An Unlikely Courtship (Regency House Party: Somerstone Book 2)
Author: Kimball, Heidi
Date: 2018-09-09

Read each story in our House Party

Read all the books in this first collection of our Regency House Party. They can be enjoyed in any order:

The Unwanted Suitor

Mistaken Identity

The Stable Master’s Daughter

An Unlikely Courtship

Tabitha’s Folly

Damen’s Secret

To learn more about Heidi, you can go to her website: https://www.authorheidikimball.com/

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This is the first of many Regency House Party Collections. Follow our Newsletter to find out when others become available. HERE.

These stories first appeared in serial form at http://www.regencyhouseparty.com. Join us there for the next party.

Guests are enjoying a certain amount of merriment on our Facebook page and group. Characters mingle with the visitors, Wellington the pug has an active presence and when a new party is in the works, we announce new chapters as they go live. RHP Group

An Unlikely Courtship

Regency House Party: Somerstone

Heidi Kimball

To the authors of Regency House Party—thank you for all of the help, encouragement, and late night laughs. I wouldn't be here without you.

Acknowledgments

So many people made this possible, but I especially want to thank Jen Geigle Johnson for her vision in bringing RHP to life and her unwavering dedication to seeing this project through to completion. And a huge thank you to Joanna Barker for her last-minute read throughs every time I pushed "publish."

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Chapter One of Mistaken Identity

1

One: The Torrent

Anthony yawned and stretched his legs, wishing carriages were built with men of his height in mind. Pulling up the window shade, he blinked against the incoming light. Heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky, threatening rain. He massaged a sore spot in his neck and wished he had chosen to ride instead. If only he’d known the weather would hold. A quick sweep of the scenery told him they’d already begun the long approach toward Somerstone Manor.

Easing back in his seat, Anthony considered what awaited him upon arrival. The invitation from the Countess Du’Breven had come as somewhat of a surprise. Though he knew her quite well—she was his late mother’s cousin, after all—he’d always had the vague notion she disapproved of him.

As a young boy, he recalled being hit by her punitive fan more than once. And now that he was older, her hawkish eyes held a degree of censure when she saw the latest debutante on his arm. Which is why her invitation had caught him off guard. And so had the promise therein: My house party promises a selection of the season’s choicest morsels. I daresay even you will not be able to help yourself. As the carriage jostled along, Anthony almost laughed out loud, for he could imagine the countess saying those very words with a gleam in her eye.

Although, it begged the question: what, exactly, did she mean by it? Did she actually think she might tempt him to settle down and tie the knot? The thought was preposterous. Yet he sensed a challenge in her words, which he hadn’t been able to resist.

But more than that, the invitation was an opportunity for escape. Anthony had been dreading his return home at the close of the season. The urge to deck his father became overwhelming after five minutes of being in the man’s presence, and self-control had never been Anthony’s forte. He deserved a diversion, perhaps one with blue eyes.

Straightening his cravat as the carriage rolled to a stop, he tapped his foot impatiently. The door opened and he stepped down, glancing over at the footman.

The footman gave him a stiff nod. “Shall I get your bags, Lord Anthony?”

Anthony waved a dismissive hand. “That will be fine. Have them taken up to my rooms.” His gaze moved toward the stairs leading up to the house. On the top step stood a pretty girl with dark brown hair. She clasped her hands in front of her, wearing a serious expression.

She smiled when she saw him and dipped into a low curtsy. “You must be Lord Anthony. I am Miss Greystock, the Countess Du’Breven’s companion. If you’ll just follow me.”

Anthony bowed and gave her his most charming smile. “Gladly.”

She turned quickly, as if trying to hide the blush that crept up her cheeks. The sight was gratifying. This was precisely why he had come.

Anthony caught up to her with several long strides. “And how long have you served as the countess’s companion? I do not recall meeting you at the musicale she hosted in London, and that is surely something I would remember.”

Miss Greystock stiffened, her mouth pulling into a disapproving line. “No, I have only been with her this past month.”

Anthony knew at once he had overstepped. This one would require a more subtle approach. He would retreat a little, act every bit the gentleman. Sometimes these things required patience.

“I see. Am I the first to arrive then?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Several of the guests have already been shown to their rooms. Everyone is expected over the course of this afternoon. Tonight, introductions will be made and we will all dine together.”

Anthony held his hands behind his back. “Then would you be so good as to direct me toward the stables? I’d like to take a brief ride and stretch my legs, see if I can’t outride the rain.”

Miss Greystock inclined her head. “As you wish, Lord Anthony.”

* * *

Isabel sat forward, trying to get a good look out the carriage window. Dark gray clouds rolled across the sky in a threatening manner. She sighed in resignation.

“Any rain yet?” asked her sister, Anne, from the seat across from Isabel. She sat beside Father, who had his head back against the seat, having fallen asleep to the endless swaying of the carriage just after lunch. His leg rested on an elevated pillow to help with the pain of his gout.

“Not yet,” said Isabel, curling her hands into fists. If only they had departed from the inn on time. Though Anne would never knowingly displease her sister, she had taken a fair amount of time with her hair and dress this morning, anxious about meeting the other guests at the house party.

“Perhaps the storm will pass,” suggested Anne.

Isabel forced a smile. “Perhaps.” It would not, but she could not just say so.

Anne clasped her hands in her lap. “I wonder how many of the other guests have already arrived. Do you think this dress is appropriate for introductions?”

“Yes, of course. You look lovely,” said Isabel, still frowning as she looked out the window. Her words were an understatement, for Anne was stunning. Her golden blonde hair hung in perfect ringlets, framing her flawless skin. Long, dark lashes covered sparkling blue eyes. It was the type of beauty that made men walking with their wives stop and stare, to say nothing of gentlemen who were still single.

Anne sighed. “I’m sorry. I know I’ve prattled on, but just think of it, Isabel. Perhaps I’ll meet my future husband at this house party.”

“There will, no doubt, be a wide array of gentlemen who might catch your eye.” Anne had spoken of little else since they had begun their journey. As much as Isabel loved her sister, she knew what lay in store for her. Anne would fall deeply in love at least three or four times over the next several weeks, and Isabel would be stuck with the unenviable position of trying to talk her out of it.

Isabel had only agreed to attend this house party because of her father, for he was a long-time friend of the Countess Du’Breven. When the invitation had arrived, he had expressed such enthusiasm. And he so rarely insisted on anything these days, she would have felt positively beastly saying no.

It was a good opportunity for them, and Isabel did want Anne to make a suitable match. Perhaps while Anne was distracted, Isabel could talk to Father about the matter of their dowries. She had only to catch him in the right moment.

Just then several large raindrops spattered on the roof of the carriage, distracting Isabel from her thoughts. They fell slowly at first, little veins of water shivering down the windowpanes. The frequency increased, and soon the rainfall grew to a deafening roar.

Her father awoke, looking confused. “What is it, my dears?”

Anne set a hand over his. “It’s just the rain, Father. Nothing to fret about.”

Isabel wanted to disagree, but held her tongue. In a torrent like this, the roads would quickly become impassable. There was nowhere to stop between here and Somerstone Manor. They had passed the last village several miles back.

The rain pounded so hard that Isabel clenched her teeth. Just then, a large jolt knocked the carriage forward, almost unseating her, before stopping completely.

Isabel righted herself and reached out to steady her father, who groaned in pain, adjusting his leg.

“Oh dear, what do you think it was?” asked Anne, her eyes darting around.

“Something must have happened to one of the wheels. Perhaps it got stuck in the mud,” said Isabel with her usual practicality. She peered out the window, trying to see what had happened. Several minutes went by; to her surprise, the coachman didn’t come to check on them.

The rain continued to fall, the sound covering any noise outside the carriage. Anne bit her lip, as she always did when she was nervous, and kept her arm around Father.

“We should have departed earlier, that’s all there is to it,” he murmured.

Isabel rapped on the roof of the carriage several times with no response. Finally, she stood and made her way to the door.

“What are you doing?” asked Anne.

“Well, someone needs to see what is going on. We cannot sit here all day.” Grabbing the umbrella she had set in the carriage for just such an occasion, she released the latch on the door and swung it open. The front of her skirts were soaked in an instant, but she knew there was nothing for it. She jumped down, the mud squishing around her boots. By the time she opened the umbrella and raised it over her head, her travelling dress was all but ruined.

Isabel slogged through the mud up toward the front of the carriage. The horses whinnied nervously. The umbrella did little good, since the rain was coming down at a slant, and her gloves soon became wet and slippery. She looked around for a moment, still unable to locate the coachman. A moan sounded from the other side of the carriage. Isabel worked her way around the horses and found the coachman lying in the mud. “My leg,” he cried. “I think it’s broken.”

“Oh,” she whispered, seeing his leg bent beneath him at an awkward angle. The poor man grimaced, but there was little she could do for him. She hadn’t the strength to lift him, and she could hardly ask Anne or her father. “How far is Somerstone Manor from here?” she yelled over the rain.

The coachman breathed heavily through his teeth. “About three-quarters of a mile up the road, miss.”

A breath escaped Isabel, though it could not be heard over the rain. “I don’t dare move you, but I’ll be back as quick as I can with help.” The man nodded, almost delirious from pain. Isabel pinched her lips together and glanced at the umbrella. It would do her little good, but at least she could keep the rain off this man as he suffered. She set the umbrella over him, sticking the handle down in the mud so it wouldn’t move.

“Thank you,” the man croaked.

Isabel trudged back to the carriage, opening the door only a fraction. “The coachman is injured. I will walk ahead and bring back help. Do not, under any condition, leave this carriage.”

“Be careful,” warned her Father. “I wish I could go.”

