Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (13 page)

“Forgive
me; I have wanted to do that for so long. And I would enjoy continuing to do
it. But first we must settle our future. Isobel, I do love you so. Dare I hope
that you care for me as well?”

“I
do,” was all that she could manage.

“You
would make me the happiest of men if you would share my bed, share my life.”

An
odd way to put it, she thought, but Isobel was about to agree when he went on.

“It
will be a trifle awkward tonight when the engagement announcement is made; I
just want you to know that it is you I love.”

Isobel
stopped breathing. She felt as if she had been punched. She wanted to speak, to
ask what he meant, but no words came out. Westcott noticed her pained
expression and continued to speak.

“It
is a marriage of convenience that is all. My heart lies with you, not Lady
Cynthia.”

“Lady
Cynthia?” The words came out in rasp. “You want me to be…your…” she could not
say it.

He
could. “My mistress, yes. What is the matter? Are you crying?” Lord Westcott
tried to pull Isobel into an embrace, but she fought him. “Isobel, dearest, you
did not think…you could not possibly have thought that I meant to marry you?
You know that is quite impossible, thanks to Warwick. Damn him.”

She
had to get away. She was going to be sick. Tears blinded her as she pushed past
Westcott and rushed headlong into the ballroom. She had only gone a few steps
when Westcott caught up with her.

“Isobel,
listen to me.” He grabbed for her arm. She swung around and with all the pent
up anger and disappointment surging through her, slapped his face. The sound
resounded through the ballroom. A collective gasp from the bystanders caused
the orchestra to stop playing. Isobel turned to face the crowd that had
gathered and without a word she ran from the ballroom.

Lord
Saybrooke followed in Isobel’s hurried footsteps from the ballroom and caught
her up just before she reached the stairs.

“Izzy,
stop!” he urged as he placed a gentle hand on her elbow.

“Please,
Drew. I know you mean to comfort me, but I am convinced you will assault me
with a host of recriminations before two minutes pass. I cannot bear it.” She
wrenched her arm away and fled up the stairs, gulping back sobs as she ran.
Saybrooke stood and watched her, feeling helpless and angry. He went in search
of Westcott.

Reaching
the ballroom, he saw that Lord Stoughton had tried to minimize damages by
choosing that moment to announce the engagement of his daughter to Lord
Westcott. The scoundrel! With Isobel’s palm print still visible on his face, Westcott
smiled at the crowd and accepted congratulations from the many well-wishers.
Lady Cynthia gloated.

His
rage barely suppressed, Saybrooke strode up to the group surrounding the newly
betrothed couple and barked into the crowd, “Westcott, I want a word.”

Lord
Westcott recognized rage when he saw it, and knew what the outcome of a word
with Saybrooke would mean. “Perhaps a bit later, Saybrooke, if you do not mind.
I have promised my affianced bride the next dance,” he said trying to avoid another
scene.

“Ah,
but I do mind. It cannot wait.”

The
crowd parted and Westcott sighed and bowed over Lady Cynthia’s hand. “I beg
your pardon, my dear.” Lady Cynthia smiled serenely at Lord Westcott and nodded
her assent, as if it were needed.

The
two men, both agitated, exited together onto the balcony. Fortunately, no
would-be lovers lurked in the moonlight.

“You
have behaved unspeakably toward Miss Kennilworth!” hissed Saybrooke through
clenched teeth.

“You
wrong me, Saybrooke, I love Miss Kennilworth. You know as well as I do that I
cannot marry her. It is not done! She is ruined, and I know that it is through
no fault of her own, but nonetheless, it is impossible. I offered her the only
possibility open to us. I would love and cherish her; it would simply be
without the benefit of a marriage license.” Westcott was sincere and Saybrooke
knew it, but it changed nothing.

“And
she would be your mistress and therefore beyond the pale as far as society is
concerned.”

“She
is already beyond the pale thanks to Reginald Aiken, the snake,” Westcott spat
out. “I would kill him, if he was not already dead. He has done her irreparable
damage.”

