The Earl's Mistress (29 page)

From the table, Jemima and Caroline giggled.

“Worse still, poor Tony will be missing all the truly elevated conversation we’ll be having here,” said Anne as she sat down. “Harry wants to tell us how many fleas he drowned in the brook this afternoon. That mangy creature was riddled with them. I am sure Millicent’s charms could never compete.”

At that moment, however, “that mangy creature” was scooting himself under the table to thump what was left of his tail at Anne’s feet, for in the end he’d been shorn bald by Yardley with his sheep sheers, then washed a second time in lye soap.

“I guess we can’t call him Fluffles no more,” said Bertie glumly, scooping up a big dollop of parsnips, “ ’cause he’s got no fluff and no ruffles.”

“And all the better he is for it,” said his mother, passing the next bowl. “Lissie, do you need help?”

Mrs. Yardley went at once to help the younger children serve themselves. Save for the twins, the eight of them were dining
en famille
—a circumstance for which Isabella was deeply thankful. She was accustomed to taking her meals with the girls and Mrs. Barbour, and she could not have borne—especially on this night—to be separated from them by cold formality and forced to endure Anne’s curious glances alone.

Anne really had given up her crinolines, and tonight she wore a simple gown that, while shapeless, had a flowing sort of elegance that was perfect for her slight figure and rounding belly. The children chattered happily through dinner, Georgie talking of nothing but the dollhouse. Afterward, having finished the meal with an excellent rhubarb fool, they rose as Anne excused herself to put Deborah and Deanna to bed.

By nine it was dark and raining, and there was still no sign of Hepplewood. While the two elder girls began to work on a puzzle in the front parlor, Isabella lingered, alternately standing by the front windows while toying with Hepplewood’s brandy stopper on the sideboard, then going to one of the armchairs by the hearth to flip through old issues of
The Field,
which were almost as fascinating as the drizzle running down the windows.

She had returned to stare at it when Anne came back down half an hour later.

“Don’t waste your time, my dear,” she said, breezing past. “He went galloping off in one of his moods.”

Isabella felt her face flush. “One of his moods?” she said, turning from the window.

Anne was picking up some of the children’s toys, for they’d been permitted the run of the house. “Oh, it’s just how Tony is,” she said, bending over to snatch up Pickles, Lissie’s wooden dog. “You mustn’t mind him, Isabella. He’ll come home drunk as a lord round midnight, and tomorrow all will be well again.”

“Oh,” said Isabella quietly.

She turned back to the window, pondering it. Isabella still had no notion what she had said to make Lord Hepplewood so angry—if he had, in fact, been angry. On further consideration, however, it felt more like an emotion turned inward, rather than directed at her. Nonetheless, it stung to be treated so cavalierly, and to be shut out with no explanation.

Suddenly she felt Anne’s warmth hovering beside her.

“Isabella,” Anne said softly. “How well do you know my cousin, if I may ask?”

Isabella turned from the window. “Scarcely at all, I begin to think.”

Anne flashed a smile of what looked like genuine warmth. “He’s a good man, my dear, truly,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at the girls, who sat at a table in the back of the room. “But he is just . . .” She paused, her brow furrowing.

“What?” asked Isabella coolly. “Just unhappy he cannot get his way in everything?”

“Oh, no, just . . .
unhappy
.” Looking truly pained, Anne set a hand on Isabella’s arm. “He really is the kindest, least selfish man imaginable—no matter what Aunt Hepplewood used to say.”

“His mother?” Isabella looked at her, puzzled.

“Yes.” Anne shook her head, as if throwing off some memory. “But never mind that,” she went on. “Did you quarrel? If you did, don’t worry. Tomorrow it will mean nothing. As I say, Tony is just . . . unhappy sometimes.”

“Thank you, you’re very kind, I’m sure,” said Isabella a little curtly. “But I cannot see he has much to be unhappy about. He has a beautiful daughter and a family who clearly adores him, and so far as I can see, he wants for nothing. So pardon me, Lady Keaton, if I have little sympathy with his so-called moods.”

An almost admiring look passed over Anne’s face. “Indeed, you would not, would you?” she murmured. “After all, you were married to Richard Aldridge. That, I daresay, would put a little buckram up anyone’s spine.”