“Nonsense, not in your condition.”

Anne shook her head. “Oh, Isabel, you’re soaking.”

The observation was not appreciated. Isabel shut the carriage with a great deal of force, turning to face the rain. She went to the front of the carriage and unharnessed the horses. Better for them to run off than become spooked and drag the carriage along without a driver.

Trying to get her bearings, she turned to face the road. Through the curtain of rain, Isabel could just make out Somerstone Manor. Although she considered herself a fine walker, each step required a tremendous amount of effort as she struggled through the endless mud. Her dress, heavy with water, felt as though it weighed a ton.

A loud whinny made Isabel whirl in surprise, turning to find herself directly in the path of a galloping horse. She took an unsteady step backward to avoid being trampled, and the rider pulled up at the last moment. The horse’s hooves landed with a sucking sound, spraying mud all over her person.

The rider dismounted, keeping ahold of the reins. “What on earth are you doing out in this sort of weather, and without an umbrella?” He tipped his hat up, as if to take a better look at her.

Soaked by the torrent of rain and now spattered in mud, Isabel’s nerves were frayed to the breaking point. She cleared her throat, trying for composure. “I might ask if you have a habit of nearly running over women caught in rainstorms, instead of stopping to help.”

The man inclined his head and removed his hat with a flourish, as if it were a sunny day. He was tall with unruly light brown hair; his face perfectly chiseled. His warm brown eyes looked her over from head to foot in an overly familiar manner.

All of a sudden Isabel was all too aware that her dress was sticking to her in an unseemly manner and her hair was hanging down around her ears like a wet mop.   The man gave an exaggerated bow. “By all means, let me be of service.” He raised his brows in an almost invitational way. “I’ve been told by more than one woman that my assistance is always appreciated.”

That the man would waste time flirting as they both stood in the rain was infuriating. Isabel had seen far too many of his type fawning over her sister. “My father and sister are stranded in a carriage, and our coachman has been severely injured. I highly doubt you are the man this situation requires.” With all of the hauteur she could manage, she turned on her heel and strode through the mud, in search of someone who could actually be of use.

2

Two: An Insufferable Flirt

Anthony stared slack-jawed as the woman tromped away, her boots making a sucking sound in the mud. He couldn’t help but notice the perfect form of her figure, accentuated by her sodden dress. “Wait,” he shouted, trying to be heard over the rain. “Let me help!” He jogged up alongside her, pulling his horse along behind him.

The rain had eased a little, but water continued to stream down her face in a manner Anthony found quite alluring. She kept walking, her mouth pulled into a grim line.  “I assure you I am a seasoned walker. Your assistance is not required.”

Desperate, he laid a hand on her arm.

“Unhand me at once,” she demanded, practically elbowing him as she wrenched out of his grasp.

Anthony stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You may not want my help, but now you have it. Somerstone Manor is still half a mile away and walking in this”—he gestured to the ubiquitous mud—“is madness. We can take my horse.”

The woman looked up the road and then glanced back at the horse. She swallowed with a great deal of force and finally nodded. “Fine.”

He pulled on the horse’s reins and mounted then reached out a hand, easily pulling her up. The more difficult part was arranging her soaking skirts in a way that allowed her to sit without falling off. When he tried to help, she shoved his hand away. “I can manage,” she said coldly.

Once all was situated, he urged the horse forward. She sat sidesaddle, practically in his lap. Anthony smiled at his good fortune, despite the rain that continued to fall. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, his mouth just inches away from her ear, “whom do I have the pleasure of rescuing?”

“Rescuing?” she scoffed. “One could hardly call it that since I was already going for help.”

They reached the long driveway, and his horse moved more quickly on the gravel. “Ah, yes, of course,” said Anthony, his voice tinged with irony. “We are merely occupying the same horse by coincidence.”

Her brow furrowed. “No doubt it was only the guilt from your ungentlemanly behavior that motivated your assistance. I have yet to hear an apology for you nearly trampling me.”

Anthony bristled at her accusations. “Apology? Why should I apologize when you were the one walking down the middle of the road? And why were you traipsing around in a rainstorm in the first place? If your situation is so dire, why didn’t your father go for help?”

“My father is not in good health, not that you have the good manners to ask. I have seen your kind before, and it was clear to me in a moment that you are an insufferable flirt who cannot put aside your provocative behavior, even when a serious situation requires it.” Her expression conveyed all sorts of disapproval.

“As I recall, I offered my assistance to a half-drowned woman who would not have made it even another quarter of a mile.” He pulled on the reins, and they came to a stop in front of the enormous house.

She turned around, facing him squarely. Her forehead was flecked with mud, her dark brown eyes brimming with fire. “I assure you, sir, that you are the last person whose assistance I will ever require. Good day.”

And with that, she slid down from the horse, shook out her soaking skirts, and ascended the stairs up to the house, with all the regality of a queen. Anthony sat in shock, stunned into silence for the second time in the twenty minutes since their meeting.

* * *

Several hours later, Anthony held out his arms as Alfred helped him into his coat. With one good shrug of his shoulders and a tug from Alfred, the fit was perfect. Pulling out the brush, his valet wiped at any trace of lint that may have appeared while tying Anthony’s cravat.

“What think you, Alfred? Is a man a cad if he flirts a little with a woman in a desperate situation?”

Alfred frowned, his face creased with disapproving lines. “Of course, sir. Any true gentleman would put aside his own, er, pursuits, and help the lady with absolute forthrightness.”

Anthony nodded, unsure why he had even asked. For him to expect anything else from Alfred, who was as starched as the cravat he had just tied, was ridiculous.

But what if the woman begged to be flirted with? He shook his head, sighing. The woman in need of assistance—he still did not know her name—was clearly more than capable of looking out for herself. With her sharp tongue and arresting brown eyes, she was just the sort he usually avoided. It was a pity, though, for he’d rarely seen her equal in beauty. And to think of what she would look like when she wasn’t walking through a rainstorm. He let out a soft whistle.

Alfred paused and glanced up, looking askance at him.

Oh well, some women were better observed from afar. Perhaps he would point her out to Lord Ian or Beauchamp, his friends who were also guests. It would be highly entertaining to see her cut them to ribbons when they made their first pass.

He stepped away from the mirror. “That will do, Alfred, thank you.”

Anthony sauntered down the stairs, trying to remember which way the dining room was in this vast assortment of corridors. He was sure Miss Greystock had mentioned it, but she had said so many things, and Anthony had been distracted by the way the curls around her face bounced as she walked.

After passing by the same staircase for the third time, Anthony finally had the presence of mind to turn left instead of right. He entered into the waiting room where all the house party guests gathered, waiting for dinner to be announced.

The Countess Du’Breven caught his eye. Well, there was nothing for it; he must head over and pay his respects.

Anthony thought perhaps the countess looked a little plumper than the last time he’d seen her, or perhaps the emerald green dress she was wearing just didn’t suit her. One thing hadn’t changed—the hawk-like lookout she kept as she scanned the room. Her attentiveness served her well, for she was always the first to know the juicy tidbits of gossip that society craved.

She pulled out her fan as he approached. “Why Anthony, how very ignoble of you to wait so long to pay your respects.”

Anthony bowed, giving her an unapologetic smile. “Lady Du’Breven, I hope you will not fault me. I have been rather distracted by some of your promised morsels.”

“Not wasting any time, I see.”

“I pride myself on seizing the moment. It is a lesson I learned from one of my teachers at Eton.”

She sniffed. “I doubt the lesson was meant in the way you seem to apply it.”

Anthony inclined his head, lowering his eyes. “You flatter me, Countess.”

A whack of the fan on Anthony’s shoulder let him know that was not her intention. “I expect you to behave these next few weeks. Do not make me regret my invitation.”

“Have you so little faith in me?”

“I have no faith at all, but I shall watch you with interest.”

Of that, Anthony had no doubt.

“I shan’t monopolize you, Countess.” He bowed and stepped away.

She gave him a wry look, turning her attention back to the other guests.

Anthony crossed the room, where he found Ian and Beauchamp. Ian had a disgruntled look on his face, and he glanced around the room nervously.

“Lord Ian, my good man.” Anthony pounded him on the back. “Tell me. Whom have we got our eyes on tonight?”

Beauchamp nodded over to the left. “That pretty redhead over there, but Miles has been monopolizing her. He’s set Lady Winters on me.” He gestured toward a dark-haired beauty, whose height and bearing gave one the impression that she was quite domineering. “She’s nice looking from a distance, but don’t get too close. I call her the Ice Queen.”

Anthony made a mental note to avoid her then turned back toward Ian. “What about you?”

Ian looked up, as if just now listening to their conversation. “Oh, well—you know I’m pursuing Miss Simmons, but I’m not leg-shackled yet. There’s a very enticing blonde over there in the corner. Miss Easton, I think her name is. But she’s surrounded by a pack of wolves, so I think we had best wait for another opportunity.”

They both followed his gaze over to where Miss Easton stood, surrounded by what looked to be a family of brothers. Ian was right; the men were set around her in a protective stance.

Beauchamp spoke up. “Perhaps at some point two of us could divide the pack, while the third goes in for the kill. I volunteer myself to be the third.”

Anthony shook his head. “Not a chance. One of us will distract Miles, and you can have the redhead.”

Beauchamp smiled at the prospect.

Ian was silent, his brows deeply knit together and his arms folded across his chest. Beauchamp gave him a searching look. “Are you quite all right, chap? You don’t seem quite yourself.”

Anthony leaned in. “Out with it.”

Ian dropped his arms, standing more casually. “Conrad and I had another of our fights right before I left. I’m banned from the gaming tables for the remainder of the year.”

