking gown of midnight velvet
made her quite the most fashionable lady to grace the green
walkways of the park.

‘Miss Hathaway,’ he did not sound in the
least bit uncomfortable, a fact that Isabella regretted intensely.
‘Miss Audrey, Miss Piedmont.’

‘What a charmingly collection of misses!’
the lady (for she was a little older, surely) murmured in those
low, throaty accents that always sounded so delicious on a
female.

Harry cleared his throat. ‘May I introduce
Mrs. Gantry?’

All three girls curtsied demurely.
Isabella’s head was racing. Mrs. Gantry? She had never heard of the
woman and, in London Society that was extraordinary. It probably
meant that Mrs. Gantry was not quite the thing. Or that she was
Harry’s mistress. Isabella knew all about such things. But would he
be so brazen as to walk in such a public place with her? On that
point, Isabella was not so sure. The etiquette on such matters was,
necessarily, a mystery to her. The idea that this woman, so
gloriously fashionable that it almost, but not quite, overshadowed
her undoubted beauty, was Mr. Carstairs lover brought an
uncomfortably hard knot into the centre of Isabella’s chest. And,
much to her horror, the warm prickle of tears behind her eyes that
she blinked away furiously.

‘
Mr. Carstairs, where have
you been?’ Alora demanded, ‘I have not seen you since Lady
Bromley’s card party.’

‘I’ve been about. I went down to the races
at Tattersall’s for several days.’

‘Oh I see,’ Alora chuckled, ‘men’s business.
You need say no more.’

As far as Isabella was concerned, he needed
to say a great deal more. Specifically, he could elaborate on the
glorious woman attached to his arm. But she felt too constrained to
ask any questions. The only ones she could think of would be quite
unacceptable.

‘In my experience men’s business gives them
rough edges that must be smoothed away by a feminine hand,’ Mrs.
Gantry observed. ‘Do you not think so, Miss Hathaway?’

Startled at being directly addressed,
Isabella took a moment, then, ‘I suppose so. I really have no
experience to fall back on. Men are such obscure creatures.’

This provoked a laugh from
the lady and a
very
obscure look from Mr. Carstairs. ‘So true. Almost another
species entirely.’

The conversation did not
continue for long for Harry Carstairs seemed keen to escape and,
despite the fact that she wished to escape just as much, his
discomfort at being in her presence further incensed
Isabella.
Detestable
man
, she thought furiously as they walked
away. But the hard knot remained lodged in her chest.

‘Do you know her?’ Audrey asked Alora. ‘I
swear, I have never seen such a wonderful outfit as she wore. That
hat!’

‘I have not met her before. She really was
dreadfully pretty, don’t you think so Isabella?’

‘Dreadfully,’ Isabella had echoed
hollowly.

It was no surprise that Harry Carstairs was
going about with such a woman. Sophisticated, good-looking and
quite alarmingly chic.

Little wonder he had not had the time to
spare Miss Isabella Hathaway a thought.

Once again, she found herself having to
blink away the tears that abruptly clouded her vision.

‘You could always go after her.’

‘I do not want to go after her.’

‘You’re an idiot, Harry. A delusional one at
that.’

Genevieve’s voice shook him out of his
introspection. He had been staring in the direction that Isabella
had disappeared, like a love struck mooncalf so his cousin’s words
were not entirely unexpected.

‘I have no desire to get married,’ he said,
almost automatically. He had been repeating the words in his head
ever since he had kissed Isabella, over and over again, to himself
and anybody who would listen. He’d thought that by immersing
himself in his usual pursuit – gambling, drinking, fencing at the
club – that the girl’s charms would fade away. Unfortunately, that
had not been the case so far.

‘And why is that?’ Jenny sounded amused and
just a little exasperated. She had been down in Devon with her
husband Henry, having given birth to their first child eight months
ago. It had been a long stay but, despite her passion for clothes,
Jenny was more than content to rusticate in marital bliss with her
beloved Henry. ‘Miss Hathaway seems very nice. A little
standoffish, perhaps, but charming, just the same.’

‘She is not standoffish,’ he returned
shortly. ‘She can be damned prickly but she’s had a hard time of
it. Her father killed himself, her brother dead in France. She was
jilted by her useless fiancé and her family are destitute.’

‘Dear me!’ Jenny was startled. ‘What a list
of horrors.’

‘She has come through it remarkably well,’
Harry’s voice had softened. ‘She has plenty of pluck, let me tell
you.’

‘Yes, why don’t you tell me? Right along
with all the reasons why you do not want to marry.’ Jenny suggested
sweetly. ‘They are so obvious, after all.’

Harry flushed. More and more even he was
bewildered by the reasons behind his stubborn refusal to
countenance a relationship with Isabella Hathaway. God only knew,
she occupied more of his waking thoughts than anything else did,
quite ridiculously so when he stopped and considered it. He had
woken from a restless sleep the night before, convinced that
Isabella had accepted a proposal of marriage from James Huntingdon
and sick in the stomach because of it.

He and Jenny began walking once again. ‘You
are four and twenty, my dear. Soon that old fool Percival will be
gone and you will have plenty of money. Would it be so dreadful to
take on a wife?’