At that, Isabella’s spine did stiffen—visibly, apparently—for Anne touched her arm again.

“Oh, good Lord, how thoughtless I am,” she said. “Forgive me, Isabella. But trust me when I say that Tony is nothing like Richard. I don’t mean
those
kinds of moods.”

“That’s good to hear,” said Isabella weakly.

“Tony used to give the impression of being little more than a charming rake.” Anne’s gaze had gone a little distant. “But age and life have hardened him, and underneath he possesses an almost ruthless control. People misjudge him at their peril. Yes, he has vices aplenty, but he is not mad, and his life . . . well, perhaps it has not been as easy as you think.”

Isabella lifted her gaze to Anne’s. “Thank you,” she said, more sincerely. “Lord Hepplewood has been very kind to me and to my sisters. I’m glad he has your good opinion. And I’m glad you came up to Greenwood. Thank you for agreeing to do so.”

“Agreeing?” Anne lifted one eyebrow. “I cannot think why I need be thanked for attending a pleasant house party in the countryside.”

“Lady Keaton, we are not social equals, and I know it.”

“It is Anne,” she said firmly, “and I don’t know what you mean. We’re both daughters of the aristocracy—daughters of barons, in point of fact. We came out within a year of one another, and we married into the same family—one of England’s oldest and finest.”

Isabella shook her head. “Lady Kea—
Anne
—I own a bookshop in Knightsbridge,” she said. “Do you know how I met your cousin? I interviewed for the post as Lissie’s governess. To be
his servant.
And he would not even hire me. So now I am . . . in trade, I suppose one might say—and I’m lucky it isn’t something worse.”

“The fact that you were widowed young and thrust into a life that was not what you were brought up for hardly alters the color of your blood,” said Anne. “And the fact that Uncle Fenster turned his back on you in your widowhood shames him—actually, it shames us all. Someone should have done
something
.”

“Lord Fenster did not turn his back on me,” said Isabella softly, “for he never so much as met me.”

“Truly?” Anne set a hand to her heart, something like pain flickering in her eyes. “I had no idea.”

Isabella flashed a tight smile. “He cut Richard from his life immediately,” she said. “And when Richard died, I asked Lord Fenster for nothing. I buried my husband next to Mamma in our village churchyard and went on with my life. You mean to be kind, Anne, I’m sure. But I do not need your sympathy—or Lord Hepplewood’s. I am making my own way now, and while I will not say it is easy, I am at least trying to be master of my own fate.”

Anne’s smile twisted, much like her cousin’s often did. “As young ladies we are taught that the wisest thing we can do is to find a good husband, and entrust to him our fate, aren’t we?” she mused. “And I have been blessed in that regard. I do not worry about anything save the health of my children. Philip worries for me. He is wise and good, and I trust him utterly to take care of us. Moreover, I am—and always have been—quite madly in love with him.”

“Then you are beyond fortunate,” said Isabella, dropping her gaze to the carpet.

“And I’m not fool enough to think otherwise,” said Anne fervently. “For all that we are taught to find such a husband, and to surrender ourselves into his care, men worthy of such trust are rare, and we must choose blindly, in many cases. It is easy to find a man to fall in love with—or to lust over, if I may be blunt—but it is hard to find a man worthy of that ultimate devotion.”

“You are very wise, Anne,” said Isabella, “and your husband is fortunate, too.”

“But you were not fortunate, Isabella,” Anne said, settling a hand on her arm, “through no fault of your own. And had I suffered through what you have, I’d likely be running a bookshop, too—or at least I hope I would. I hope I would have the courage to do what you have done.”

But the topic had grown too intimate—and too painful—for Isabella, and she fell silent. Anne did likewise, as if fearing she had said too much.

After a time, Isabella drew a deep breath. “In any case, thank you again for coming with us,” she said. “It is such a treat for my sisters to be here. To have other children to play with. Greenwood is so beautiful, and it feels so safe.”

“
Safe
?” Anne smiled. “What an interesting choice of words.”

Isabella lifted her gaze to Anne’s. “Did your cousin not tell you why he brought us here?”

“Not in great detail, no, but you are beautiful and charming and intelligent, Isabella,” she said, “so I think I can guess.” Anne gave Isabella’s arm another squeeze, then lifted her hand away. “Well. It is late. Shall we put the children to bed and have a sip of Tony’s sherry?”