Beauchamp shook his head, a look of tragedy on his face. “Perhaps you really will have to settle things with Miss Simmons. Miles wants me to do the same with Lady Winters. Not a chance, I say.”

Just then, another party entered the room. An older gentleman with an exquisite blonde on his arm approached the countess. Beauchamp and Ian continued to discuss the ladies in the room, but Anthony’s gaze followed the pair, intrigued.

A large smile brightened the countess’s face. “Sir George, there you are at last. I’m very relieved you made it after all of the hubbub with your carriage.”

“Lady Du’Breven, what a pleasure.” He gave a deep bow. “It had been far too long. We are here safe and sound, despite the whole affair.”

The countess turned to the woman at his side. “You must be Anne. I remember you as a girl of seven or eight, but no longer, I see. And where is your sister?”

Anne smiled and curtsied. “You’ll have to pardon Isabel. She’s quite wrung out after her long hike in the rain.” Anthony’s ears perked up. So these were the father and sister who had been stranded.

“She’ll take dinner in her room this evening,” said Sir George.

The countess nodded. “Understandable, of course. But I hope she doesn’t take ill. Nothing puts a damper on a house party like a spreading ailment.”

Anne shook her head, laughing softly. “No, no. Isabel has never been sick a day in her life. She hasn’t the constitution for it.”

Anthony tried to focus on what his friends were saying, but it was difficult, for he was distracted by the thought of the beguiling woman he had encountered in the rain.

* * *

When she heard the soft knock at her door, Isabel nestled further down into the covers and closed her eyes, feigning sleep. A moment later, the door opened and soft footsteps padded across the room.

“Dear Izzy,” Anne murmured, adjusting the comforter around Isabel. She blew out the candle and retreated, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Isabel wasn’t sure what had come over her, for she and Anne always talked before bed. They usually sat together atop the coverlet and brushed and braided one another’s hair as they shared sisterly gossip before separating for the night. But tonight Isabel wasn’t in the mood.

Perhaps it was only the long day and her excursion in the rain, or perhaps it was the infuriating man she’d met along the way. Indeed, he had crept into her thoughts more than once this evening, the memory of his careless grin only serving to worsen her mood. But it was more than that.

Something heavier weighed on her. Her arrival at Somerstone Manor—as elegant as it was expansive—and seeing the affluence of some of the other guests made her all too aware of the precariousness of her family’s situation. As Father’s mental stamina had declined, Isabel had taken to looking through the ledgers. What she saw there surprised her: for the last few years, they had overspent their income and gone into a great deal of debt. Father seemed unaware of it, and when she tried to bring it up, he had become defensive, asking if she thought he wasn’t capable of caring for his family. The past few months, Isabel had managed the finances single-handedly. And though she did her best to economize, the sacrifices she made barely put a dent in the mountain of debt.

The sound of voices outside the door distracted her, and she rose and tiptoed across the room. Grateful her room was dark, she cracked the door open and peeked down the hallway. Three gentlemen moved down the candle-lit corridor.

“Ah, but Miss Fairchild. Is she not a vision?”

A familiar voice spoke up. “Ian, are you still feeling mulish over what happened with your brother? You need to distract yourself.” With his laugh, she became certain. “Isn’t that why we’re all here?” It was the insufferable man from this afternoon, bringing all sorts of unwelcome memories with him.

She shut the door quietly and went back to bed. The maid who brought dinner had pulled the drapes closed, and the room was almost pitch black. Isabel lay under the heavy blankets, taking comfort in the darkness. For the next few hours, at least, she was free of the burdens that would no doubt heave themselves back upon her shoulders as the sun rose.

3

Three: Eavesdropping

Usually Isabel expected to get her exercise out of doors, but after a tour of Somerstone Manor with some of the other houseguests, there was no need. Isabel was sure she had walked at least three miles, and they hadn’t even seen a tenth of the three hundred-some-odd rooms. Miss Greystock had proven to be a capable and entertaining guide, however, and the morning passed quickly.

As the group dispersed, Miss Greystock pulled Isabel aside. “The countess requested you and your father join her for tea after the tour. She was sorry not to have met you last night.”

Isabel was surprised to be singled out, but, given her father’s friendship with the countess, she supposed it was to be expected. She nodded, glancing over to where her sister stood in conversation with several of the Easton brothers. Anne had the besotted look on her face that Isabel was all too familiar with. “Of course. And shall Anne attend as well?”

“Only if she wishes, but she appears to be engaged for the moment. The countess specifically requested your attendance.” Miss Greystock leaned in with a vague look of enjoyment, keeping her voice down. “She likes to keep tabs on all of her guests, and I think it irks her that she hasn’t met you yet.”

Isabel allowed herself a small smile. “Very well, then. Better not to leave her in suspense. Lead the way.”

Miss Greystock led her down several long corridors, and Isabel was struck again by what a labyrinth the place was. “How do you do it?” Isabel finally asked her companion. “Even after the tour, I’ve no idea where we are.”

“I assure you, my familiarity with this manor is hard won,” said Miss Greystock, slowing her pace. “But I don’t know the grounds at all—I’ve hardly had a breath of fresh air since I arrived. The countess keeps me very busy.”

A few minutes later, Miss Greystock led Isabel around a corner to where a door was propped open, leading to a small but bright sitting room. Isabel’s father sat on a small sofa, the countess in a chair across from him, a sleeping pug on her lap.

“Miss Townshend for you, Countess,” said Miss Greystock before leaving.

Isabel dipped into a curtsy. “It a pleasure to meet you, Lady Du’Breven.”

“Miss Townshend, I hardly recognize you.” The countess stroked her pug. “Have a seat. Your father and I were just catching up.”

As Isabel took a seat on the sofa, the woman scrutinized her thoroughly. Isabel had the impression that the countess could discern more in a head-to-toe glance than most people could in a quarter of an hour. It was a little unnerving. Isabel took the moment to do some appraising of her own, and decided that despite the woman’s discerning eyes, there was an underlying kindness in her features.

Isabel glanced at her father, pleased to see that after a night of rest he looked much recovered from the strain of the journey. She wondered what the countess made of her old friend.

“I hope you are quite recovered from yesterday’s incident,” said the countess, as she leaned forward to pour the tea. The pug blinked, looking disgruntled.

Isabel set her hands in her lap. “Yes, feeling quite refreshed. I thank you for the assistance you provided.”

“I heard that Lord Anthony assisted you. I hope you were not put off by his . . . rakish manners. He’s a good deal too much like his father, but there’s more to him than meets the eye.”

Isabel’s brows rose involuntarily. “Of that I have no doubt. And yet, I believe I’ve seen all I ever wish to.”

The countess gave her a wry smile. “Be careful. You are just the sort of challenge Lord Anthony enjoys.” And with that, she placed a cup of tea in Isabel’s hands.

The countess turned toward Isabel’s father. “Now where were we, Sir George? Oh, yes. I was telling you how positively heartbroken I was when Mary Dockett caught your eye.”

Her father shrugged, the smile lines around his eyes creasing. “That’s not how I remember it, for I am certain Vernon swept you off your feet long before I met Mary.”

The countess gave an audible sigh. “Yes, perhaps that is how it happened.”

Isabel sat back, enjoying their banter, their memories. Her father glowed under the countess’s attention, reliving the stories of their youth.

A few minutes later they were interrupted by a light knock. “Come in,” said the countess, her gaze drifting over to the door as she scratched under her dog’s chin.

Though the last time she’d seen him he was drenched from head to foot, Isabel recognized the tall stature and confident stride of Lord Anthony in a moment.   “Ah, there you are,” said the countess, as if expecting him. “I was just finishing up tea with Sir George and Miss Townshend.”

Lord Anthony’s gaze landed on Isabel, and she had the distinct impression his mind was wandering back to what she looked like in a rain-soaked dress. She set down her tea, meeting his stare directly.

He bowed, addressing her father. “Sir George, so good to see you again.”

Her father inclined his head. “And you as well. Have you been formally introduced to my daughter, Lord Anthony?”

“Only by a rainstorm, sir.” His cheek ticked with amusement.

“Sir Anthony, this is my daughter, Isabel Townshend. Isabel, this is Lord Anthony. His mother is a cousin of the countess.”

“Lord Anthony,” Isabel murmured through gritted teeth, hoping her disdain was not apparent to her father.

Lord Anthony tipped his head, the look on his face suggesting he found the entire situation amusing. “Miss Townshend, it is a pleasure to meet you under . . . drier circumstances.”

Before Isabel could say something that would shock her father, the countess spoke up. “Sir George, you look a little fatigued. Would you like to retire to your room until luncheon?”

“Perhaps that would be for the best. It’s almost impossible to keep pace with these young ones.”

“Anthony, will you escort Sir George back to his room? You can meet me back here when you are finished.”

“Of course, Lady Du’Breven.”

As he walked by Isabel, she stiffened as if his nearness required she be on her guard.

“Sir George?” Lord Anthony picked up her father’s cane and held it out, allowing him the dignity of standing by himself, which Isabel unwillingly appreciated.

Isabel reached out and touched her father’s arm as he passed. “I’ll come look in on you later.”

Her father smiled. “Don’t worry, the countess has me in good hands.”

Lord Anthony gave her a knowing look, and the memory of his hands on her waist and their shared proximity during yesterday’s ride brought a fierce blush to her cheeks.

Once they were gone, Isabel relaxed, leaning back into the sofa. She wished she had a fan, for the day was already growing warm.

The directness of the countess’s gaze brought her back to herself. She smoothed her skirts and moved to stand. “Thank you for having us to tea. I don’t wish to overstay my welcome.”

