"Perhaps," he replied quietly, "it is because I am not entirely sanguine concerning my prospects." He didn't know why he'd told her, but her soft "I see" reassured him.
"I do care for her," he confessed, as though the words were being pried from him, "a great deal. But I did not realise it until very recently."
"Yes. I understand how that can be. But I must tell you frankly, sir, that I wish you'd realised it somewhat sooner. Isabella has always been a clever, sensible girl, but in the past day or so...Ah, well. Time is always the enemy." She looked at him—rather sadly, he thought—but did not enlighten him further. "Nonetheless, I shall wish you success."
As he rose to take his leave, she added, "I'm afraid you'll not find her at home this morning. But we shall see you tonight?"
He nodded.
"Good." And, giving him a graceful white hand, she bid him adieu.
Chapter Eleven
After one last go-round, to see that all was as it should be, Isabella slipped away to a temporarily isolated comer of what a great deal of money and a great many servants had turned into a ballroom. Her face ached with the effort of smiling, but it was nothing to the aching of her head and heart. Basil's words had done their poisonous task. Yes, of course she'd been discontented at times in London. And she'd been unhappy at times at home. But there had been nothing in her life—not Papa's death, certainly, for he was a stranger to her—to prepare her for this utter misery of spirit.
And of course it was all her own fault. What business had she becoming infatuated with an earl, for heaven's sake? An earl who had—if one simply looked at what was under one's very nose—already found himself an entirely suitable countess, thank you. See, wasn't he smiling appreciatively at one of Lady Honoria's witticisms? She was reputed to be very clever. And certainly, she was the most beautiful woman in the room.
Isabella gave a small sigh, manufactured a benevolent smile, and gazed out over the multitude. For multitude it was, despite Lady Belcomb's ominous predictions. Mrs. Drummond Burrell might scold about "carryings-on," and refuse to honour the proceedings with her presence; but the vast majority was not such high sticklers. And they were curious to see for themselves Isabella and Basil in action. For the sad truth was, a great deal more had been talked about than had actually been seen, and London Society was eager to learn whether Isabella would outdo even Caro Lamb in making a public spectacle of herself. To society's disappointment, Miss Latham was the perfect lady, and Mr. Trevelyan's behaviour was punctiliously correct.
But Isabella was far less concerned with the ton's interest in herself than with their utter lack of interest in Alicia. The dowagers were coldly polite when they weren't outright rude, and the debutantes ignored her altogether. That Alicia was wealthy and devastatingly beautiful made her crime—a cit's daughter trying to elbow her way into Society—all the more heinous. Thus the early part of the evening had been an agony for Isabella.
Few gentlemen asked Alicia to dance, and those few were the same indigent gentlemen who'd made up Isabella's admiring circle in recent weeks.
Lord Tuttlehope had arrived rather late, on account of changing his clothes fourteen times and ruining two dozen cravats. And when he finally did arrive, he was so mortified at his tardiness and so convinced of having sunk forever in Alicia's esteem on this account that he was afraid to speak to her. It thus took him some time to notice that Veronica was surrounded by admirers and Alicia was not. Gradually, it penetrated his wits that his golden-haired darling was being snubbed. This made him mightily indignant, and he forgot his imagined disgrace as he bravely strode up to her.
Somehow Alicia managed to comprehend and accept his incoherent request for a dance, her face becomingly suffused with blushes. These having effectively routed his embarrassment, though causing him the most exquisite pain, he was able to keep both from treading on his fair one's toes and from stumbling over his own.
The next dance was claimed by Lord Hartleigh, who, if truth must be told, would never have noticed Alicia's plight on his own. But more than once he'd noted the concern on Isabella's face and her worried glances toward her attractive cousin. When the dance was over, he lingered a moment longer than necessary, as though he found Alicia's conversation utterly fascinating. The moment was just enough, however, to raise a flutter in the fair Honoria's breast and to kindle the competitive spirit of all the fine gentlemen in the immediate vicinity. After all, Alicia Latham was beautiful and rich, and if the Earl of Hartleigh, with his immaculate breeding, did not object to this cit's daughter, why should they? Within a quarter hour, Alicia found herself forced to break at least a dozen hearts because there were not dances enough to go round or hours enough to go round in.
