The Earl's Mistress (25 page)

“Because it has,” he said gruffly, “and that is the end of it.”

“My God.” Isabella lifted a hand to push back a loose strand of hair. “Oh, Anthony, I am not ungrateful, but people will say that I’m your mistress—whether it’s true or not.”

“It is remotely possible,” he conceded, “that it could come down to the lesser of two evils. And regrettably, Tafford knows we’ve some sort of acquaintance. That might even be driving his desperation in some measure. I can’t make it out. Not yet.”

“Dear heaven,” she murmured. “Perhaps he knows you’re here this very minute? Perhaps he will . . . he will drag me into Chancery and say I’m unfit, and that I’m just your wh—”

“
Stop,
” commanded Hepplewood sternly. “Do not take the counsel of your fears, Isabella. And do not ever use that word in my hearing. Not in regard to yourself, do you hear me? Moreover, Tafford knows nothing of my whereabouts.”

“You cannot know that,” she said, her tone so sharp that Jemima stopped her swing and cut Isabella an odd glance.

“I can, and I do,” he said more soothingly. “Tafford went down to Thornhill yesterday morning with his mother. Otherwise, I would not be here.”

“But how can you know—”

“I know because I’ve made it my business to know,” he replied. “Will you please just trust me?”

“I . . . yes, I
do
.” She set the back of her hand to her forehead for an instant. “I do trust you, Anthony. But I’m just so scared.”

He turned a little and slipped an arm discreetly around her waist, settling his hand at the small of her spine. “Look, Isabella, there isn’t much a man can’t accomplish with money and ruthlessness,” he said. “I’ve plenty of both, but Tafford has only the latter. Or, more likely, his mother is the ruthless one. And they’ve gone down, by the way, to ready Thornhill for a house party to be given in a fortnight’s time.”

“They will be staying in Sussex, then?” she said hopefully.

“No, they are expected back in London on Tuesday,” he said, “or so I’m informed.”

Isabella paused to consider it, but all she could think of was the warm, comforting weight of Hepplewood’s hand on her back and the flood of relief from knowing that, for all of forty-eight hours, Everett would be far from Jemima and Georgina.

“To be on the safe side,” he continued, “I shall have someone watching the girls as they go to and from school,” he said. “At least until Mr. Jervis discovers Everett’s motivations. But I also want to ask you to do something for me.”

“If I can, of course,” she said reflexively.

“Oh, you can,” he said, “but you will not wish to.”

“What?” She turned on the bench to fully look at him.

“On Tuesday morning, I wish you to come up to Greenwood Farm—”

“No,” she interjected.

“—with the girls. And Lissie. And—hell, my cousin Anne and her brood, too, if it will make you feel any safer in my presence.”

Her heart caught then. “Anthony,” she said intently, “I do not fear you.
I do not.
I fear myself, and . . . what you do to me. What you make of me. And of how very weak I am when I’m with you.”

He took both her hands in his, his grip no longer tender. “Is that what you feel in my bed, Isabella?” he said, his voice low and grim. “
Weak
?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “and without a will of my own.”

“Well, you are far from either, I do assure you.” His glittering eyes drilled into her, into her very soul, it seemed. “But if you feel weak, Isabella, is that wrong?
Is
it? Or mightn’t it be, in fact, the very thing you need?”

She shook her head and felt her brow furrow. “How can anyone need that?” she whispered. “What would it say about them?”

“Perhaps it would say that you’ve had to be strong for so long that you’re worn down with it,” he suggested, his tone unyielding. “Perhaps it would say, Isabella, that now and again a woman needs to surrender her control. That perhaps it goes against her very nature when her life has become so hard for so long that she cannot let down her reserve. Not to anyone. Not even for her own needs. Did you ever think of that, Isabella? It sounds a hard and miserable existence to me.”

“You . . . You are just trying to persuade me,” she murmured—and felt herself melting, almost sliding into the warm, sweet abyss his words seemed to offer up. A surrendering—to something stronger than herself.

“I am trying to persuade you, yes, that I am what you need,” he said, his voice low with emotion. “I have never lied to you, Isabella. I want you. I want you in my bed, under my control, and under my protection. But if that is not what you want, say so, and I will not lay a hand on you without being explicitly asked. Do you imagine I haven’t the resolve to keep my word?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, you have a will of iron.”