“Sit,” said the countess. “I have a few questions for you.”

Wide-eyed, Isabel regained her seat.

The countess looked Isabel over from head to foot and her eyes narrowed. “Would you care to explain why your sister’s dresses cost three times as much as yours?”

Isabel couldn’t recall ever being so taken aback. She’d vastly underestimated the woman’s powers of inspection. She straightened her posture and took a breath before answering. “Because she still has a chance at making a good match.”

“And you do not? You are by no means on the shelf. You cannot be older than twenty-two.”

“Twenty-three,” Isabel corrected. “Soon to be twenty-four. And my age isn’t the only reason.”

The countess adjusted the pug in her lap. “Please enlighten me.”

Isabel considered for a moment, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of confiding in a woman she hardly knew. The truth was the countess had probably already deduced most of what Isabel might tell her. And, as a friend of her father’s, the woman might even be able to help Isabel’s endeavors.

“My father . . .” she finally began.

The countess sat forward, her features softening. “I’m not sure you need to elaborate on the matter, Miss Townshend. How long has it been since that cloudy look replaced the twinkle in his eye?”

Isabel exhaled. “Several years, but it’s gotten steadily worse these past few months.”

“It pains me to see it. He was one of the sharpest men of my acquaintance, full of wit and charm. It reminds me I’m not as young as I once was.” She gave Isabel a fleeting smile.

“We never speak of it.” Isabel took a sip of her tea, though the beverage was now only lukewarm.

“The truth can be hard to face.” The countess set down her pug. The dog stretched his short legs, yawning. “So help me understand. You seem to think your father’s condition is somehow related to you giving up hope of making a match.” The countess’s nostalgia disappeared, her brusque manner returning.

Isabel traced the stitching on her sleeve. “Our financial state is precarious. We have very few options. The only reason I’m admitting all of this to you is because I could use your help in appealing to my father.”

“And how, exactly, might I be of assistance?”

* * *

Anthony hurried back after seeing Sir George settled, cursing the enormity of the house. The countess never arranged to speak with anyone alone unless she had something very interesting to say, and Anthony was determined to hear as much of it as possible.

He approached the sitting room, quietly leaning against the wall and inclining his head toward the crack of the door.

“And you wish me to spread the word that Anne’s dowry is more . . . substantial,” said the countess. Anthony raised his brows, vastly intrigued.

“Precisely,” came Miss Townshend’s response.

A slight creak came from the floor above, and the countess’s pug let out a short yip.

After a moment of silence, the countess spoke again. “Anthony, is that you?”

Anthony took a few silent steps back, before letting his footsteps be heard as he entered the sitting room. He cast a surreptitious glance toward Miss Townshend, for at once she’d become a thousand times more interesting.

He gave an exaggerated bow. “At your service, Lady Du’Breven.”

4

Four: Too Close

“And now,” said the countess, rising from her seat, “if the men will be so good as to forego their port this evening, we will retire to the grand drawing room for an evening of music.”

Like clockwork, everyone stood, including Anthony. Leaving dinner was a relief after being seated by Mrs. Bloomsbury and her incorrigible son, Mr. Bloomsbury, for the last hour and a half. Anthony was sure that finding a more aggravating duo was quite impossible. His only entertainment had been in throwing out opinions he knew to be offensive to them and watching as they rose to the bait most vociferously. Well, that and the smiles he’d earned from Miss Standish in the endeavor.

Normally, he would have made use of that sort of investment and stayed by Miss Standish’s side for the evening, for he found her dark hair and soft features quite becoming. But tonight, he had other plans. Miss Townshend had made a concerted effort to avoid him before dinner, making Anthony all the more determined to have a word with her.

He jockeyed for position as the group followed the countess through the dark cherrywood doors of the dining room. Miss Townshend saw him out of the corner of her eye just as he fell into step beside her. One side of her mouth ticked down. “Come now, Miss Townshend, are you not looking forward to the evening? Do you enjoy music?”

“I am sure the performers will be of the highest quality.” She stared straight ahead, not even sparing him a glance. Did she somehow suspect what he had overheard?

This would not be a battle easily won, but Anthony was nothing if not persistent. “And will you be among tonight’s performers?” His arm brushed hers, and she moved her arm away, pretending to tighten her glove.

Miss Townshend swallowed, her words stiff. “I’m sure there are many who will be more than willing.”

Anthony’s mouth quirked up, enjoying the amount of effort Miss Townshend was exerting to put him off. At the door of the drawing room, he was forced to let her go ahead. Once through, he lengthened his stride to catch up. “Ah, but I’m quite partial to music. And the possibility of hearing you display your musical talents.”

Finally, Miss Townshend turned to face him. Her dark-brown eyes crackled with annoyance, and, though she stood a half-foot shorter than him, he had the impression she was looking down on him. “And I find that I am quite impartial to your partiality.”

With that she ducked past him, taking the last open seat on a sofa next to her sister and Miss Easton.

Anthony shook his head. He should feel disappointed, but the slightest thrill coursed through him. Anthony took a seat behind the threesome, taking pleasure in the fact that she was well aware of his presence.

The countess took a seat of prominence near the front of the room and surveyed her guests as they took their seats. Despite his earlier words to Miss Townshend, the night did not promise much enjoyment. Even among such an accomplished crowd as this, it was rare to find much real talent.

The countess cleared her throat, and the room quieted. “Miss Barton, would you care to start us off?”

Miss Barton looked up in surprise, then nodded her head, acquiescing. Her talent was passable, but Anthony quickly grew bored and wished he’d taken a seat near Lord Ian or Beauchamp.

Next, Miss Standish was called to the front. When the music began, she took a deep breath that almost sounded like a hiccup and began singing very off key. Anthony struggled to keep a straight face, despite the embarrassment he felt on Miss Standish’s behalf.

Out of nowhere, Lord Ian stepped forward, joining Miss Standish at the piano. Anthony could hardly believe his eyes—or his ears, for that matter—for if Ian was trying to be noble by shielding Miss Standish, he was having quite the opposite effect. Though they sang the same words, their notes were blatantly discordant, and it seemed each was trying to outdo the other.

After singing the final notes of the second verse, the two looked at one another with perplexed expressions, and Miss Standish gestured for the accompanist not to go on. The whole room breathed a sigh of relief to be spared more of the painful rendition.

The room sat in awkward silence until Miss Winters was called forward. Though she had a beautiful voice, Anthony found his gaze drawn toward Miss Townshend. The words he’d overheard the countess say this morning ran through his mind. And you wish me to spread the word that Anne’s dowry is more . . . substantial. What could Miss Townshend mean by it, except to deceive the other houseguests into a pursuit of her sister? Anthony was surprised at the disappointment he felt. Just when he’d begun to believe that Miss Townshend might be different from other women . . . but she was just as much a vixen as the rest of them.

When Anthony looked up next, Miss Easton was singing. Her voice was clear and pure, if a little high for Anthony’s taste. His eyes drifted back to the woman who sat in front of him, and he took the moment to study Miss Townshend’s profile. All of her attention was turned toward Miss Easton, and her face had a soft, almost tender look to it. It irked him, knowing how easily she could conceal her schemes.

The song ended and everyone applauded as Miss Easton returned to her seat. Miss Townshend leaned toward her and whispered a word of congratulations.

“And for our final performance tonight, shall we have the Misses Townshend?” called the countess.

Miss Anne shook her head. “To follow such accomplished performers . . .” she breathed.

“Oh, come now,” encouraged Miss Easton, “surely you are equal to the task.”

“If Isabel will agree to play for me.” Miss Anne looked toward her sister.

Miss Townshend hesitated briefly before nodding.

They rose together, and Anthony saw the opportunity he’d been seeking. As soon as Miss Townshend was seated and she and her sister had determined which song to perform, he rose, walking toward the piano in brisk strides. “Allow me to turn your pages,” he said, giving a slight bow. He smiled to himself, knowing Miss Townshend could make no quick escape.

* * *

Isabel couldn’t believe the audacity of Lord Anthony. It took every ounce of effort she possessed to hold her tongue and act unaffected. The man had been hounding her all evening, for what reason she couldn’t surmise.

There was little choice but to move forward; she wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, she glanced up and gave him a slight smile. “Thank you, Lord Anthony. Your goodwill knows no bounds.” Then she turned to face Anne, waiting for a nod to indicate she should begin playing.

Anne had chosen a simple folk song, which Isabel was grateful for. Her sister had a fair voice, but it was nothing in comparison with some of the other talent they’d heard this evening. Anne took a deep breath and nodded, and Isabel began to play, ignoring the man who stood at her side.

He bent down, shuffling the page for her and whispered, “Miss Townshend, would you care to explain why you asked the countess to spread false rumors about your sister’s dowry?”

Only years of practice kept Isabel from missing a note. What a scoundrel! Had he overheard her entire conversation with the countess this morning? Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. But why would he think she wanted the countess to spread false rumors? Perhaps he hadn’t heard everything.

“That, sir,” she said, keeping her voice inaudible to the others, “is none of your affair.”

He leaned over her to turn the page, and the faint smell of bergamot and leather reached her nose. “Ah, but it is my affair to assure that no gentleman is duped into marriage under false pretenses.”

She played the next half page, trying to concentrate on a more difficult section of the piece before answering. “You have no idea of what you speak, especially if you think the countess would help me in such an underhanded endeavor.”

The next passage of the song was a piano solo, and Isabel fought to keep her composure while feeling the force of Lord Anthony’s gaze burning into her. Once Anne began to sing again, Lord Anthony leaned over once more, preparing for the final page turn. “Miss Townshend, I may not know precisely your motives or what you plan to do, but let me assure you, I will find out.”