Lord Tuttlehope, however, for his astounding act of courage, earned the promise of a second dance, and was allowed the unlooked-for privilege of escorting Alicia in to supper. Emboldened by this honour, the baron declared that he personally would speak to Lady Cowper in the matter of obtaining Alicia a voucher for Almack's.
"But Lady Jersey has already refused me," Alicia gently reminded him.
"Her own grandfather was a banker. Don't know where she gets her notions. But no one shall refuse you," her hero replied, and blinked so hard at his own audacity that his eyes watered.
Alicia had found a moment to hurriedly relate this interesting exchange to Isabella before an eager young major swept her back to the dance floor. So, Isabella thought, Lord Tuttlehope had a spine after all. But would his family accept his choice? Though they might not be able to influence the young man, they certainly might contrive to make Alicia miserable. Immersed in her thoughts, Isabella did not hear the two young ladies approach, and as she caught the drift of their conversation, she backed away into the shadows.
"Well, I wondered at it myself, but Lord Hartleigh has unusually high notions of duty. And he has always been the most chivalrous of men. How can one be surprised at his acknowledging the little merchant princess when he's taken in that nameless orphan child?"
"That is true, Honoria. And he thinks the world of the little girl, does he not?"
"Yes" was the tart reply. The rest Isabella did not hear, for the ladies slowly moved on.
Of course. Basil wasn't the only one to see it. "Unusually high notions of duty." She'd wanted to think it was for her own sake he'd asked Alicia to dance, but it had been chivalry, plain and simple. Another maiden in distress, and there was the Earl of Hartleigh, to the rescue.
"Ah. So here you are. I feared you'd gone off with your sketchbook and pencil—for a change, you know."
Still caught in her unhappy meditations, her gaze stuck at the intricate folds of his neckcloth for a moment before she looked up into Lord Hartleigh's face. He was smiling, but there was an intensity she'd never seen before in his dark eyes. Her heart beat a little faster as she forced a smile in return.
"I...we...had not expected such a crush—"
"Yes. This affair is an obvious success. But all the same, the role of hostess can be wearisome."
"You give me too much credit. My aunt is hostess, and more deserving of your sympathy—"
"Your aunt has assumed the rights of office, but it's clear you have its responsibilities; not that you need have any anxieties. Your cousins have obviously taken…” He spoke as though he understood her mind, as though he genuinely cared what she felt. And he had been responsible for Alicia's success. The ton respected him.
"Yes, My Lord, I think you are right. And I believe I owe you some thanks—"
But he sensed what she was about and wouldn't let her finish. "Your cousins are lovely, and Alicia has a genuine warmth and good nature which is tremendously refreshing. But I did not come to talk of your cousins. I have come for a dance. To command you to dance, if need be, for here you have been having all the responsibility and none of the fun."
She took his proffered arm, wishing she had the willpower to gracefully decline. But of course she could not. His muscular arm was a comfort, as were those warm brown
eyes, as was that low, calm voice. While he spoke to her, all the gossip and snobbery receded into a distant background. And now, as they danced, even the bleak picture Basil had painted seemed a little brighter. What if he did love Lady Honoria? Wasn't it better to take whatever crumbs he might offer than to go on suffering as she had since that morning in the park? Even if in time, after they were married (she flushed at the thought), he came to resent her, he would be too much the gentleman ever to show it. But his next words called her back.
"Miss Latham, I hope you're not drifting away to a more interesting place, just now when I most need your help; for Lucy insists that I describe your gown in exact detail to her tomorrow morning. And though I have scrutinised you carefully, and committed you to memory, I fear my ignorance of feminine couture will cause me to fall far short of my ward's expectations."
