Isabella

  "I am afraid he has," Isabella answered. "But as he has just this moment himself assured me that he is perfectly dreadful, and as blood is thicker than water, I must submit to family opinion."

  "Isabella!" her aunt exclaimed in disapproval. But Lady Bertram waved her away much as she would an annoying insect.

  "Intelligent girl, Lady Belcomb. There's more sense in her than in both my nephews combined. Speaking of which, here comes the other one, to honour us with his company."

  The turban nodded in the direction of Lord Hartleigh, who was disconcerted to find five sets of eyes fixed upon him. One pair in particular, sparkling like a matched set of aquamarines, unnerved him. His demeanour belied his discomfort, however, and only his aunt noted the minute crack in the calm social mask. He greeted the two elder women warmly, bowed courteously to Isabella, and coolly acknowledged his cousin and the young baron.

  The next quarter hour was not the most agreeable of his life. Lord Hartleigh had intended only to stop for a minute, primarily to greet his aunt, but upon discovering that Basil had planted himself among the party and refused to depart, the earl stubbornly stood his ground. He was not certain why. Basil always irritated him, and he knew his own continued existence was an irritation to Basil. In addition, he was uneasy attempting to make conversation with Miss Latham, who had seen him at his worst—he, the Earl of Hartleigh, known for his unerring courtesy.

  But there was Basil, hovering over the young lady like one of those jungle cats hovering over its prey. Nonsense. His mind was working like some silly romance. But somehow she had aroused the earl's protective instincts, and he hesitated to leave her with no sentinel in attendance but his unpredictable aunt, since it was clear that Lady Belcomb either didn't know or didn't care that Basil was a fortune hunter.

  Why he should concern himself, he didn't know. All he knew was that he wanted his cousin as far away from Miss Latham as possible. And since Basil appeared to have no intention of budging, Lord Hartleigh determined to remove the young lady. Therefore, to both their surprise, he asked her to dance.

  Although the earl had done nothing to endear himself to her, she accepted his offer with an enormous sense of relief, as a means of escaping his cousin's overpowering presence. She was dismayed to find herself attracted to the...creature. Never in her life had she been so showered with poetic compliments, and she had begun to think that his "wicked charm" might indeed turn her head, for there was something so tempting about wickedness, wasn't there? Rakish young men were rather like forbidden sweets: You knew they weren't good for you and you'd suffer for trying them, but they were so very...seductive. What a monstrously improper train of thought! Gladly, she put it aside as Lord Hartleigh's arm encircled her waist.

  This, too, was a waltz, but her response to this cousin was very different. Wasn't it odd that the one who had responded so warmly to her had frightened her, while this one, towering over her, who had insulted her and then dismissed her with cool arrogance, did not intimidate her in the least?

  They were alike in some ways. There was a family resemblance in the high cheekbones, the clear strong angles of the face, the long aristocratic nose. But there was nothing feline about Lord Hartleigh. His deep brown eyes, though betraying no emotion, appeared to gaze frankly at the world. His was not the cat-like grace of his cousin but, instead, the assertive grace of the athlete. And the strong arm around her waist made her feel protected, rather than threatened.

  Stiffly, they conversed about the weather, the temperature of the room, the attractive decorations. Then, quite abruptly (and to his own surprise), the earl changed the subject.

  "Miss Latham," he observed, "I do believe we got off on the wrong foot." Her startled eyes met his for a second, then looked away—into his neckcloth. However had he managed the perfect creases of that complicated arrangement? "I was rude to you once," he went on, "and compounded it with an equally rude apology. May we close the curtain on that unfortunate scene and begin fresh? My behaviour was inexcusable, but I ask that you dismiss it—as an unaccountable aberration."

  "You were concerned about your ward," she replied.

  "That is no excuse—"

  "It is forgotten," she interrupted, smiling up at him.

  It was Lord Hartleigh's turn to feel relieved, but his feelings were complicated by a new sensation: As he watched her face change with that smile, he felt a rather uncomfortable constriction in the general vicinity of his chest. Her eyes had softened to a deeper, smokier blue, and the curve of her lips was deliriously sensual. Several mute seconds passed as he gazed down into this suddenly very appealing face; seconds in which some unexpected notions drifted into his head. But he managed to recall himself in time. Clearing his throat, he told her that she was very...kind.