The threat hung over Isabel as she played the last few measures of the song. Inwardly, she was seething. How dare he eavesdrop on a private conversation and then riddle her with accusations? The gall! She cut the last chord short, too upset to sit another moment.

She stood abruptly, colliding with Lord Anthony’s nose just as he leaned over to gather the music. All at once, white pain crackled through her temple. She heard a low moan as she swayed on her feet and sank back down onto the bench, head in her hands.

“Are you quite all right, Miss Townshend?” Lord Anthony asked.

Anne appeared at her side in an instant, followed by Miss Easton. “Oh dear, it’s already swelling. Someone should get some ice.”

In the background there was a great deal of talking and commotion, but the throbbing pain in Isabel’s brow drowned it all out. The only coherent thought in Isabel’s mind was that Lord Anthony must not find out the state of their financial affairs.

5

Five: Ever at odds

Isabel eyed the breakfast Dorothy had left on her bedside table. She eased herself up, gingerly touching her temple, and wondered if she dared look in the mirror to assess the damage. A dull pounding still echoed in her head, and she could only hope that Lord Anthony had suffered equivalently. The nerve of that—

A knock sounded at the door, interrupting her thoughts, and Anne walked in. “When I came to check on you before breakfast, Dorothy said you were still asleep. How does your head feel this morning?” She took Isabel’s face in her hands and turned it toward the light from the arched window.

“Like I banged it into a very hard-headed man,” said Isabel dryly.

Anne smiled. “Ah, but Lord Anthony was so attentive to you last night, volunteering to turn your pages. It was merely an accident.” She sighed a little, her mouth turning downward. “Well, it won’t be easy to hide. But everyone knows what happened, so it isn’t as though people will speculate.”

There was a sing-song quality to Anne’s voice, and her cheeks were flushed with the kind of happiness that could only mean she was well on her way to falling in love. Despite her aching head, that was all the motivation Isabel needed to get out of bed and join in the day’s activities.

Hopefully, after the debacle at the musicale, Lord Anthony would have the decency to keep his distance. Either way, after his threat last night, it was imperative that Isabel keep an eye on him. Heaven knew what artifice he would use to uncover her secret.

“You haven’t touched your breakfast,” said Anne. She reached for the tray and set it in front of Isabel.

“Yes, and my stomach is protesting,” said Isabel. “Thank you.” She picked up a scone from the tray and buttered it.

“The breakfast room was quite crowded today, despite your absence. Several more guests arrived last night after the musicale.”

Isabel swallowed her bite and took a sip of her chocolate as Anne chattered on.

“Thank heaven there was a spot open near the Eastons, or I would have floundered awkwardly for names I could not remember.” Her mouth was raised in a half smile.

Isabel waited to see if Anne would mention which of the Easton brothers had caught her interest. Having been denied their sisterly chat for the second evening in a row, thanks to the head-thumping incident, Isabel realized how much she’d been missing her sister. “It seems you and Miss Easton are developing into fast friends,” she volunteered.

“Oh yes, I feel as though I’ve known her for months instead of just a day or two. Did you know that yesterday she fell in the river with . . .” Anne stopped, growing flustered. “Well, I promised I wouldn’t say anything about it. Her brothers, they’re very protective, you know.”

Isabel gave her sister a knowing look. “So I’ve noticed. You should feel for me—I must do for you what it takes four grown men to do for Miss Easton.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve been quite a slave to my protection. And I shall repay you by making you look magnificent for today’s picnic, bruise and all,” said Anne, setting aside the tray.

“Are my efforts not at least deserving of a second scone?” asked Isabel, reaching past her sister for another.

“Very well, one more. I shan’t starve you.” She scooted the tray back and rose from the bed, going over to the large wardrobe where Dorothy had hung all of Isabel’s dresses. “You must wear the white muslin today. With my gray bonnet.”

When the sisters joined the group congregating out on the back lawn, picnic blankets had already been spread, and baskets were being unloaded from a large wagon by some of the staff. Several of the gentlemen were staking out territory to be used for battledore, and two small boats sat docked on the lakeshore for guests who wished to go rowing.

Anne squeezed Isabel’s hand. “There’s more to do here in one afternoon than I can imagine doing over the course of several weeks at home.”

Isabel smiled at her sister’s enthusiasm. “Well, don’t feel as though you must wait for me. I’m going to check on Father.”

“Yes, of course. But he’s in good hands with the countess. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself as well, you know.”

Isabel smirked. “I know. Now off you go.” Anne soon began conversing with some of the other guests, but her eyes darted around, no doubt looking for one of the Eastons.

While Isabel didn’t know any of the brothers well enough to have formed an opinion of them, the family seemed respectable, and it was hard to find fault with such a protective set of brothers.

Isabel found her father seated next to the countess. “Lady Du’Breven,” she said, curtsying.

The countess sat forward, scrutinizing Isabel. “Your bruise looks rather ghastly, my dear. I am sorry for what happened last night. I’d like to promise you a day free of incident, but I don’t dare.”

Isabel only wished for a day free of Lord Anthony. When she caught herself searching the crowd, looking for his tall form, she puffed out a small breath in annoyance and turned to her father. “Is there anything I can get you, Father?” A twinge of guilt surfaced as she thought of the letter she’d just sent off to her father’s solicitor, but she brushed it aside.

“Oh, stop smothering me and go enjoy yourself, Isabel. Wherever you end up, you’ll be well within shouting distance should I need you.” He gave her a charming smile and waved her away.

“Very well,” she agreed. “But do shout—if you need something.” Isabel sighed, wondering when she had become so dull.

From behind her, Miss Greystock called her name from an adjacent blanket. “Do come join me, Miss Townshend. At least until I am called on some errand.”

Isabel laughed. “Yes, you are in great demand,” she said, taking a seat. “Though the countess seems to be taking an inordinate amount of satisfaction in an afternoon orchestrated entirely by you.”

Miss Greystock raised her brows, but kept quiet, perhaps not wanting to speak ill of her employer.

Isabel smiled, wishing she hadn’t come across as quite so harsh. “But I suppose she has a right to take satisfaction in the knowledge that she hired someone so very capable.”

Miss Greystock sighed, her eyes wandering over to where several gentlemen stood chatting. “It has been rather therapeutic to throw myself into the long hours of work required by the countess.”

“Which I am sure have increased with the hosting of this house party.”

“Tremendously,” said Miss Greystock with a great deal of feeling. They both laughed, surveying all of the guests from their spot on the blanket.

Isabel leaned her head in, lowering her voice. “If I had to guess, I’d wager that the Bloomsburys require more attention than anyone else here.”

“Right again. They are guests at one of the finest homes in England, and yet you’d be amazed by how many things they find to be displeased with.”

They shared a knowing smile, and Isabel gained the courage she’d been seeking. “Miss Greystock, I wonder if it might be possible for me to seek your assistance without adding to your burden . . .” Hesitancy made her voice trail off.

“I’d be happy to help if I can,” Miss Greystock encouraged.

“It’s a rather sensitive topic, and one I’ve addressed with the countess, but I thought you might also aid me in my endeavor. You see, Anne’s dowry has increased—”

“Anne, your sister?”

“Yes, and I’d like it to be made known, to increase her chances of making a suitable match.”

Miss Greystock searched Isabel’s face. “Her dowry has increased, but not your own?”

Isabel shook her head. “Just Anne’s,” she said firmly.

“I see.”

“It’s a complicated situation, you see, but I feel it important to see my sister favorably settled as soon as possible.”

“I am, of course, happy to help. My position allows me a certain ability to . . . spread information among the guests.”

“I hoped as much,” admitted Isabel. “Thank you. If there is anything I could do for you in return . . .”

“Not at this moment, but I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

“Please do.”

Silence filled the space between them, though the air around them was filled with conversation, shouts from the battledore game, and laughter. Isabel absentmindedly touched the bruise on her temple as she searched for Anne.

* * *

Anthony took the vacant seat on the blanket near Miss Anne. Her eyes followed Tauney Easton as he went over to cheer on the heated game of battledore, taking place on the field to their left.

“And how are you enjoying the house party thus far, Miss Anne?” he asked.

She looked over in surprise, a blush rising to her cheeks. “Lord Anthony, I didn’t even see you sit down.”

“Perhaps I should have asked if the seat was reserved.” He tipped his head toward the battledore field.

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I don’t think Mr. Easton will be back for some time.”

“Fortuitous for me.”

Her wide blue eyes met his, and she blushed again. She turned her face away, motioning toward some of the food laid out on the blanket. “Have you already eaten?”

“I have. And though I’m tempted to eat more, Mr. Teirny challenged me to a game of battledore later.”

“Mr. Teirny is one of the latecomers?”

Anthony nodded. “Yes. He rarely shows up on time for anything. He enjoys the attention of a late arrival.”

“You must be good friends to know him so well.”

“Yes. Along with Beauchamp—Mr. Beauchamp—and Lord Ian. We all met in school.”

Miss Anne’s eyes widened as she tried to hold back a smile. “Lord Ian is the one who sang last night? With Miss Standish?”

Anthony laughed. “Yes, although describing his efforts as singing is perhaps too generous.”

Miss Anne’s smile turned to a giggle. “Well I thought it was very chivalrous.”

“That is not a word I’ve often heard used to describe him. I’m sure he’d be flattered. But the fellow does have a good sense of adventure. In fact, he mentioned to me that he and several other guests are going to meet up quite late—for a ghost hunt.” He lowered his voice. “Apparently Somerstone Manor has its very own apparition. I thought to see if you would like to join us.”

Miss Anne hesitated for a moment, her eyes flicking up the hill to where her sister sat. “I’m not sure . . .”