“If I have, I earned it, dear,” he said grimly. “But at least we understand one another—and far better, Isabella, than you might think. Bring the girls to the farm. Let us both let down our guard a little. Let it be a family visit. Anne will come if I ask her to.”

Isabella felt she was drowning in uncertainty, swayed by his determination and his strength. “But they have school and I have the shop,” she murmured. “I have shipments coming Monday, and accounts to catch up after that, and customers, and . . . oh, all manner of things. I have to earn a living, Anthony. This is my life.”

“I understand that, Isabella, but tomorrow
is
Monday,” he said logically. “Your account books and the girls’ schoolwork you may bring to Greenwood. The village does have mail service, you know. And surely your Mrs. Barbour is capable of waiting on customers whilst you’re away?”

“Yes,” Isabella admitted. “She often does.”

“Then please, Isabella,” he urged her. “Just let me keep the three of you away from London for a time. I am . . . uneasy in a way I cannot explain. I will not touch you if that is what you wish.”

Isabella swallowed hard and knew that once again Lord Hepplewood would have his way.

Worse, she wanted to lean on him. Her unease over Everett was growing by leaps and bounds, and she did not for one moment imagine that Hepplewood had come here to frighten her or overstate matters.

No, not where her cousin was concerned. Hepplewood was not wrong; something dark and ugly was coming to a head. Isabella had begun to feel it in Everett’s desperation—something in him had altered, somehow. There was a sense of urgency that had been waxing since . . . yes, since she’d seen him in the train station.

And had her life not been so fraught with work and caring for the girls and sheer survival, she suddenly realized, she would likely have spared it more thought. Perhaps she was fortunate that Lord Hepplewood
had
thought about it.

“Yes?” He dipped his head to catch her gaze. “Yes, Isabella, you will come?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Yes. If you think it wise. Yes, we will come.”

CHAPTER
13

M
onday afternoon in Park Square, Lady Petershaw’s butler bowed politely when Isabella knocked. As she so often did, Isabella asked to see not the marchioness but Lord Petershaw and his brother. Both boys having just returned from school, Isabella was happily received in their private suite, situated in a separate part of the house from the marchioness’s salons.

Since Lord Petershaw’s departure for Eton almost three years earlier, it had become Isabella’s habit to chat with him when he came home from school to ensure his education was progressing as it ought, and she’d followed suit with his brother.

This was a duty Lady Petershaw had expressed an unequivocal disinterest in, and one she had happily ceded to Isabella with a wave of her lace-cuffed hand. But the unspoken truth was that, having no formal education whatever, Lady Petershaw secretly feared herself incapable of assessing her sons’ progress, and she did not trust Eton’s condescending schoolmasters to tell her the truth.

Isabella knew this, and she knew, too, that despite her blithe declarations, Lady Petershaw cared very deeply for her children.

The boys were as lively and as happy as ever, and Isabella rose half an hour later, her spirits considerably lifted. Before leaving, she gave Petershaw a book on the history of horse racing and Lord John a bound copy of
The Mysteries of London
. They were small gifts, really; samples Isabella had acquired when stocking the shop, but the boys seemed genuinely touched, and kissed her cheek on the way out.

She still missed them, she realized. She had spent more than six years in Lady Petershaw’s employ, much of it while trying to support and care for Jemima and Georgina at the same time. And when Isabella looked back on her life and wondered if she had wasted it, those four children were ever in the forefront of her mind.

As she went down the stairs, Isabella could feel something a little like tears warming the backs of her eyes. She blinked rapidly and hastened toward the door, for the next duty called, and she’d not so much as begun her packing.

In the great hall, however, Smithers stopped her and asked that she attend the marchioness in her private sitting room. It was not an unexpected request, and one Isabella had hoped for, despite the press of time. She went up at once to find herself promptly pulled toward a tea tray already set with two cups and a platter of tiny sandwiches.

The marchioness was dressed today in a rich gown of aqua silk, but it was absent her usual flamboyance. Her hair, too, was dressed quite simply. Neither alteration served to diminish her beauty.