  "And how is Lucy?" she asked.

  This led to a discussion of various domestic details which Hartleigh had never previously considered. His bewilderment was plain—though he seemed to speak of it with humour—and when he quoted Aunt Clem's declaration that "the poor child was bored to tears in that stuffy house," Isabella laughed. The notion of this handsome, sophisticated, perfectly mannered, perfectly dressed Peer rendered helpless by a seven-year-old was highly diverting. As soon as she had shown her amusement, however, she regretted it; he would not like to be laughed at. Several couples dancing nearby were staring at them, and her face flushed crimson.

  "I beg your pardon, Lord Hartleigh," she apologised hastily. "I am not used to being in such fine company, and fear I have a case of the nervous giggles."

  He barely heard her, having become preoccupied with the constriction that was making it so difficult to breathe. Surely that deliciously wicked sound had not come from her. A host of even odder notions crowded into his brain, and he was very hard put to squash them. At length he managed to mutter something about a "perfectly absurd situation," and the dance, mercifully, ended.

  It was a greatly unsettled Earl of Hartleigh who returned to his home that evening. He had gone to Lady Chilworth's ball specifically for the purpose of finding a mama for Lucy. Aunt Clem had provided a list of eligible females, and he had attempted to dance with all of them. He was determined to perceive this search for a mama as a mission: dangerous, yes, but critical to his ward's well-being. And to some extent he had begun to feel a bit of the excitement his political missions had engendered. But tonight he found himself unable to attend to his partners' conversation. He would gaze into their faces, expecting that each in turn would trigger some special response, and then would feel unaccountably irritated that they did not. He heard other laughter, and it irked him. Thus, as he guided one after another eligible young beauty through one after another dance, his attention would stray to a not-especially-pretty young lady in blue. And it was most provoking that Basil did not leave her side the entire evening.

  Chapter Three

  The following day, the Belcomb home, already in chaos with preparations for the ball, was further disrupted by a parade of elegant gentlemen. Word of Isabella's material charms had long since made the rounds, but the attentions of the Trevelyan cousins the night before had considerably raised her market value among impoverished younger sons. Her dance card had rapidly filled from the moment that her dance with Lord Hartleigh ended. Basil, who had hoped for a relatively clear field, had not been pleased, but contented himself with hovering nearby and ingratiating himself with her aunt.

  Today, then, all those who'd been privileged to dance with her made their courtesy calls. Lady Belcomb was not altogether happy at first with Isabella's sudden popularity, for it would appear to decrease her own daughters' prospects proportionately. But then, as she noted that the callers—with one unfortunate exception—were of straightened financial circumstances, her equanimity was restored, and she greeted them, if not graciously, then at least with forbearance. Unfortunately for the earlier callers, she was the only one to greet them. Isabella's customary morning ride (an exercise she took primarily to escape the quarrelling servants) had been l
ater than usual, and she hadn't yet changed. Thus, Lord Hartleigh, among the early arrivals—and the one unfortunate exception—was disappointed.

  Fortune smiled on Basil, however. He arrived shortly after Isabella joined her aunt. All the other callers had left or were compelled to leave (the proper half hour having expired), and he and Freddie had the field to themselves. Having paid his courteous compliments to Lady Belcomb, Basil had just settled himself comfortably to flattering an uncomfortable Isabella when there was a tumult at the door.

  Sounds of merriment drifted into the room, to be followed in another moment by Alicia Latham, who was trailed by an anxious Abigail. Laughingly, the girl scolded her maid.

  "No, no, Mary. It is quite all right. We can see to that later, but first I must see Isabella—" She stopped short as she saw the two gentlemen in the room.

  Lord Tuttlehope, who had been detailing the merits of a pair of greys seen the previous day at Tattersall's, stopped midsentence, and his jaw dropped at the vision before him.