“There will be a decent sized group, nothing improper. And”—he inclined his head to where Tauney Easton was now playing battledore—“several of the Easton brothers are coming.”

A smile crept across her face. “You may talk me into it yet.” Despite her attempts to measure her words, there was no hiding her eagerness.

With that, Anthony knew she would come. He turned his head slightly, following Anne’s gaze up to Miss Townshend. Even from this distance, her scathing glare could not be missed. Anthony just grinned.

6

Six: Mixed Signals

Anthony leaned against one of the busts in the Statuary Hall. The room was lit only by the moon streaming through the windows, making it all silver and shadows. He’d come early. He had felt restless in his room, and he wanted a place to think. This place seemed as good as any.

His thoughts returned to his conversation with Miss Anne at the picnic earlier today. This new approach to discovering Miss Townshend’s deceit had promise. It had been quite easy to talk Miss Anne into joining the ghost hunt once she knew Tauney Easton would be accompanying the party. And Anthony had a feeling Miss Anne would be much more forthcoming than her sister. He began tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for her and the other members of the party.

How very different the two sisters were, in both looks and disposition. Miss Anne’s hair was golden instead of a rich brown, and her blue eyes were wide and doe-like, holding nothing of the fire and passion that he’d seen so often in her older sister. And her manner was softer. Gentler. She was welcoming and warm and didn’t always require him to be on his toes.

Earning Miss Anne’s regard would be much easier than that of her older sister. Miss Townshend put up all sorts of walls if she caught even a glimpse of him. Which made uncovering her deceit all the more enjoyable. Anthony had always enjoyed a good challenge.

Of course, the episode last night hadn’t helped. Anthony touched his nose, which still proved tender. He’d felt the slightest guilt at the sight of the bruising on Miss Townshend’s head today, but at least he could say it had been unintentional.

Several voices echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Lord Ian and Tauney Easton. Anthony smiled, remembering how often Miss Anne’s gaze had been drawn to the latter over the course of the afternoon. He seemed to be a decent fellow, though Anthony had only spoken to him in passing.

The two approached and Anthony stepped forward. “I hope we end up with more feminine company before the hunt begins. It is highly improper to chase after apparitions when the numbers are imbalanced.”

The men laughed. Easton’s mouth quirked in a smile, highlighted by the streams of moonlight. “And it is always preferable to have some women to blame the shrieks on.”

More people filtered in, the crowd growing until there was a group of eleven or twelve. A hushed excitement filled the room, though the whispers grew in volume as they waited for the latecomers. Miss Anne came in at last, a timid smile on her face. Anthony crossed the room to welcome her.

Relief filled her features when she saw him. “I’ve been second guessing my agreement to come all evening. But there is a certain thrill to the idea, isn’t there? Though I’m certain Isabel would not approve.”

Anthony lifted a brow. “You didn’t tell her?” She rose in his estimation by degrees.

“She still has a headache from the bruise on her head. I didn’t want to worry her needlessly. It’s just a good bit of fun.” She motioned across the room. “Even Miss Easton is here, and you know how protective her brothers are.”

“Yes, indeed. I am sorry about your sister’s headache. I feel responsible.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Her presumption of his innocence brought back his earlier guilt, but he brushed it aside. “Perhaps there is some way to convey my apologies, even if it was unintentional.”

“You are very thoughtful. And a woman never rejects such gestures.”

Silently, Anthony doubted her words. But the thought of vexing Miss Townshend with just such a gesture was intriguing. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Candles were quickly handed out, and Anthony took one, though he did not light it. He had one more role to play in order to embed himself in Miss Anne’s good graces. If all went as planned, he’d be in a position to inquire about the size of her dowry. And he could at last expose Miss Townshend for what she was: another woman determined to further herself, who would stop at nothing to achieve her goals.

“Come,” he said, leading Miss Anne by the elbow, “let us find a spot near the front.” He came to a halt at Tauney Easton’s side. “Mr. Easton, could Miss Anne share a candle with you? I’m afraid we are several short.” He held his candle behind his back.

Miss Anne looked at him in surprise, and he gave her a quick wink. Easton held his out, a pleased look on his face. “Would you like to hold it, or shall I?”

Miss Anne’s returning smile was far brighter than the candle. “I think you had better. I might drop it if I become frightened.”

Ian began leading the crowd forward, but Anthony stayed back, leaving the couple to themselves. Once everyone had moved up the stairs, Anthony headed back to his room, whistling. He was one step closer to uncovering Miss Townshend’s deception.

* * *

The next morning Isabel sat with her father, wishing her stomach would stop twisting in knots. She glanced at the large clock on the marble mantle, the minutes ticking by. The countess was late. Isabel wanted to get this conversation over with before church services; she couldn’t bear to let it weigh her down another moment.

Trying to distract herself, she gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked over a small garden, blooming with color.

Her father’s brows furrowed. “Goodness child, what ails you? Your cheeks are rather flushed.”

A hand went to her cheek. “Are they? I was out in the sun all yesterday afternoon. With my bonnet on, of course.”

He peered at her closely. “Are you sure you didn’t catch cold when you were caught in the rainstorm? I still regret not being able to fetch help myself.”

“Nonsense, Father.” She set her hand on his knee, attempting a smile. “You know a little rain has never bothered me. Though that rainstorm rather tested my limits.” Or perhaps it was the man she’d crossed paths with during the rainstorm.

The swish of skirts signaled the countess coming through the door. “I do apologize for keeping you waiting.” She crossed the room and found a seat, for once her lap noticeably empty. “Sir George, how did you find the rest of yesterday’s picnic? Did you get drawn into a game of battledore? I realized after I left yesterday that I should have had you row me across the pond.”

He chuckled, creases forming around his eyes. “Ah, that would have been a delight. But no, I watched the young ones in their lively competition. Twenty years ago, yes. Perhaps even ten. But not now. Not with my gout.” He adjusted his leg, as if talking of it reminded him of the pain.

Isabel let the two chat for a moment, grateful the countess saw the wisdom of easing her father into the conversation that was coming. He looked happier, more relaxed than she’d seen him in a good while. Being in the countess’s presence seemed to keep his mind from wandering too far. Hopefully that would make this conversation easier.

Her father shifted in his seat, turning toward her. “Did you hear Lady Du’Breven, my dear? She asked you a question.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was lost in thought.”

The countess dipped her head in understanding. “I merely asked if any of the gentlemen here have caught your eye? I know for a fact you’ve turned a few heads.”

Isabel clasped her hands in her lap. “Well, I’ve banged into at least one.” She smiled briefly, trying to keep her tone light. “And I know that Anne is already all aflutter, though I daresay by tomorrow someone new will have caught her eye.”

“One of these times, she’ll surprise you and find someone who has the power to keep her affections,” said the countess with some authority.

“Nothing would make me happier. I do hope to see her favorably settled—sooner rather than later.”

“I believe there is another matter you would like to see settled.” The countess looked toward Isabel’s father. “Now is as good a time as any.”

Isabel drew a breath, trying to force down the nerves that had lodged themselves in her ribcage. With both sets of eyes, on her the awkwardness of the situation seemed to stilt the words on her tongue. “Father, I know I shouldn’t have, but I took the liberty of writing to your solicitor.”

“My solicitor?” Her father’s eyes grew cloudy with confusion. “Whatever for?”

“I requested that he come and meet with us while we are here. There’s a matter of grave importance that must be addressed.”

“I cannot imagine what could be so important that it could not wait until after the house party. Really, Isabel, it’s quite unpolished to conduct business while we are guests here, among our friends.” He gestured toward the countess.

The countess shook her head. “Not at all. Some things won’t wait, and I am difficult to offend. At least when it comes to old friends.”

Her father’s brows bent together in consternation. “And what is so urgent that it cannot even wait a fortnight?”

Isabel swallowed. “My dowry.”

“Your dowry?”

She hesitated for a moment, but the countess nodded, giving her courage. “Yes. And there isn’t an easy way to say this, but it is imperative that some changes be made. For all our sakes, but Anne’s especially.”

* * *

An hour later Isabel made her way back to her room to gather her things for the church service. Her steps were lighter, the weight on her shoulders considerably relieved. Her father’s opposition to her proposal had not been easily overcome, but thankfully, the countess had been there to smooth things over and reassure him that Isabel’s proposition was the right course of action. But, oh, the hurt in his eyes, the defeated expression on his face, had been almost unbearable.

It was necessary, she assured herself as she reached her room. And much better than the other alternatives, even if her father’s pride was a bit bruised. She opened the door and hurried to collect her reticule. As she entered, she was assaulted by the overpowering scent of lavender. Confused, she looked around. There, on her dressing table, rested the largest flower arrangement Isabel had ever seen. The height and width of the arrangement completely obscured the mirror.

Isabel took off her gloves and traced one of the stems. Who might have sent the flowers? She rubbed one of the rich purple petals, soft as velvet, between her fingers.

Finally, Isabel searched for a card. There it was, hidden in the back under some greenery. She hastily opened the envelope.

May these flowers serve as my sincerest apology for the bruise on your head. – Lord Anthony.

Isabel scoffed, ripping the card in two. Apology, indeed! It was his way of taunting her, a reminder of his threat to uncover the truth about Anne’s dowry. For every woman knew the language of flowers. And lavender conveyed only one thing: distrust.

7

Seven: Waylaid by a Waltz

Anthony followed the other men into the drawing room. Small groups formed around tables, and the room grew louder with chatter and laughter as cards were dealt.

Teirny brushed by him. “It’s too bad the wagers won’t be more interesting tonight, what with the ladies present.”