“And
yet you belittle her even further by offering her a slip on the shoulder. With
time she might have been able to overcome the business with Warwick. But this?”
Saybrooke stood face to face with Westcott, his eyes flashing. “You have
dishonored a lady of the highest caliber. You, sir, are no gentleman.” Before
Westcott could blink, he was on the floor, his nose gushing blood.

“I
would call you out for that, Saybrooke.” Westcott pulled a handkerchief from
his pocket and attempted to stop the flow of blood.

“I
feel certain you would, but it matters not, for I do not duel,” Saybrooke said
with a sneer.

“I
thought you were a gentleman of honor?” goaded Westcott, now standing face to
face with Saybrooke.

”I
hope I am. But I am also a man of intelligence and conviction. It is illegal to
duel and what is more, it is foolish,” countered Saybrooke.

Westcott
looked at Saybrooke with wry amusement. “I would ask you why you feel compelled
to protect Isobel, since you are neither related to her nor legally responsible
for her, but any fool could see that you are in love with her.”

“That
explains why you have seen it, then.”

Ignoring
his gibe, Westcott continued, ““You say you are concerned for her reputation,
Saybrooke, but given the chance you would make the same offer as I did.”

“I
would never treat Isobel so shabbily!”

“Do
not pretend that you would marry her,” Westcott sneered. “Now that you are Viscount
Saybrooke, you know what is due your position. Marrying Isobel would sully the
noble name of Saybrooke.”

Saybrooke’s
face suffused with anger, yet he could not speak. Westcott’s words, though
reprehensible, troubled him. As much as he loved Isobel, would he be able to
turn his back on his duty, on the promise he had made to his mother? His doubt
and guilt angered him even further.

“But
this is all moot, for I will not give her up, Saybrooke. I believe in time, she
will agree to my terms.”

“You
will have her over my dead body,” growled Saybrooke, his fury consuming him.

“That
can be arranged!” roared back Lord Westcott. The two men were nose to nose and Westcott
took the first punch. Fists flew, blood spattered and bones cracked before the
fight was broken up.

“I
will have satisfaction, Saybrooke. And I will have Isobel!” Westcott’s voice
was low, but full of venom.

“It
is a funny thing about ones’ convictions, Westcott,” Saybrooke said through
clenched teeth, blood trickling from his split lip.  “They are all too easily
overruled by extenuating circumstances. I will meet you. I suddenly have an
urge to blow your brains out.”

Suddenly
the barbarism of moments before dissipated, and the two men coolly planned
their coming duel. Westcott promised that his seconds would call on Saybrooke’s
in two days’ time in London, not wanting to abuse the hospitality of Lord and
Lady Mercer any further. Nodding, Saybrooke took his leave of Westcott, strode
into the ballroom, then without making eye contact with a single soul, and
strode out of the ballroom, down the corridor and into the library. Miss
Hyde-Price watched him go with annoyance. On the balcony, Lord Westcott held
his blood soaked handkerchief to his battered nose and tried to calm himself in
the cool night air.

The
carriage rumbled along the well-worn road to London and Isobel stared out of
the window, her eyes seeing nothing of the countryside. The horrifying events
of the night before played before her eyes over and over. Manning dozed in the
corner, the previous night involving very little sleep. Between Isobel’s bouts
of weeping and nausea, there was little time left for slumber. Isobel had tried
to dismiss Manning, but the lady’s maid had steadfastly refused, being truly
concerned for her mistress.

They
had been travelling for close to two hours and the sun was now high in the sky.
Isobel had ordered the coach to be brought around at first light, hoping to
leave before anyone had risen. She had been out of luck. Henrietta knocked on
her door just as Manning closed the last portmanteau.

“Isobel,”
she called from the other side of the closed door. “I know you do not feel like
talking, but please let me in. I am so sorry for what happened. Please,
dearest, open the door.”

