"But darling, it's just ugly gossip," Isabella told her, forcing her voice to be soothing when what she wanted to do was scream and break furniture.
"That's what your mother told Lady Belcomb, but she answered back that our position here was 'delicate enough.' And worse, she said that we would all be shunned on your account." The tears could be restrained no longer, and Isabella found herself spending the next half hour trying to calm her cousin, instead of thinking, which she desperately needed to do. For the first time in her life, Isabella wished she were a man, so that she could have called Mr. Trevelyan out, and shot him through the heart. But of course he most likely didn't have one. Well, any organ would do.
But the thought of herself, armed with pistol, meeting the villain at dawn—and the thorny question of who would have served as her second—restored Isabella's sense of humour.
"There, there," she said soothingly. "Aunt Charlotte has a tendency to see the black side of everything. No one will be shunned. We will simply have to set Mr. Trevelyan right."
"But she said he would have to marry you, even though your mama said she didn't think you cared to." The innocent green eyes gazed seriously into Isabella's.
"Yes, I can see how that would be convenient for several parties. But Mama is right. I am not in a marrying mood this week, cousin."
Pretending a confidence she did not feel, Isabella was eventually able to persuade her cousin to dry her tears and wash her face and go away and leave her to think.
As soon as Alicia had departed, Isabella retrieved Basil's note, carried it to her desk, and opened it.
My dear Miss Latham,
I will not say the other thing, for it so offends your sensibilities, and though I am dreadful, I am not so dreadful as all that.
I apologise for distressing you yesterday—and yet somehow I cannot bring myself to apologise for what I did. Temptation was put in my way, and, never having any pretensions to sainthood, I succumbed. And yet I truly meant you no dishonour; quite the opposite. I am fully prepared to confess my transgression to your uncle, and to offer for your hand...
At this last, a great wave of anger flooded through her. She crumpled the note and hurled it across the room. Offer for her? The nerve of the man! Did he think she'd offer her fortune and person into his keeping to make amends for a mere kiss? Did he think she'd jump at the chance to salvage her reputation with a hasty marriage? Isabella's bosom heaved in righteous indignation. And when she thought of how he had embarrassed her in front of Lord Hartleigh...No wonder the earl was wont to be so cool to her; he'd probably heard the gossip, too.
Anger carried her through the next few minutes, but it was soon displaced by anxiety. If what Alicia had said was true, Aunt Charlotte would be more than willing to promote the marriage. She could bring considerable pressure to bear—perhaps even through Aunt Pamela. And she would make Uncle Henry's life miserable, for he'd never force his niece to marry against her will. This could be quite a tangle, indeed. She retrieved the crumpled letter and carried it back to her desk.
...I dare not hope that your feelings toward me have changed. I fear, rather, that my behaviour has alienated you entirely. That is why I have not yet attempted to see your uncle. Though I believe that you might acquiesce to the dictates of your family (not to mention those of society), I would rather merit your hand on some warmer basis...
Isabella felt her cheeks grow hot. Warm indeed—the odious man!
...It is with the latter hope, then, that I beg you to forgive me and agree to see me again; after all, it was not so grievous a sin I committed. I have some words to utter in my own defense—words which, in all fairness, you must consent at least to hear, and which do not fall easily to paper and ink.
I beg your pardon for the garbled way in which I have scratched down these few sentences. I write in haste, in the hopes of being able to deliver this to you at a time when you cannot refuse it.
I shall be riding in Hyde Park at nine tomorrow morning, and will look for you then.
She looked up at the flourish of his closing, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. This was the man her aunt wished her to marry. This fanciful schemer and dreamer who dared to threaten her with a kiss—to be reported dutifully to the head of the family, and paid for with marriage. He had transgressed, had set the rumour mills going. He had kissed her, and now he expected to be rewarded with her hand and her fortune.
Under the tutelage of her Uncle Henry Latham, Isabella had learned a great deal about business. He had explained the various ploys and promises which had led her father to near-ruin. Compared to the machinations of men of business, Mr. Trevelyan's trick was a child's game. And it would take more than that and an outraged viscountess to bring Isabella Latham to the altar.
Well, I will meet you, you horrid creature, she thought, tearing the note into pieces; if for no other reason than to show how little I care for your pathetic threats—and to put an end to this nonsense, once and for all.
***
Although the earl was pleased to see his ward so animated, as she eagerly plied him with questions all the way home, he found himself unable to give her his full attention. Over and over, his mind replayed the visit to the gallery, calling up Miss Latham's image and the delectable sound of her laughter as he'd told his frog story. What had possessed him to relate that tale? For a few moments he'd felt young and carefree himself; the painful memories of war, the burden of his responsibilities had vanished briefly, and he was simply a man, entertaining a pleasant young woman. What was there in that? It was only her enticing laughter and its secret, intimate promise that unsettled him.
No, there was more. While somewhat absently replying to Lucy's questions, he found himself wondering if he would have told that story to Lady Honoria. And he wondered why, though that lady possessed every requisite for a satisfactory—nay, superior—wife, he was not drawn to her. She was beautiful, yet he gazed on her with no special pleasure. She was reputedly clever, yet he quickly wearied of her conversation. She was—even Aunt Clem agreed—the best of the lot, and yet, and yet...He shook himself out of his reverie as Lucy's voice became insistent.
"Then when, Uncle Edward?"
"What was that, child?"
With an exasperated little sigh, Lucy repeated, "When may we see Missbella again?"
"I don't know." When indeed? "Her family is to give a ball in a few days and she'll be quite busy. Perhaps after that. If you remember the special task you were to perform for me."
"My special task?" The hazel eyes looked away from his as she concentrated, trying to remember.
"Now you see, Miss Latham has put it quite out of your head. The pony. You were to decide what colour pony we should have."
"Oh yes! I know!" She bounced up and down, excitedly. "A silver one. Like the one in the picture. With the white on his face."
"Ah, well, that's a difficult order—" Then, meeting her look of disappointment, he went on, "Indeed, it is a dangerous mission, you propose, madam, but I, Edward Trevelyan, seventh Earl of Hartleigh, shall undertake it."
Lucy giggled in delight, and rewarded him with a fierce hug.
"Lucy talks of nothing but Miss Latham," Lady Bertram remarked as she poured herself a cup of tea. "She seems almost as much taken with the girl as your cousin is."
The smile on Lord Hartleigh's lips tightened. "I doubt my cousin is taken with much else besides himself."
"You're very hard on Basil."
"He has done little to warrant my compassion."
"Your father was much like Basil, at the same age. Yet he settled down and led a respectable life soon thereafter. Some men come by their sense of responsibility late."
"My father did not manage to squander his entire inheritance in five years—"
"He did not have the opportunity, coming so late to the title, and by then he had a wise and affectionate wife to guide him. But I did not invite you here to quarrel with you, Edward." Lady Bertram, whose back was always straight, straightened it just
a bit more, and assumed a dictatorial air. "I wish to know what progress you have made."
The long, strong fingers gripped the wineglass just a bit more tightly. "Progress, Aunt?"
"Don't play the fool with me, Edward. You have narrowed down the field to half a dozen, and I hear Lady Honoria Crofton-Ash is leading by a nose. When do you plan to offer for her?"