Louise Allen (15 page)

‘Go back to sleep,’ Giles said instead and went out into the darkness.

* * *

What she wanted to do was to get up, get dressed, throw her things into a portmanteau and follow him, beg him to take her away, to his home and his grandfather and let the world say what it would. Because this was love, however much she might fight it. Love was too precious, too rare, to deny.

But it was impossible to act like that, as though she had only her own happiness to think of. Her parents would be appalled and distressed. Cousin Elizabeth and the earl would be mortified that such a scandal had occurred while she was under their roof. Giles’s business, his whole future, would suffer from the scandal.

He cared for her and that was a miracle. He had shown her love, all through the night, as much by his care and restraint as by the skill of his lovemaking. Perhaps he would come to realise that he loved her, but some deep feminine instinct told her that he would be wary of admitting it, even if his upbringing, his past, the constraints upon him, allowed him to recognise it.

She had given him everything she could, except that one deep, precious secret. Annabelle. Lucas’s child was being raised as a legitimate Needham, believed by all the world to be the twin of little Nathaniel, the child of her friend Jane and Jane’s husband Ralph Needham, Lucas’s half-brother. The two men were drowned together when their carriage overturned into a storm-swollen Welsh mountain beck late one winter’s night.

No one knew except Jane, her small, devoted household in their remote manor and the family doctor. Annabelle was growing up secure and happy with all the prospects of a gentleman’s daughter before her and Isobel dared not risk that future in any way. She saw her child once or twice a year and lived, for the rest, on Jane’s letters and Annabelle’s messages to
Aunt Isobel
. Her parents would never know their own grandchild. She had not heard her daughter’s first words nor seen her first steps.

If she married again Isobel knew her conscience would tear her apart. How could she take her marriage vows while hiding such a thing from her husband? But how could she risk telling a man when he proposed? If he spurned her and then could not be trusted with the secret it would be a disaster.

Giles had said he was glad he had stayed with his mother, that he knew who he was. No pretence, no lies, he had said and he obviously admired and loved the Dowager for the decision she had taken. He would not understand why Isobel gave her child away; he would think she did not have the courage of his own mother to keep Annabelle and defy the world.

There was a very large lump in her throat and her face was wet, Isobel realised. She dared not let Dorothy find her like this. She slid out of bed, her legs still treacherously weak at the knees from Giles’s lovemaking, and splashed her cheeks in the cold water on the washstand. Then she smoothed the right-hand side of the bed, tucked it in and got back in, tossing and turning enough to account for the creases.

* * *

A clock struck six and Isobel knew she had been lying, half asleep, half waking and worrying, since Giles had left her. In an hour and a half Dorothy would bring her chocolate and hot water. She must try to sleep properly despite the warm tingling of her body and the agitation of her mind. Whatever the day brought, she would need her wits about her.

Chapter Fifteen

T
here was no sign of Giles at breakfast, nor was he with the earl, Isobel discovered after some carefully casual questions. Lizzie finally gave her a clue.

‘I think it is such a pity,’ she was protesting to Anne as they entered the breakfast room. ‘Good morning, Cousin Isobel. Have you heard the awful news? Mr Harker is conspiring with Papa to demolish the Hill House.’

‘Really, Lizzie! You are dramatising ridiculously,’ Anne chided as she sat down. ‘Papa has decided it is not worth reconstructing, that is all. Much better that it is safely demolished.’

‘But Mr Repton said—’

‘Mr Repton is not always right and it is Papa’s decision. Anyway, we would not be here to use it for ages, even if it was rebuilt.’

‘Well, I am very disappointed in Mr Harker,’ Lizzie announced darkly. ‘He had better not try to knock down my castle.’

‘I believe he is going to see what can be saved of the stonework to go to strengthening the Gothic folly,’ her sister soothed. ‘I expect that is what he is doing today. I heard him say something to Papa about good dressed stone not going to waste.’ Lizzie subsided, somewhat mollified.

‘Is Cousin Elizabeth coming down to breakfast or have I missed her?’ Isobel asked. ‘I was going to ask her if I might ride this morning.’ If Giles was not at the Hill House, then she would ride over the entire estate to find him, if necessary.

‘Oh, Mama left early to drive into Cambridge to take Caroline to the dentist,’ Anne said. ‘I know it is Sunday, but she woke with the most terrible toothache. Mama says we can all go to evensong instead of matins. But I know she will not mind you taking her mare. Benson, please send round to the stables and have them saddle up Firefly for Lady Isobel.’ As the butler bowed and crooked a finger for a footman to take the message, Anne added, ‘I do not think this sunshine will last—my woman predicts a storm coming and she is a great weather prophet.’

* * *

The sky was certainly dark to the west as the groom tossed Isobel up into the saddle of the countess’s pretty little chestnut mare. ‘Shall I come with you, my lady? She’s a lively one.’

‘No, thank you. I can manage her.’ She held the mare under firm control as they crossed in front of the house and then gave her her head up the hill towards the derelict prospect house.

