Isabella (8 page)

She was twenty-six years old. And until this poetically inclined fortune hunter had come along, no man had ever looked twice at her. Not, of course, that she'd had much contact with young men; first poverty, and then the work she was so happy to do for Uncle Henry, had kept her from socializing. Still, her own father had barely noticed when she was in the same room. And now, though a small army of men had besieged her, not one except Basil had so much as hinted, in look or word, that she (as opposed to her income) was desirable. Oh, they had flattered her, but not with hidden suggestion, as Basil had. And as to the flattery, one could not even enjoy it for what it was, knowing that their eyes lingered more lovingly—good heavens!—upon her
mother.

Thus, though she knew it was foolish, Isabella had wanted not simply to be kissed, but for someone to
want
to kiss her. She had wanted to know what it was like. Only now she could hardly recollect what it was like, so overset was she with anger and shame. She took a deep breath and forced herself to remember. His hand had touched her cheek, bringing her face closer to his...and then his lips, soft on her own. And then? What had she felt? She closed her eyes, trying to recapture that moment. But all she could remember was his overwhelming physical presence and her own warring sensations of fear...and curiosity. It was not quite what she'd expected from an embrace. She hadn't even felt that rush of warmth she'd experienced when Lucy hugged her. And not...that tingle of excitement when Lord Hartleigh sat down beside her.

For that was what she'd been contemplating when Basil had come upon her. Lord Hartleigh. Oh, worse and worse. Lord Hartleigh, who only tolerated her to indulge his ward. Had Isabella actually believed one cousin might substitute for the other? The idea drove her tears away.

"Isabella," she scolded her reflection, "you are perfectly absurd."

And with that heartening thought to cheer her, she dried her tears, changed her clothes, and went down to join her family.

"Lord Hartleigh!" her aunt cried. "Taking you for a ride in his carriage? But that—"

"Is yet another one," Mama interjected, in an undertone.

It was at tea that Isabella had quietly announced her plans for the following day. Alicia had nearly knocked over the teapot in her excitement and had been about to bubble forth predictions concerning the earl's intentions when the viscountess's outraged response immediately subdued her.

"What is it that you are saying, Maria? You know one cannot understand you when you mumble."

"It was nothing, my dear sister. Arithmetic. Counting to myself."

"I cannot think why you should do figures when we are discussing this highly improper state of affairs."

The only indication of alarm Maria Latham gave at this pronouncement was a slight lifting of one eyebrow in disbelief. "I do not see what is so improper about Isabella being invited for a drive. You were not shocked when Mr. Porter invited her—and I am sure that high-perched contrivance of his cannot be safe."

Isabella attempted to step into the crossfire. "We are not taking a drive through the park, Aunt Charlotte," she began to explain.

"What, have you rejected him too, my love?"

Now this was very naughty of Mama indeed. Lady Belcomb had not at all objected to the penurious suitors who crowded her drawing room every day the family was "at home." It was a convenient means of separating the wheat from the chaff, since, with neither looks nor charm, the only attraction Isabella could boast was her fortune. Those who called were therefore not at all the sort whose attentions one would wish upon Veronica. But Lord Hartleigh was not of this ilk. What doubly provoked the viscountess was that the earl seemed somehow beholden to Isabella on account of that absurd business with the little orphan.

And now here was Maria implying—with that studied innocence of hers—that the Earl of Hartleigh had been reduced to a state which rendered him vulnerable to
rejection,
and by a tradesman's daughter! The idea filled the viscountess with rage and, consequently, turned her face purple. She relieved her feelings by venting some of her wrath on her daughter.

"Veronica, I do wish you'd stop that dreadful noise," Lady Belcomb commanded, scowling at her. Under her parent's glare, Veronica quickly stifled her giggles and bowed her head to stare into her cup. Alicia, subduing her own mirth, bent her head likewise and endeavoured to look serious.