Not if it were
Isabella
… ‘We would probably fight all the
time. She is difficult.’

Jenny was silent for a
moment. ‘Do you not enjoy fighting with her? Henry and I like to
have a good fight. It makes the aftermath particularly
sweet…
after
he
has apologized.’

Harry smiled reluctantly. ‘Is he always the
one to apologize?’

‘Well only when he is in the wrong. Which,
of course, is always so I suppose yes, he is always the one to
apologize. But I forgive him very nicely, you may depend on
that.’

‘You are a dreadful woman Jenny.’

‘And you are in love. The sooner you admit
it, the happier we will all be.’ She was looking at him out of the
corner of her eye, trying to judge his reaction. Whatever she saw
on his face seemed to satisfy her for she patted his cheek with her
free hand. ‘Resign yourself to making an offer, there’s a good boy.
It is a well known fact that one cannot remain a bachelor forever.
It simply isn’t done unless one has a penchant for boys and even
then one must produce.’

‘What an indelicate creature you are. Remind
me again why your Henry married you?’

‘I am glorious.’

‘And modest. But as you recently pointed
out, I only four and twenty. I did not think to marry so
young.’

‘So young. Pfft!’ Mrs. Gantry made a rude
sound. ‘That is not so very young and remember, your birthday is
looming. Besides, if one does it right marriage has nothing to do
with age.’ Jenny Gantry smiled with all the wisdom of a woman who
knew what true love looked like. ‘Sometimes it is just a matter of
the right girl at the right time.’

The right girl at the right time… Was that
was Isabella Hathaway was?

He thought about the pale
golden hair, the angelic blue eyes and skin that was as perfect as
any peach. She was, without doubt, a beautiful creature and any man
would desire her. But there was so much more to Isabella than that.
Her intelligence, her humor and her courage lay just beneath that
perfect façade and one did not have to dig very deep to discover
they were there. He
liked
the girl, damn it. And he admired her. He had
spent a week avoiding what must have been obvious to anyone with
half an eye; he had fallen in love with Isabella Hathaway and there
wasn’t a thing he would do to change it.

Unfortunately his ridiculous reluctance to
acknowledge facts had allowed the likes of James Huntingdon to
start making up to the girl. Joss had told him as much when he had
returned home from the races, full of glee that his plan was
working so well.

‘He’s besotted with her? Could anything have
gone better?’

Harry had found himself
wanting to punch his best friend in the nose at that. The very
thought of Isabella in the arms of another man made him want to
punch
some
body in
the nose.

‘So what are you going to do?’ Jenny
demanded quietly.

‘What I must,’ he returned so grimly that
anybody might have been excused for thinking that something dire
was in the offing.

His cousin smiled, well pleased. If she knew
her Harry, there would be a wedding before the Season was done.

She would need to consult her dressmaker
immediately.

Jocelyn, sixth Earl of Stornley, stood on
the stoop in Brook Street and felt as if his neckcloth were far too
tight. He would speak to Mercer, his valet as soon as he returned
home about his methods. Or, at the very least, as soon as he
returned to Harry’s place. Smeadley, Elise Fortnum’s austere
butler, opened the door when he rapped the knocker and stared at
him, majestic in his distain.

‘Miss Piedmont, if you please.’ Joss did not
want to see Miss Fortnum. He had metaphorically girded his loins to
come here today and the prospect of getting around Elise Fortnum’s
daunting bulk to get a private moment with Alora would probably
finish him off.

The butler stepped back and allowed entry
into the hallway. Walking forward, he led the way up the stairs and
opened the door of the blue parlor, the best in the house. Smeadley
might be the picture of distain but he knew what to do with an
earl.

‘I shall inform Miss Piedmont of your
arrival.’

Well
that
was promising. If the butler
lived up to his word, perhaps he might actually be able to do this.
The idea of what lay ahead brought him out in a cold sweat but he
knew he wanted to ask Alora Piedmont to marry him more than he
wanted to wake up tomorrow morning. It had been an urge that had
finally become a full-blown decision to act.

He was going to ask Alora to marry him
today! Unless her aunt, intervened, of course. That would be a
disaster.

Normally Alora saw him in the presence of
her maid, a discrete girl who spent a great deal of time sewing in
front of the window. So he was surprised when he heard the door
open and Alora enter alone. She closed it behind her softly and
stood looking at him, a slight smile on her lips.

‘Good afternoon my lord.’

‘Hullo.’
Hullo
? He cleared his
throat and tried again. ‘I mean, good afternoon Miss Piedmont. You
look particularly lovely today.’

‘Do I?’ She looked down at the pale primrose
silk dress thoughtfully. ‘Shall we sit down?’

Taking his arm, she guided him towards one
of the couches. He sat and, rather gratifyingly, she sat beside
him, so close that he caught the scent of lavender drifting from
her hair. He had to resist the urge to close his eyes and inhale
her in. Time was of the essence and he had something to say that
would not wait.

‘Miss Piedmont -’

‘Alora,’ she interspersed quietly. ‘I think
you should call me Alora, don’t you?’