Giles’s big grey was tied up outside and whickered a greeting as Isobel reined Firefly in. A movement caught her eye and she glanced up to find Giles sitting at the window over the portico. One foot up on the sill, his back against the frame, he turned his head from the distant view he had been contemplating and looked down.

‘Isobel. You should not be here.’ But he smiled as he said it and a tremor of remembered pleasure ran through her.

She brought the mare up next to the grey and slid down to the steps, managing to avoid the mud. ‘But we need to talk,’ she said, tilting her face to look at him as she tied the reins to the same makeshift hitching post.

‘Come up, then.’ Giles disappeared from sight and met her at the top of the staircase.

‘This feels so right. So safe,’ she said and walked into his arms without hesitation. ‘I do love you so, I know that now.’

Giles’s reply was muffled in her hair, but she heard the words and the happiness was so intense it made her shiver. ‘Last night was very special for me, Isobel.’ Then he put her away from him and the look on his face turned the frisson into one of apprehension. ‘But I have been up here for hours thinking—without any conclusion other than this is wrong and we must part.’

‘No! No,’ she repeated more calmly as she walked past him into the chamber. ‘We are meant to be, meant for each other. I refuse to give up.’

‘There is no way. We cannot change who I am and that is that.’ The bruises on his face were yellowing now, the swelling subsiding. Isobel stood biting her lip and looking at his profile as Giles stared out of the window, his mouth fixed in a hard line.

‘Your nose is not so very crooked,’ she said after a moment. ‘It is not as bad as when it was so swollen. Now it just looks interesting. Perhaps this—us—is not so bad either if we give it time and think.’

‘The only thing that would make our marriage acceptable is your ruin, and you know it as well as I do. And there is no alternative for you other than marriage.’

‘Then what is to become of us?’ she said, her voice cracking on the edge of despair.

‘We will learn to live without each other,’ Giles said harshly. ‘Just as you learned to live without Lucas when he died.’

‘I would not call it living,’ Isobel whispered. At first, despite the bitter grief, it had been bearable. That year when she had been with Jane, their pregnancies advancing together, the month after the births when she could hold Annabelle, truly be a mother to her—that had been a time of happiness mixed with the mourning. It was only after she had returned home, doubly bereaved of both fiancé and child, that Isobel had plunged into deep sadness.

‘I do not think I realised how depressed I was,’ she said, looking back over the past four years. ‘Even when I felt better I did not want to mix socially, look for another man to love, because I did not believe there was one. I could not see what the future held for me. Now—’

‘Now you must start afresh,’ Giles said and turned from the window to look at her. ‘You have the courage and the strength, you know you have. And you are better off without me, even ignoring my birth. I have been—I am—a rake, Isobel. I have never courted a respectable young woman.’

‘So will you forget me easily?’ He had made love with her, slept with her, been thinking about her for hours—and he still did not know if he loved her, she thought, her confidence shaken.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘You have marked my heart as surely as these scars will mark my face. I will never forget you, never cease to want you. You are, in some way I do not understand, mine.’

‘But you will find a wife and marry and have children.’ She could see it now. He would find an intelligent, socially adept daughter of some wealthy city merchant and she would love him and he would be kind to her and together they would raise a family and Isobel would see them sometimes and smile even though her heart was cracked in two...

‘Yes. And you will find a husband. We will find contentment in that, Isobel.’

How the sob escaped her, she did not know; she thought she could control her grief. ‘It sounds so dreary,’ she said and bit her lip.

‘You will make a wonderful mother,’ Giles said. ‘You will have your children.’

‘Oh, no. Do not say that. Do not.’ And then the tears did finally escape, pouring down her face as she thought of Annabelle and the children she would never have with Giles.

‘Sweetheart.’ Giles pulled her into his arms, kissing away the tears. ‘Please don’t cry. Please. I am sorry I cannot be what you want me to be.’

She turned her head, blindly seeking his mouth, tasted her own tears, salt on his lips. ‘Love me again, Giles. Now and every night while we are both here.’ He went so still she caught herself with a pang of guilt. ‘I’m sorry, that is selfish, isn’t it?’ She searched his face, looking for the truth she had learned to read in his eyes. ‘It isn’t fair to expect you not to make love fully.’

‘I would want to be with you even if all I could do was kiss your fingertips,’ Giles said, his voice husky. ‘You gave me so much pleasure last night, Isobel. But I have no right to let you risk everything by coming to your chamber again.’

‘If that is all we have, just the time we are both here, then surely we can take that, make memories from it to last for ever? We will not be found out, not if we are careful as we were last night.’ It was Sunday, so perhaps it made what she was asking even more sinful. But how could loving a man like this be a sin?

‘Memories?’ He held her away from him, studying her face, and then he smiled. It was a little lopsided, but perhaps that was simply because of the stitches in his cheek. ‘Yes. We will make one of those memories here and now and use that little chamber one last time for the purpose for which it was intended.’

There was a rug thrown over the chair at the desk he had been using to write his notes. Giles spread it over the frame and ropes that were all that remained of the daybed in the painted chamber and while he closed the battered shutters Isobel shed her riding habit, pulled off her boots and was standing, shivering slightly in her chemise and stockings, when he turned.