"Please, Aunt," Isabella interjected. "It is all very easily explained—and not a bit what you think." This being met by no other rejoinder than a "harrumph," she went on, "I believe you are aware that Lord Hartleigh has been named as guardian to the daughter of his very dear friend, who passed away a short time ago—"

"Such a sad business," Mama sighed.

"This ward," Isabella went on, with a brief frown at her irrepressible parent, "has taken a fancy to me; I am sure I don't know why..."

"But, my love, you were always so good with children—even the most tiresome—"

"Mama, it is very difficult to hold my train of thought when you keep interrupting."

"Yes, Maria, do let her get on with it."

Murmuring an apology, Maria looked off toward the clock with an abstracted air.

"At any rate, the child has taken a fancy to me, and Lord Hartleigh—who, you can well imagine, is much at a loss to amuse a seven-year-old girl—"

A quelling glance from the viscountess squelched another of her daughter's giggling fits.

"—has invited me to this exhibition of landscapes
solely
to please the child, who insisted I bear them company."

There were some signs that Lady Belcomb was beginning to be appeased: Her face, for instance, was beginning to recover its normal colour. She was not entirely satisfied, however.

"It seems to me, Isabella," she asserted, "that Lord Hartleigh is overly indulgent of his ward's whims."

"I am sure, Aunt, that that is because he has had no experience with children. As he becomes more accustomed to his role, I am quite convinced he will be less indulgent."

"I would expect so. Nonetheless, I do not think he would take it much amiss if you were to indicate—tactfully, of course—that it is not at all to his ward's benefit to spoil her."

"At the very first opportunity," Isabella solemnly assured her aunt, while feeling quite convinced that the earl would take it very much amiss indeed.

"Well, then, I suppose we must at least commend Lord Hartleigh for wishing to do his duty by this orphan; although I do feel he has been carried away by his enthusiasm. But no matter. And you will take your abigail with you, Isabella?"

"I do not see why Polly must go as well..." Maria began, but the viscountess's face began to darken again, and she lazily added, "but then I suppose a seven-year-old child cannot count as chaperone."

"Of course not, Mama."

"Then I suppose we must let her go, Maria," Lady Belcomb announced magnanimously.

"Oh, I suppose we must," her sister-in-law agreed with a sigh. "I only hope the child does not tire her overmuch."

And with the crisis resolved, the ladies returned to their tea and managed to make a tolerable meal, despite the disagreeable necessity of having to shoo away diverse servants who persisted in duplicating one another's efforts, bustling in and out for no apparent reason, adding to and subtracting from the meal at their own whims.

It was not long after tea that Maria Latham entered her daughter's room. She was not wont to visit much, preferring to spend most of her time in her sitting room, where she could recline comfortably. Thus she was struck anew by the room's small size and inelegant decor. Gracefully, she dropped into a chair close by the little desk where Isabella sat composing a letter to her Uncle Henry.

As she glanced about her at the threadbare furnishings, Maria lamented, "I do wish your aunt had selected another room for you, my love. These yellow draperies do not suit your complexion."

Isabella swallowed a smile. "I don't know where else she might put me, Mama. Veronica cannot be expected to share her room with Alicia, and certainly one could not squeeze so much as a mouse into the servants' quarters."

"Yes, I'm certain you are right, darling—although I'm afraid I must quarrel with any attempt to put you among the servants. But it is so distressing. I do not know whether it is the colour of the draperies that makes you appear so fatigued. Although, come to think of it, you appeared fatigued at tea as well. But of course, there was Charlotte being so very tiresome. Not to mention this distressing surfeit of servants. They quite exhaust me. It is no wonder Thomas could not afford a proper Season for your cousin, when he requires an army to run even such a modest place as this. At any rate, you must promise me that you will not allow this little girl to treat you as her hobby-horse. Polly tells me that the child made you most untidy. 'Like a big wind had blowed her from one end of London to the other' were her exact words, I believe."

Isabella could not meet her mother's eyes.