  Alicia's windblown straw-coloured curls tumbled recklessly from her bonnet. Her green eyes sparkled; her cherry-pink lips were moist and parted slightly in surprise. Blushing at the sight of the two elegant gentlemen, she was, all in all, so pretty and innocent and fresh that even the most jaded rakehell could not fail to be charmed.

  But where women were concerned, Lord Tuttlehope could hardly be termed jaded. An excruciating shyness had resulted in a virtually complete ignorance of the other sex. But, shy as he was, he couldn't help staring. The green eyes met his for a moment, then quickly lowered in confusion. In that moment, his heart gave a great leap and abandoned him.

  Basil quickly rose and bowed, then found he had to nudge his friend to attention. After a second's paralysis, Lord Tuttlehope remembered what his limbs were expected to do.

  "I'm so sorry. I didn't know—oh dear," Alicia stammered.

  "Don't be silly, love," her cousin replied as she rose from her seat to lead the hesitating girl into the room. "You've finished your shopping early, I see."

  "Yes. Oh dear. I did not mean..." She glanced quickly at the gentlemen and blushed again.

  Since Lady Belcomb simply sat there gazing at the girl with disapproval, Isabella made the introductions. Basil pronounced himself charmed, Lord Tuttlehope stammered something incomprehensible, and Isabella, with polite apologies, excused herself, and took her cousin away.

  Had Basil not been quite so irritated at Isabella's casual leave-taking and a little stunned by her cousin's good looks, he might have noticed his friend's condition sooner. As it was, the viscountess made several attempts to return to discussion of the greys, and several times elicited only stuttering and confused replies from Freddie, before Basil noted anything amiss. He then calmly took over the conversation, brought it to a graceful close, and took his friend and himself away.

  "It really is too bad of you, I must say," Basil remarked as they made their way to their club.

  "Eh?" Lord Tuttlehope awoke from his stupor with a start.

  "I said, it really is too bad of you."

  "What is? Were you speaking, Trev?" Freddie shook his head. "Must have been woolgathering. Too bad— what?"

  Basil clapped his friend on the shoulder and laughed. Freddie endured this for a moment, then responded, with some annoyance, "I say, Trev, fellow deserves to know what the joke is."

  "Ah, my friend, I fear the joke is on me. I had new hopes. For a vision entered my life, complete with fortune, but younger, prettier, and, I think, far more susceptible than the icy Miss Latham. But what do you think? I look over and see that my bosom bow is struck on the spot, instantly besotted. Did you ever hear of worse luck?"

  ***

  "Oh, Bella, what lovely gentlemen. I've never seen such cravats. Are they in love with you?"

  "The gentlemen or the cravats?" Isabella asked, laughing.

  Alicia's wardrobe for the Season covered every stick of furniture in her room: walking dresses, pelisses, gowns, slippers, shawls. All had been inspected, tried on, exclaimed over, and the two women now sat on the bed, resting from their exertions.

  "But are they? They're so handsome." Alicia sighed. "And so beautifully dressed."

  "Yes, they're impeccable," replied her cousin. "And not, you goose, in love with me. Why, I'm quite an elderly lady. Your ancient companion, remember."

  "Fah." The blonde curls shook a negative. "The only reason you're not married is that you've been buried in the country all this time taking care of us and helping Papa. I knew the minute you came to London you'd have dozens of beaux. Even Papa said so—when Mama was not about. Polly said at least a dozen came today. Even the Earl of Hartleigh." She pronounced this last with some awe.

  Isabella's heart gave a little flutter, but she took a deep breath and told her cousin, "That is only etiquette, my dear."

  This was not sufficient explanation, for her cousin must hear all the particulars of the Duchess of Chilworth's ball.

  "And the dark-haired one, who looked so shy?" Alicia asked, shyly enough herself, when her cousin had finished detailing the previous evening.

  "Where Mr. Trevelyan goes, there goes Lord Tuttlehope. I assure you he hasn't the remotest interest in me."

  "Oh." Alicia became thoughtful. If Lord Tuttlehope could have seen the tiny wrinkle between her brows or the charming way she chewed delicately on her lower lip, his fate would have been sealed.