Anthony ignored the comment and stood back, perusing the room. His gaze was inadvertently drawn toward Miss Townshend, who looking especially lovely in a light-blue dress that accentuated her slender figure.

“There’s no doubt she’s a tempting armful,” Teirny said, following his gaze. “But she seems a bit overbearing. I prefer them a little younger and more naïve. Like her sister.” He nodded toward Miss Anne, who was crossing the room, heading in their direction. “And I’ve heard promising rumors about an increase to her dowry.”

Teirny’s commentary irked Anthony, though he couldn’t have said why. Miss Anne and her dowry had already been discussed at length over port this evening. He shrugged. “A rumor is just that, until confirmed.”

“Lord Anthony, good evening,” greeted Miss Anne.

“Miss Anne, good evening to you.” He bowed.

Instead of her usual smile, a worry line creased the center of her forehead. “This will seem very forward of me, but I wondered if I might have a word with you.”

Teirny raised his brows suggestively, but Anthony schooled his features to mask any surprise. “Yes, of course. Perhaps we could take those vacant chairs over by the window.”

She nodded and followed him to a quieter corner of the room. Anthony waited for her to take a seat and then sat on the edge of his chair, perplexed by the way Miss Anne fiddled with the folds of her dress. He’d only known her a few days, yet these were not her usual mannerisms.

“I’m listening,” he said, urging her on after a prolonged silence.

“Last night, what you did for me with Mr. Tauney Easton . . .” Her blue eyes wouldn’t meet his. “As much as I appreciated it, as much as it meant to me that you noticed . . .” She rubbed her hands together, letting out a breath. “It won’t be necessary any longer.”

Anthony interlaced his fingers, remembering Miss Anne beaming under Tauney Easton’s attention. “Has something changed? Did he do something?” He tried to make sense of the protective feelings rising within him.

Miss Anne shook her head, curls bouncing around her face. “Oh, no!” She lowered her voice. “Nothing like that. He is a perfect gentleman. It’s just . . .” There was something battling within her, fighting against what she wanted to tell him.

“You may have full confidence in me, Miss Anne. Whatever it is you wish to tell me.”

Her hands stopped fidgeting. “It’s Isabel,” she said at last.

All sorts of conjectures filled Anthony’s mind, but he stayed silent, letting her speak at her own pace.

“She’s been a mother of sorts to me all my life; she wants to protect me. And I know she thinks I’m ignorant to our family’s financial troubles.”

Financial troubles? Anthony’s mind raced, sorting through this revelation. He met her gaze, waiting, hoping she would go on. This was, most likely, the very thing he’d hoped to learn.

She paused for a breath, pursing her lips. “But I’m not as naïve as she believes. I notice things. Like the fact that her wardrobe was made on a much more frugal budget than my own. I suspected something. And yesterday morning I overheard a conversation she had with my father.” Her eyes darted across the room to where Lady Du’Breven sat. “And the countess. Despite my fears about the state of our finances, I had no idea things had become so desperate. I’d never have . . .” She looked down at her light pink gown and shook her head. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is what I heard. Isabel has set plans in motion to change my father’s will.”

His focus was now entirely concentrated on Miss Anne and the words coming out of her mouth.

“Perhaps you’ve already heard rumors about an increase to my dowry?” She looked at him steadily and Anthony could only nod.

“Well, they’re true.”

He shook his head. “But how? If your family’s financial situation is so dire, how is that possible?”

She heaved out a sigh. “Because Isabel is giving up her own dowry—half to increase mine, half to pay our father’s accumulated debts.”

Anthony felt as though all of the breath had been sucked from his lungs. It took a moment for her words to sink in. Miss Townshend was giving up her own dowry to benefit her family? He had speculated about a hundred reasons why Miss Townshend might spread rumors about her sister’s dowry, but never had he imagined this. The rumors were true. And not only were they true, but the increase in Miss Anne’s dowry came from her sister’s own selflessness.

His gaze drifted across the room to where Miss Townshend now stood in conversation with her father. The very sight of her left him feeling unsteady, as if his world had shifted so drastically he couldn’t find his new sense of balance. What person would do such a thing? Could it possibly be true? Or might Miss Anne have misunderstood?

He turned back to Miss Anne, his mind still foggy. “How can she give up her own dowry? What will she do?”

“Isabel hopes I can secure a good match and care for Father. And she will become a companion or perhaps a governess.” She sat forward. “So you see, I cannot encourage Mr. Tauney Easton’s attentions any further. I don’t wish to hurt him, but he’s a fourth son.” She blushed a little at her own frankness. “And after what Isabel is doing for me and our father. Don’t you see? I must make a profitable match.”

The resignation in her voice awoke Anthony from his daze. Two sisters, both equally determined to help their family. It was a truth he couldn’t quite come to terms with, for he’d never known this sort of family loyalty and devotion. He shook his head, pushing away unpleasant thoughts of the past.

“I can hardly believe it. The way your sister cares for you is quite enviable.” Shame burned through Anthony, thinking of the assumptions he’d made about Miss Townshend, how he’d antagonized her in his attempts to uncover the truth. “It is only matched by your own selflessness.”

“Oh no. If it weren’t for Isabel, well, I don’t know what would become of us.” Miss Anne ducked her head. “And please, don’t share this with the others. I only told you because I don’t want Mr. Easton to be hurt. I’m sorry for the way it all slipped out.”

“I assure you of my absolute discretion.”

A gasp of enthusiasm came from the card tables on the other side of the room. People called out with excitement. “Yes, a dance.” Several giggles. “A waltz!”

Miss Anne stood. “I won’t monopolize you any further.”

Anthony followed suit. “After what you have shared, Miss Anne, I hope you know I have the highest regard for you. And for your sister. Please let me know if I can ever be of service to either of you in any way.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Lord Anthony. Your kindness means a great deal to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He bowed as she slipped into the crowd. Servants rolled back the rugs and moved some of the larger furniture. Someone took a seat at the piano and began playing.

But Anthony found his gaze drawn to Miss Anne’s sister, her head bent in conversation with her father. The sight of her did something to him. Without conscious thought, Anthony crossed the room.

* * *

“Miss Townshend, may I have this dance?”

Isabel looked up in surprise to see Lord Anthony standing over her. She began to bristle, until she met his eyes. There was something different about them, something she couldn’t put a finger on. The cool arrogance, the gleaming self-satisfaction, was gone. But replaced with what? Wonder, maybe. But that hardly seemed likely.

Her father nudged her from behind. “Isabel,” he murmured under his breath.

Somehow, like always, Lord Anthony had caught her in a moment where it was impossible to escape. “Why yes, Lord Anthony.” She touched the fading bruise on her temple. “I feel I am enough recovered that I might risk close proximity to you once more.”

Lord Anthony smiled, but his smile was different too. “Proximity is certain, Miss Townshend, as it’s the waltz.” He held out his hand.

Isabel, still wary of the sudden change in him, put her hand in his with some reluctance. The rush of warmth that flooded up her arm was so unexpected she almost pulled back. Instead, she allowed him to help her up, that same warmth spiraling toward her heart and making it beat uncomfortably fast in her chest.

“Are you all right?” Lord Anthony held her hand and turned toward her, his brown eyes so full of sincerity she hardly recognized them.

She had no defense against this new version of Lord Anthony. His usual flirtatious manner and mocking tone had raised her ire and sharpened her tongue, but now she struggled to say anything at all. “Yes, yes. I am fine. Perhaps the room is a little warm.”

Lord Anthony led her adeptly through the press of couples to the far side of the room. He released her hand for a moment, his fingers grazing the inside of her wrist as he turned to one of the staff. “The room may be a little warm for dancing. Perhaps we could open the doors to the verandah.” The man nodded and hurried to acquiesce.

Without warning, Lord Anthony turned to face her, guiding her into the marching position for the opening bars. Isabel hoped he didn’t hear her sharp intake of breath as he set a hand upon the small of her back and wrapped her fingers with his own. They walked forward, following the other couples in the march.

“Miss Townshend, I do believe this is the first time in our acquaintance that our conversation has remained civil for more than two minutes. Whatever can it mean?” His tone was teasing, but he smiled.

“That you haven’t said anything terribly provoking, of course.” She smiled without meaning to.

He inclined his head a little. “Of course. But, though I am tempted to turn to my old ways, I think I shall prolong this cordiality for a little longer.”

“You will almost force me to rethink my opinion of you.”

He opened his mouth, and Isabel half expected the old Lord Anthony to emerge, with some sort of banter meant to provoke. Instead he gave her a half smile. “I wish you would.”

He turned to take her in his arms as the waltz began. Their hands entwined in an arch over their heads, and she was pulled along as they began to spin around the room. His gaze met hers, so fierce she could scarcely breathe. No man had ever looked at her quite this way, as if she was to be admired, adored. Worshipped even.

Isabel forced herself to breathe, to look away for a moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anne flash by in her pink silk, dancing with Mr. Teirny.

Lord Anthony drew her in, tightening the pressure on her waist. The warmth of his hand burned through the satin of her gown. “You waltz beautifully, Miss Townshend, if I may say so.”

The compliment sounded genuine, yet she sensed the words were a cover. He was holding something back. She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “The waltz was quite the thing in London this season.”

“And yet a waltz during an impromptu dance at a house party is still rather shocking.” His eyes roamed over her face, searching, scrutinizing. Isabel was unprepared for such an intimate inspection.

She swallowed, hoping she didn’t sound as breathless as she felt. “The waltz is the result of a wager, one of the groups playing cards. Just a bit of harmless fun.”

“No question about the fun.” His hand guided her ever closer, his breath warm on her cheek as he whispered in her ear. “But whether it is harmless remains to be seen.”