Isobel
gestured for Manning to do so. Henrietta had said nothing, but rushed to Isobel
and embraced her and the two friends wept together. Isobel dismissed Manning to
tell the coachman that they would be leaving within the hour.

After
a few minutes of crying, Henrietta led Isobel to the settee in her sitting
area. “Isobel, I cannot tell you how dreadful I feel that this has occurred in
my home!”

“I
am the one who is to blame, Henrietta. I should not have come. I should not
have been such a fool about Westcott.” Isobel could not keep the despair out of
her voice. On hearing these words from her friend, Lady Mercer rose from her
seat and began to pace.

“You?
Goodness gracious, how could you have known? Westcott was so solicitous, so
particular. He was barely polite to Lady Cynthia. Nonetheless, I should have
known. Had Mercer been here he would have and I could have warned you. But I
was preoccupied with the guests and the baby and I did not notice the
self-satisfied smirk on Lord Stoughton’s face. Well, I did notice, but I
thought it did not signify anything in particular. Evidently marriage
negotiations were held under my own roof and I was none the wiser!”

“You
must not blame yourself, Hen. I must come to grips with the reality that I am
no longer, and evidently never was an acceptable wife for any man. I am
destined either for a life of tedium as spinster or a life of debauchery in the
demi-monde.” Her voice was weary from her lack of sleep and complete misery.

“Certainly,
it is not that dire?” said Lady Mercer, more out of hope than conviction.

“I
have no dowry and no reputation, or at least a soiled one. Who would marry me?
If I were a man, I would not marry me lest I be condemned by society and shame
my family.”

“If
you were a man, you would tell the Beau Monde to go to hell!” exclaimed
Henrietta with passion.

“Perhaps
I will as Miss Kennilworth,” replied Isobel with the first sign of spirit since
the previous night.

“Good
for you! We can tell them all today. Stay and stare them all in their
aristocratic faces and condemn them to Hades!”

“I
cannot, Hen. I am not ready to face Westcott. I am not sure I ever will be. I
need to go home and lick my wounds. You must understand, I need time,” said
Isobel, what little energy she had, spent.

“I
do understand, my dear. Just remember, if you lick your wounds for too long,
they will never heal.”

*****

Lord Mercer sat in his library, the
windows open to let in a soft breeze. The slightly younger man seated opposite
him was immaculately dressed, as usual, his hair perfectly in order, but his
face and eyes bore the marks of a sleepless night.

“What in God’s name were you thinking,
Westcott?” Mercer did not try to conceal his contempt.

Westcott chafed at being treated like a
wayward schoolboy by a man a mere handful of years his senior. What a debacle
this was. He groaned inwardly. Entering a liaison with a mistress had never
been this problematic before. Oh, a few had ended badly, but the beginning! The
beginning had always been so simple, so pleasurable. He wooed, she flirted. He
asked, she accepted. To be quite fair, Westcott admitted to himself, Isobel was
different. She was a lady and his feelings for her, he also grudgingly
acknowledged, went beyond a simple flirtation. He had never before been so
captivated by a woman. However, no matter how badly he felt about the fiasco of
last night, he would not grovel to Lord Mercer. “I beg your pardon, Lord
Mercer; I meant no disrespect to you and your wife. I misunderstood the
situation.”

Mercer’s anger grew as he considered the
less than sincere apology. He stood as he addressed the heedless young man
again. “Misunderstood? You misunderstood that you were about to enter an
engagement with one young lady, but blatantly pursued another? You
misunderstood that Miss Kennilworth is a gently bred lady and underserving of
your lowering assumptions?”

“My
understanding with Lady Cynthia is that we are to have a marriage of
convenience. My understanding is that though Miss Kennilworth is indeed a true lady;
her circumstances have rendered her beyond the reach of polite society and she is
therefore ineligible as a wife.”

“She
was ineligible as a wife to you because she is penniless. Your father, like so
many dunderheads it seems, has squandered your inheritance and you must marry
money.”