“My dear Mrs. Aldridge,” she declared, motioning her to a chair. “How wicked you are to try to escape without seeing me when I’ve been anxiously awaiting news of your new venture. But first, how did you find my lads?”

It was a little ritual they went through, and Isabella began at once. “I believe Lord Petershaw has taken a thorough grasp of his algebraic concepts this term,” she reported. “The headmaster’s report is quite good. I read it in some detail.”

“Did you? How very kind.” Lady Petershaw smiled. “That sort of thing bores me excessively.”

“Whilst I, on the other hand, perversely enjoy it,” said Isabella. “As to Lord John, he excels in his history, as always. And he has become quite the oarsman, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“But they will be ready to go up to university when the time comes?” A faint catch in her voice betrayed the marchioness’s anxiety. “It was his late lordship’s deepest desire that they should both attend—and excel at—Cambridge. I owe it to him, at the very least, to ensure that happens.”

“There is no question they will be ready,” Isabella reassured her. “Everything comes easily to Lord John, and Petershaw has learnt to work hard. Please set your mind at ease, ma’am.”

The marchioness smiled, relaxed almost imperceptibly, and began to pour. “You will visit with them again before term starts?” she asked, dropping in Isabella’s one spoonful of sugar. “You will impress upon them how very important it is that they continue to do well?”

“I would be crushed, ma’am, not to see them.” Isabella took the outstretched cup.

“Excellent,” said the marchioness, as if a plan had just been agreed to. “And now you must tell me about your fascinating little bookshop.”

Isabella did so, with little embellishment. Her account books were still in the red, but only just, and she expected to turn a profit by the end of June.

Lady Petershaw expressed great delight in this advancement, poured a second cup of tea, and said, more coyly, “And what of your other little venture? Have you brought Lord Hepplewood to heel yet?”

Isabella felt her face flush with heat. “I do not think Hepplewood is the sort of man a woman brings to heel, ma’am,” she said quietly.

“I shouldn’t have thought so, either,” the lady confessed, daintily lifting her teacup. “Well, not easily, at any rate. But I saw his face, my dear Mrs. Aldridge, when he sat here angry and bereft all those weeks ago—in that very chair in which you now sit, you may recall. And he was a man stricken, of that I am quite sure.”

“He is a man stricken with great arrogance,” said Isabella, “of that
I
am quite sure. Moreover, I cannot say he’s ever struck me as bereft. And yet . . .”

“Yes?” The marchioness leaned intently forward. “And yet . . . ?”

Isabella looked up from a detailed study of her saucer. “And yet he is a man of great kindness, I’ve come to believe,” she added. “Yes, he has been . . . kind to me.”

“Kind!” said Lady Petershaw in a huff. “That is very dull. Tell me, my dear, that he has at least tried to sweep you off your feet?”

Isabella hesitated a moment, her color deepening, she was sure. “He has, yes, in his own way,” she admitted. “And he has taken it upon himself to thwart Everett on my behalf.”

“Very bold of him,” declared the marchioness. “So I’m sure, then, that he has also attempted to lure you back into his bed. Tell me, my dear, has he succeeded?”

“Yes,” Isabella confessed, shifting her gaze to the elegant carpet. “Once.”

“Only once?” Lady Petershaw’s eyes widened. “Hepplewood is slipping. In the old days, no female found herself able to refuse those glittering blue eyes and curling golden locks.”

“The truth is, I’ve seen little of him,” said Isabella. “We had some sharp words, I fear, about my duty to my sisters and his duty to his daughter. And shortly thereafter, he brought her down from Loughford. I believe she is taking up a vast amount of his time.”

“But that is what governesses are for!” declared Lady Petershaw.

“You may recall, ma’am,” said Isabella dryly, “that he has not hired one.”

“Still?” The marchioness trilled with laughter. “What does he mean to do with the child, then?”

“That is precisely what I mean to ask him,” said Isabella, “and very soon, too. You see, Hepplewood has asked me up to Buckinghamshire, ma’am, with the girls. And with Lady Felicity and some of his cousins. I said that I would go. Have I made a mistake, Lady Petershaw? It seems all so very odd to me.”

“Oh, my word!” Lady Petershaw dropped her cup onto its saucer with a discordant clatter. “You cannot mean it?”