"I'm sure Polly was exaggerating, Mama," she managed to reply after what seemed like a monstrous long silence. "Lucy is very affectionate, and I believe she is very lonely—"

"No doubt," her mother replied, apparently engrossed in contemplation of a particularly inept sketch that hung by the door. As she brought her gaze back to her daughter, she went on, softly, "Still, it would not do for your aunt to see you return home tomorrow in the frazzled state Polly so vividly described."

"You are quite right, Mama. But as we are merely going to look at some pictures, Lucy will not have the opportunity to 'frazzle' me."

"Yes, that is so. Well, I believe I shall go to my own room and take a nap. Your aunt's lectures weary one so, and I do not see why she must be so disagreeable at tea. It is not at all recommended for the digestion." She patted her daughter's hand and rose to leave. But a few steps from the door, she stopped and said, as an afterthought, "By the way, Isabella, I do not recollect your mentioning meeting up with Mr. Trevelyan as well as his cousin. But then, perhaps I was not listening as closely as I ought." She frowned once again at the offending sketch. "No matter. I should develop a headache as well as indigestion attempting to keep count of your
beaux."
And on that enigmatic note, she exited, leaving Isabella staring open-mouthed after her.

Miss Latham’s was not the only equanimity to be ruffled by the morning's adventure. Upon returning to his lodgings, Mr. Trevelyan found himself uncharacteristically out of sorts. It was not the pricks of conscience which disturbed him, however; nor was it the tone of impatience which had crept into his landlady's heretofore respectful inquiry regarding several months' back rent. After all, Freddie could most likely be counted on to advance a small loan. But one could not much longer continue to exist on the good offices of friends and Aunt Clem, and the once extremely remote prospect of debtors' prison now loomed closer by the day. The prison walls cast a long cold shadow which seemed to draw the warmth from Basil's cramped rooms. What else had led him, on this beautiful spring afternoon, to build a fire near which he huddled, nursing a brandy?

His friends' experience had shown him that debtors' prison could be a tolerable place. There at least one was free of the harassments of creditors. Yet though it might be tolerable, he had no wish to avail himself of that species of liberty, and was just now wondering how his normally reliable instincts for survival had led him so far astray.

Patiently, he'd been insinuating himself, little by little, into Miss Latham's good graces. And the hints he'd dropped among his acquaintance had led many to believe that her virtue was teetering on the brink. But this morning he had risked it all—for what? A kiss. And now she would not only cease trusting him, but would more than likely refuse to have anything further to do with him. This could not improve his position with his creditors, who, like his gambling friends, had begun to believe he was on his way to a prosperous match.

As he absently turned the brandy glass in his hands, he realised that he might have mistaken his victim. Her plainness, her naiveté, and her idiotic relations had all led him to believe she was less well protected and would be more easily manipulated than other eligible young ladies. But she would only be led so far; she was still wary of him, still taken with Edward.

He gazed for a long time into the fire, watching the logs crackle and break, to send off bright, hot little sparks before they crumbled into ashes. Though Isabella was not an antidote, she certainly was not beautiful. Next to the sparkling good looks of her young cousins, she was a mouse. But there was something about her innocent, blunt way of reacting to him which was rather appealing.

There was an odd mixture of longing and defiance in the looks which accompanied her earnest scoldings, and these looks somehow tempted him. Today he had succumbed to temptation. The brief embrace showed that she was truly inexperienced, despite that insinuating laugh of hers. But tutoring her might be rather pleasant, for she was—though in the oddest way—
attractive.
He did not love her, but maybe in time might feel affection for her. And perhaps those attractions might even command his attention—at least now and then—over the interminable dreariness of marriage.

Yet one could hardly contemplate marriage when one's Intended refused to have anything further to do with one. What a fool he'd been.
What would it be now? Go to Lord Belcomb, confess to compromising her, offer to repair the damage by marrying her?
He paused, the glass halfway to his lips.
Could he carry it off?