  But fortunately for that bewildered lord, there was only Isabella to see. She was curious about this interest in Basil's loyal companion, but had no opportunity to question her cousin, for Veronica entered then, demanding to see all the new finery. The wardrobe was displayed again, and Isabella soon left the two girls to their fantasies.

  As the younger girls waited in happy anticipation of their special day—practising the most killing ways of plying their fans, inventing witty retorts to imagined compliments, investigating the festive arrangements, and generally getting in the way of the servants, by whom they were frequently in danger of being trodden underfoot—Isabella continued to make the rounds with her aunt.

  She went again to Almack's, where she found herself at the center of a small but enthusiastic circle of admirers. This was in marked contrast to her previous experience within those hallowed halls, when only the patronesses' benevolent tyranny had saved her from sitting out the entire evening. Then she had been matched up with bored but polite gentlemen who did their duty, suppressed their yawns, and then went on to more attractive game. Now, however, she was stalked not only by the persistent Basil, but also by a select group of other gentlemen with pockets to let.

  In the course of her engagements, she had regularly found Lord Hartleigh gazing down at her in that tight, courteous, yet somehow disapproving way of his. He would never spend more than a few minutes with her—perhaps a single dance, or some polite social chatter. And then he would be gone. She noticed that he divided his attention among half a dozen young ladies, all of whom had similar credentials: good looks and breeding. Their bloodlines were no doubt as impeccable as those of his horses, and she wondered sardonically if he were evaluating them in the same way he would his cattle. So far, Lady Honoria Crofton-Ash seemed to have the advantage of her competitors, for he had danced twice with her this evening and brought her a lemonade. Isabella shrugged.

  The Marriage Mart was no different from Tattersall's. She only hoped that this cold and calculating business would not hurt Alicia. More than once she'd pictured her young cousin being snubbed by some overly fastidious member of the ton. More than once she had shook her head over her Aunt Pamela's obsession with status.

  Well, it was too late now. Alicia would be thrust into Society, whether Society liked it or not, and she would have to endure the snubs and the slights. But Alicia was resilient. And intelligent. Perhaps less naive than she seemed—for she had an uncanny knack of knowing when Lord Tuttlehope was visiting, and would manage to be seen. Perhaps she would simply pass by the door, conversing with her cousin o
r her Abigail. Or perhaps she would stop in for a moment with an innocent question. These glimpses of the young lady seemed to leave Lord Tuttlehope in a state of stupefaction. He was inevitably tongue-tied if Alicia spoke one word to him.

  Isabella smiled. There was evidence of mutual interest. If only Lord Tuttlehope's presence did not automatically signal that of his ever-present companion. Isabella awoke from her musings as Basil's shadow fell upon her. He had come to claim his dance. Ah, well. One must make the best of it, for Alicia's sake. If Basil persisted in trailing herself, then Lord Tuttlehope would not be far behind.

  "Is it as dull as all that?" Basil asked as they took their places in the set.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Dull, Miss Latham. Though all at Almack's must feel it—at least those of any sensibility—you are the only woman here who clearly appears to wish she were elsewhere. In fact, so determined are you to be elsewhere that you travel here in spirit. It must be very dull indeed."

  Firmly, Isabella brought her mind back from Alicia and her future to the present moment. "I assure you, sir, that this is all highly entertaining, and I was only tucking some observations into the back of my mind for later contemplation."

  "Fortunate woman. I must do my contemplating now, and make the best of too few, too short hours," he murmured, as the requirements of the dance separated them.

  She felt his eyes follow her as she moved away, and when, once or twice, she caught the intensity of his glance, she was forced to look away, suddenly feeling hot and angry. He had no business to stare after her in that way. It was most improper, and made her conspicuous.

  When she rejoined him, she spoke out bluntly. "Mr. Trevelyan, it is most inconsiderate of you to stare at me in that hungry fashion. Lady Jersey is watching you and is bound to make a story of it."

  "Hungry, Miss Latham?" he queried, raising an eyebrow. "Your language is certainly most...most refreshing," he added with a chuckle.