‘Goose bumps,’ she apologised, rubbing her hands over her chilled upper arms.

‘I’ll warm them away. Don’t take any more off, it is too cold.’ He wrapped his greatcoat around her, then eased her on to the bed before stripping to the skin.

Isobel lay cocooned in the Giles-smelling warmth of the big coat and feasted her eyes on him. He would be embarrassed if she told him how beautiful his body was, she guessed, and besides, many other women had told him that, she was sure. Instead she wriggled her arms free to hold them out to him. ‘Giles, come into the warm.’

‘I am warm.’ He wrapped her up snugly again, then parted the bottom of the coat so he could take her feet in his hands, stroking and caressing them through her stockings, teasing and warming and arousing as he worked his way up. Then he flipped the coat back over her lower legs and proceeded to kiss and lick and nibble her knees until Isobel was torn between laughter and desperation.

‘Giles!’

‘Impatience will be punished.’ He covered her knees, then shifting up the bed, left precisely the part she wanted him to touch shrouded. He pushed up her chemise to lick his way over the slight swell of her belly, into her navel, up between her breasts without once touching the curve of them, the hard nipples that ached for his touch.

Only when he reached her chin and she was whimpering with desire and delicious frustration did he lie on the bed beside her, lower his mouth to hers and kiss her with languorous slowness while his hands caressed her, edging her to the brink, then pulling back, building the pleasure until Isobel thought every nerve must be visible as they quivered under the skin, then leaving her again teetering on the edge of the abyss.

‘Oh, you wretch,’ she sobbed, her fingers tight on the hard muscle of his shoulders as she arched, seeking his touch. ‘You torturer.’

‘Touch me,’ Giles said, bringing her hand to clasp around him. ‘Take me with you.’ Then he held nothing back, his body at her mercy, his hands demanding, demanding, until Isobel lost all sense of what was her and what was Giles and surrendered to the mindless oblivion of pleasure.

She came to herself to find him slumped across her, relaxed into sleep. ‘Giles?’

‘Mmm.’ His lids fluttered, the dark lashes tickling her cheek, then he was still again.

Isobel tugged the greatcoat more securely over them, curled her arms around him and lay, cheek to cheek, thinking. Nothing lasted for ever. She had him now and for a few days and precious nights even though she did not have his words of love. She would not waste those moments by anticipating the inevitable parting; she would live them and revel in them and then do her best to live without him.
I will not pine. I will find some purpose, some joy in life. I will not allow something so precious to destroy me
. In the distance thunder rumbled.

* * *

An hour later they approached the house from different directions, Giles from the western drive, Isobel retracing her route, bringing Firefly across the wide sweep of gravel before the house to the stables. They met, as if by chance, outside the stable arch.

‘Mr Harker! Good morning.’ Isobel let the groom help her dismount and waited while Giles swung down from the grey. The sound of bustling activity made her look through into the inner yard where the back of a chaise was just visible.

‘Visitors,’ Giles observed. ‘Have you had a pleasant ride, Lady Isobel?’

‘Very stimulating, thank you. But I fear it is about to rain.’ She caught up the long skirt of her habit and walked with him across to the front door. Benson opened it as they approached and Isobel stepped into the hall to find the callers had only just been admitted. A grey-haired man of medium height with a commanding nose turned at the sound of their entrance, leaning heavily on a stick. Beside him a thin lady in an exquisitely fashionable bonnet started forwards.

‘Isobel, my darling! What good news! We had to come at once even if it did mean travelling on a Sunday.’

She stopped dead on the threshold. ‘Mama. Papa.’ Her mother caught her in her arms as Isobel felt the room begin to spin. There was a crash of thunder and behind her the footman slammed the door closed on the downpour.
No escape
.

‘Darling! Are you ill? You have gone so pale—sit down immediately.’

‘I...I am all right. It was just the shock of seeing you, Mama. Thank you, Mr Harker.’

Giles slid a hall chair behind her knees and Isobel sat down with an undignified thump. ‘Lord Bythorn, Lady Bythorn.’ He bowed and stepped away towards the foot of the steps.

‘Wait—you are Harker?’

‘My lord.’ Giles turned. His face had gone pale and the bruises stood out in painful contrast.

‘Lord James Albright tells me that you were injured standing with him to bring to account those scum who compromised my daughter. And I hear from her own letters that you rescued Isobel and young Lizzie from the lake.’

‘The lake was nothing—anyone passing would have done the same. And Lord James is an old friend, my lord. I merely did what I could to assist him.’ Giles made no move to offer his hand or to come closer. Isobel realised her mother had not addressed him and she was looking a trifle flustered now. Of course, they knew who he was, what he was, and Giles had expected that, should he ever meet them, he would receive this reaction.

‘You have my heartfelt thanks.’ The earl paused, a frown creasing his brow. ‘You are a resident in this house?’

‘I am undertaking architectural work for the earl. Excuse me, my lord. Ladies.’ He bowed and was gone.

‘Well, I’m glad to have the opportunity to thank the fellow in person,’ her father said, wincing from his gout as he shifted back to face her. ‘But I must say I’m surprised to find him a guest in the house.’