She was brought back to earth with a jolt. And suddenly the accumulated tensions of the last few days were too much for her. She was exhausted. Since that meeting with Basil, she had slept fitfully—when she had slept at all. The ball preparations had demanded her constant attention. Her aunt's nagging had been a constant strain. Alicia's difficulties at the start of the evening had stretched her nerves taut. And now this innocent reminder of why he sought her out, why he was so kind to her, undid her. She tried to inject humour into her voice as she began to explain Madame Vernisse's mysteries, but her voice faltered, and tears glistened in the corners of her eyes.
Lord Hartleigh, who had been more intent on watching her lips and eyes than on listening to her lecture, found himself in a turmoil. His instinct was to take her in his arms and comfort her. But this was a crowded dance floor, and she was the object of considerable speculation as it was, and, well, it just wasn't done, no matter how one longed to do it. He willed himself to speak calmly as he asked, "Miss Latham, have I said something to distress you?"
"No." She wouldn't meet his eyes. "No, of course not. But I believe that between the crush of the people and the heat of the candles—"
"Yes, of course," he interrupted. "We must find you a quiet spot and a cool drink." Calmly, he led her away from the dancing, gracefully discouraging the several guests who attempted to stop their progress with chatter. As they reached the doors to the hall, he asked, "Shall I send one of your cousins to you? Or your mother?"
She smiled up at him, grateful for his thoughtfulness, even though it made her ache all the more. Of course it wouldn't do to wander off alone with him. Not in the circumstances. "My mother, please. To the small parlour."
He nodded and was gone in search of Maria. But Mrs. Latham was much too fatigued to leave her comfortable chair. "Pray, bring the child a glass of lemonade," she drawled. "Isabella has a frighteningly strong constitution, and I'm sure will recover completely in a very few minutes." Seeing his hesitation, she added, "It's obviously the heat of the room. I'm sure she can be safely entrusted to your care for five or ten minutes, Lord Hartleigh. And if she's not recovered by then, I shall send a servant to attend her to her room."
"Five or ten minutes?" Was she telling him to take advantage of the opportunity? It was absurd, yet he hurried to procure the glass of lemonade. His practiced calm served him well as he hastened, without appearing to do so, from one room to another, seeking this mysterious "small parlour." At length he saw the slender form in the gown of sapphire-blue silk he'd studied so carefully. The room was crowded with the excess furniture and bric-a-brac which had been moved out of the rooms in which the festivities were taking place. She was standing by the window, her back to him. One silky blonde tendril had slipped from its pins to caress the soft white skin of her neck, and he found himself wanting to plant his lips on the spot. Instead, he gently touched her shoulder. She started, and when she turned, he saw the tears in her eyes.
"My m-mother?" she gulped, looking past him to where there was...nobody. And then, hastily, she wiped her eyes.
There was that great treacherous ache again. He deposited the lemonade on the nearest horizontal surface and took her into his arms. It was instinctive. He meant only to hold her, comfort her, but when she raised her head to speak, he saw the slight tremor of her lips, and could not keep his own from touching them. And that, too, suddenly wasn't enough. Her mouth was so soft, so warm. A faint scent of lavender seemed to tease him closer. His arms, of their own accord, tightened around her, and his lips pressed hers, gently at first, and then, as he felt her hands creep up around his neck, with increasing urgency. His pulse raced at her touch, and for a few delicious moments, as she responded to his kiss, he gave himself up to desire. The warmth of her slim body, its surprisingly sensuous curves molding to the hard muscle of his own, sent his blood rushing through his veins. He could feel her heart beating in the same wild rhythm as his own, and his lips moved from hers to draw a trail of kisses along her neck...to her shoulders...to the creamy flesh swelling at the neckline of her gown...and then she began to pull away. He wanted to lift her in his arms and carry her away—to...to...good God, what was the matter with him?
Summoning all his willpower, while inwardly cursing the place, the circumstances, all the rules and duties that made it impossible to take her now and make love to her, he released her.
"Forgive me," he whispered as she backed away.
"Yes. Yes, of course. These things...happen."