Isabella tried to smile. “I think I will turn in, too,” she said, “but thank you.”

Nonetheless, for all her declared intentions, three hours later, Isabella still lay sleepless beneath the sheets, mulling over all that Anne had said.

Perhaps she did not know what Lord Hepplewood’s life had been like. Perhaps one never knew. Who could have guessed at what her own life had come to, or what she had suffered along the way?

It did not excuse his cold fury—if that’s what it had been—but perhaps it explained it.

And perhaps he would relent and come to her bed.

She thumped out a lump in her pillow and rolled over for the twentieth time.

Did she want him in her bed?

Yes, she decided. For good or ill, she still desired him—ached for him in a way she could never have imagined possible. Not just his touch—not just his mastery of her—but the sheer physical release of joining her body to his.

She was so desperately tired of being alone.

But he did not come, and another hour dragged by until at last she heard the longcase clock on the landing strike one. Then, perhaps a quarter hour later, there was a sound—a sort of scrape, as if the front door had opened, followed by the slow thud of heavy boots up the stairs and past her door.

She heard the creak of the door further down the hall—the small room opposite the master’s chamber, allotted to his apparently nonexistent valet—and then the house fell again into silence. Isabella held her breath and waited.

And then waited some more. She imagined him undressing. Wedging off his boots. Bathing, perhaps.

He was not coming. Too much time had passed. For an instant, she merely lay in bed, nibbling at her thumbnail, until a sense of urgency overcame her.

Later, she was unable to explain what she did, or why. It had something to do, she feared, with what Anne had said about courage. About being the master of one’s fate. Or perhaps it was just the overwhelming ache—the longing for his touch—that had begun to torment her of late. But whatever it was, Isabella got out of bed and went down the passageway.

For discretion’s sake, she did not knock but simply let herself in.

Later, when her head was clearer, she realized it had been a foolish thing to do—that Hepplewood might have been drunk enough to drag home Millie the tavern maid, for all she knew. But she went in anyway, and shut the door behind her to see him sitting in the faint, flickering lamplight, stripped bare to the waist but still in his boots and breeches.

Elbows propped on his wide-set knees, he sat on the edge of a narrow bed that was shoved up against the far wall. He lifted his gaze from what seemed a minute examination of his floor and looked at her with eyes both bleary and bereft.

“Isabella,” he said flatly. “I’m . . . a trifle sotted, I fear.”

He said it as if it was a rationale for something—what, she did not know.

Certainly it was not an apology. Isabella wasn’t even sure she wanted one now. Something she’d grasped during her conversation with Anne had brought to her a startling sort of clarity.

That some men were good for one thing; others for quite another. A man that was good for both things was, perhaps, a rare creature indeed. Anne, mayhap, had gotten the last one?

But Hepplewood was good for one thing—of that Isabella was quite certain.

She pushed away from the door and came to stand in front of him. “Is this all there is between us, Anthony?” she whispered, stripping the gown off over her head. “Is it just . . . sex that you want from me? Sex, but not intimacy?”

LOOKING UP FROM
his valet’s narrow bed, Hepplewood wondered if he’d finally drunk himself to the point of hallucination. Isabella—beautiful, perfect Isabella—stood before him entirely naked, her large, dusky nipples already erect, her eyes almost limpid in the lamplight.

He swallowed hard and wished to heaven he were sober; that he’d not let confusion and self-loathing get a damned grip on him and had instead stayed at home, where he belonged.

Home.

Isabella
was
home.

Isabella was where he belonged. Looking at her now, he knew it, and knew he would not escape it. And he knew, too, that she deserved better. That he had treated her unfairly, and that she was owed . . . something. The truth, he supposed.

He did not have it in him tonight.

“Is this all?” she demanded again.

He drew in a ragged breath and looked up at her with an infinitely weary gaze. “I do not know, Isabella,” he said, opening both hands. “If it is, is it enough?”

“For tonight,” she whispered, “yes. It is enough.”

She stepped nearer; near enough to touch. “Good God in heaven,” he uttered, bracketing her slender waist with his hands. He pulled her to him and set his lips to her breastbone on a deep, openmouthed sound of surrender.