Her voice was calm, detached, yet her lips trembled, and he ached to kiss them again. But it wasn't right. And there was so little time. Twisted one way by guilt and the other by the passion she'd so quickly, so surprisingly aroused, he found it impossible to gather his wits, and his words came out in a confused rush.
"It isn't what you think—that is, I don't know what you think—but I didn't mean to distress you. I couldn't help—Isabella, I want you to be my wife."
The blue eyes which met his for an instant were filled with longing—and sadness—but when she quickly looked away again, he wasn't sure that he hadn't imagined it.
"That really isn't necessary, My Lord. After all," she added ruefully, "I didn't offer much of a struggle. None, in fact. Which makes me equally to blame."
"Blame?" he repeated, taking her hand. "When you've given me a glimmer of hope?"
The colour deepened in her face. "Please—we must end this...this...conversation. My family will be looking for me." She tried to pull her hand free, but he clasped it tighter still.
"Only tell me that you'll consider—"
"I cannot."
"No. Don't say you cannot. I know this is not the right time or place. I know it's too sudden. But I spoke to your mother this morning."
Her head went up in surprise, but he went on, oblivious to all but his urgent need to hear just one hint of encouragement. "Isabella, surely you must realise—you must have recognised by now that I hold you in great regard." Oh, why would the words be so stiff? But it was either that or confess to a passion which he hadn't suspected until a moment ago. And he'd shocked her badly enough already. Blindly, he plunged on. "And though I can't expect you to return those feelings now, will you not at least allow me the hope of earning your affection? We share so many interests; we're not entirely unsuited. And Lucy, who adores you, would be the happiest girl in the world."
"Please," she begged, "no more."
"You will not let me hope? Have I so disgraced myself?"
"No. It isn't that. But I cannot consider your proposal."
The words chilled him, and he tried to keep the frustration from his voice as he asked, "Is there someone else?"
There was a rustling of silk at the door, and a bored voice enquired, "Are you here yet, Isabella?"
The earl immediately released her hand, and Isabella hurried to her mother's side. "I was just returning, Mama. Lord Hartleigh was kind enough to...to..."
"Yes, of course. Well, your aunt is asking for you, my love, in the most insistent way." Maria Latham allowed her daughter to leave, then turned to the earl. "Time, my lord. It is always the enemy, is it not?" Then she, too, was gone.
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Isabella retired briefly to her room to compose herself and rinse away the evidence of tears. "Regard." "Shared interests." "Not unsuited." And, of course, Lucy. If there had been but one word of love. No, affection would have been enough. And if he chose to press her, she'd settle for even less. For regard. For tolerance. And that was impossible. Because every one of her senses had responded to his kiss. His kiss. Even now she could not believe she hadn't dreamed that embrace, for it was so like the other dreams that had come to her, unbidden, so many nights.
Gracious God, what had she done? No protest, no faint pretence at distress or disapproval. He had touched her, and she had gone to him, unthinkingly, returned his kiss with a hungry passion which even now swept through her in waves, making her tremble—and making her ashamed. What had driven her to humiliate herself in that way? It was shameful enough that she wanted him so badly, but she, sunk to the very depths of immodesty, had shown him she wanted him. And he? He had only wanted a mama for Lucy. But instead he'd found himself with a love-crazed woman in his arms. What choice had he but to politely accept that love?
He'd felt sorry for her—Lucy's prospective stepmama— and sought only to comfort her. And then, when she had behaved in that shameless way, he'd gallantly blamed himself for her behaviour. It was unbearable. She loved him past all reason, and he...he "held her in great regard." To be his wife on those terms was unthinkable.
No, her course was plain. She would accept Basil this very night, for by tomorrow her resolve would weaken again.
She was left to cool her heels for some time, however, for when she returned to the ball, Basil was oblivious to her efforts to catch his eye. He had seen her exit the room and his cousin follow shortly after. He had seen her mother follow some minutes later. The mother had returned, and the cousin had returned, but there was no Isabella for a quarter hour. Things looked promising. If Edward had offered and been accepted, would not the two have returned together, happily? But Edward was looking like a thundercloud, and Isabella's company smile was frozen on her face.