8

EIght: Misfortune or Serendipity

Anthony reigned in his horse, waiting for the others to catch up as they approached a small stream where they could water their mounts. Tauney Easton came up first and dismounted. He wore a dejected expression, his mouth pulled down in a frown.

Anthony patted the gelding and led him over to the stream for a drink. The midmorning sun began to beat down on Anthony’s back through his thick riding jacket. Once he picketed his horse, he took a seat under a shady tree and removed his jacket. The air under the tree was still cool, and leftover morning dew in the grass provided a welcome relief as it seeped through his shirt.

Easton joined him, removing his jacket and folding it carefully. A moment later, Beauchamp walked up with his horse, who appeared to be limping.

Anthony sat forward. “Is your horse injured?”

Beauchamp shook his head. “No, but he lost a shoe. I’m not sure I can ride him back.”

“Get him a drink and come sit. We’ll figure something out.” Though Anthony didn’t say it, they were miles away from help, and their morning ride could very well turn into a day-long venture with a mishap such as this.

Beauchamp examined his horse’s hoof before joining them under the tree’s canopy. He lay down on his side, scrunching up his own jacket and using it as a pillow as he lay back in the grass. “Why the long face, Easton? I noticed you left the dance a bit early last night.”

Anthony raised a brow. Had he? Anthony hadn’t noticed. Of course, he’d been quite preoccupied.

Easton heaved out a sigh, bringing his hands to rest behind his head. “I just don’t understand women.”

Beauchamp laughed. “They are a mystery that eludes us all.”

Poor Tauney. He must be referring to Miss Anne. Anthony could only pity the fellow after what Miss Anne had revealed last night.

Easton drew a hand across his forehead. “It’s only that I finally thought I’d found one who was unpretentious. Whose intentions were sincere. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“You’re taking it all too seriously.” Beauchamp picked a seeded dandelion growing next to him and blew the fluffy white seeds into the breeze. “You need to relax and enjoy yourself.”

Anthony felt bad for Easton, but his own thoughts wandered to Miss Isabel Townshend. That such a woman could exist had never crossed his mind. He’d only seen a woman’s beauty and wit employed in the most underhanded and deceitful of ways. And yet Miss Townshend’s character, as revealed through her sister, seemed the very opposite.

He shut his eyes, remembering the way she’d felt in his arms, his hand at the small of her back. Anthony had danced and flirted with plenty of attractive women, but those moments paled in comparison with what he’d felt for Miss Townshend last night. He couldn’t quite put a name to the feeling; he only knew that she had lit a fire in him—made him feel alive and engaged and very much altered. It was that same feeling that had kept him up all night, tossing and turning, and willing to contemplate something he’d always considered to be completely out of the question: marriage.

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers as the feeling melted away. Even if he resolved to change, he’d lost any chance with Miss Townshend. She would never believe he could be anything other than a cad. Regret pumped through his chest, heavy and dark. One night of gentlemanly behavior could not make up for the way he’d treated her.

He blew out a breath, picking idly at the grass, struck by the notion that he wished to do just that—convince her that there was more to him than his womanizing and rakish behavior. But even if he attempted such a feat, was there any chance she could ever think of him as a true suitor?

* * *

Isabel held in a yawn, trying to focus on what Mr. Bloomsbury was saying with little success. She took a bite of eggs, her mind wandering to the previous night. To the waltz—and Lord Anthony. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the fluttery feeling in her middle. She should be immune to the attentions of such a flirt, one who had made her time at the house party thus far quite miserable. It was naïve to harbor any sort of hope, and she determined to banish the feelings at once. But then she would remember the feel of him taking her hand, his smile, the way he had looked at her—

“Don’t you agree?” asked Mr. Bloomsbury, taking such a large bite of ham Isabel was astonished at the way he forced it into his mouth.

“I don’t quite understand what you mean,” she stalled, not having the faintest idea what he’d been speaking about.

Mr. Bloomsbury swallowed. “As I was saying, I think there are some members of our company who are not quite up to standard. Miss Fairchild, for example.”

“What on earth do you have against Miss Fairchild?” Isabel scooted back her plate, looking for an opportunity to escape.

“Have you not heard?” He cringed. “She is the daughter of a stable master!”

She arched her brows in surprise. “I would never have guessed. Her manners are better than those of other members of this house party.” She had no hope that Mr. Bloomsbury would pick up on her implication. She picked up the napkin from her lap and set it on the table. “And now you’ll have to excuse me.”

Not bothering to look back, Isabel hurried out of the breakfast room. But a moment later, she heard the door open behind her, and Mr. Bloomsbury’s squeaky shoes indicated his pursuit. “Miss Townshend, wait!”

Isabel took brisk strides and turned down the third corridor, hoping to escape to her room before Mr. Bloomsbury caught up with her.

“Miss Townshend!”

The second door on the left. She began to run, propelled by the thought that, if he caught her now, he’d know the precise location of her room. Her hand was on the doorknob when she saw Mr. Bloombury’s shoe appear at the end of the hallway. She pushed the door open, doing her best to close it quickly and quietly.

The footsteps halted and Isabel stiffened, pulse pounding in her throat.

“Why Miss Townshend,” said a familiar voice from behind her. “I believe it breaks every rule in propriety for you to be in my bedroom.”

Her head whipped around to see Lord Anthony standing before her, a gleam in his sinful eyes. Without thinking, Isabel stepped forward and placed a gloved hand over his lips.

“Quiet!” she mouthed, her mind frantically searching for a way out of this mess. How could she have miscounted the corridors?

“Miss Townshend?” Mr. Bloomsbury’s voice came from just outside the door.

She forced her lungs to take in air slowly, closing her eyes as if that might somehow banish the awkward state she now found herself in.

Lord Anthony’s hand encircled her wrist, slowly prying her hand from his mouth, revealing a casual grin. Coming to herself, Isabel pulled her hand back, but Lord Anthony held on for another moment, his thumb brushing the skin just above her glove. She hated the way her blood pulsed beneath his touch.

“Miss Townshend?” Mr. Bloomsbury’s voice grew distant.

Before Isabel could exhale in relief, Lord Anthony leaned toward her, all but eliminating the space between them. “Now, just what am I supposed to think when a woman of your beauty and charm enters my bedroom and practically throws herself into my arms?”

Breathing was impossible with his eyes, the color of burnt caramel, staring into hers. They made her forget all resolve against the feelings that had unwillingly surfaced during their waltz two nights before.

Isabel gave a shaky laugh as she stepped back, trying to dispel the tension between them. She needed a moment to clear her head.

“Lord Anthony, I . . .”

All words, all thoughts fled. Just yesterday she’d spent the entirety of the day reminding herself of his rakish reputation. The man was a cad and an experienced rogue. She loathed herself for falling so easily into the web he had spun for her and every other woman that happened to walk by. His handsome face and devilish grin, his eyes—he knew the effect they had on women. On her.

He stepped closer, so close that they shared the same air.

Isabel panicked—she could not think clearly with him so near. The masculine smell of bergamot and leather filled her nose. She glanced past him and saw the four-poster bed where he slept, suddenly alarmed at the intimacy of being alone with a man in his bedroom. She took two quick steps backward, her shoulder blades brushing the door, but Lord Anthony was faster. He reached over her shoulder and placed his hand firmly against the door.

“Lord Anthony, please. I—”

Mr. Bloomsbury’s shoes sounded just outside the door. Lord Anthony brought a finger to her lips, cutting off her plea. All of the blood pumping so madly through her heart rushed to her face in response to his touch. Neither of them moved as the squeaking sound slowly faded away.

Even once the sound was gone they stayed locked in place, and it seemed Lord Anthony had no intention of releasing her. When he finally stepped back, Isabel’s knees almost buckled as she leaned against the door.

“Lord Anthony, I beg you.”

One eyebrow went up. “Miss Townshend, I have no intention of revealing your indiscretion this morning. I will safeguard your honor and make sure no one ever learns of this situation.”

Isabel’s shoulders sagged in relief, and she grasped the door handle, needing something to anchor her.

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “On one condition.”

Her breath caught.

“You must allow me to court you for the remainder of our time at this house party.”

“Court me?” Isabel was completely astonished. Lord Anthony had never shown anything but a wish to trifle with her! “But surely you don’t wish to—”

He leaned back against the wall adjacent to the door, as if ready to take on her every protest. “I assure you, I do.” He ran a thumb over his bottom lip. “During the next week you must allow me to seek you out and stay by your side. You will at least pretend to welcome my attentions, well enough to convince your father and sister, and even the countess.”

“But why?”

“I have my reasons. But, if at the end of the house party, you wish to never see me again, I will let you go and never breathe a word of this encounter to anyone. That is my offer.”

Isabel could hardly believe it. Why on earth would he wish to court her? And why was he so adamant that she play along with the ruse? The idea was preposterous.

“You’re very highhanded,” she finally said, for it was the only thought that came to mind.

He leaned in, as if to tell her a secret. “And you’re in my bedroom,” he whispered. “Do we have an agreement?”

Saying yes felt like a betrayal of everything she knew. The man was a cad, a society rake. Since her arrival, she’d heard plenty of rumors regarding his numerous conquests. Was she just to be one more? “And if I don’t?” she challenged.

“I know what you think of me, Miss Townshend. I know what my reputation is. Do you really wish to find out if the rumors are as awful as they seem?”

He was right—what choice did she have? If it were known she had come into Lord Anthony’s bedroom, she’d be ruined. She met his eyes, and a trace of the gentleness she’d seen in them last night appeared. Could it be that, somewhere in this strange turn of events, Lord Anthony had actually come to care for her? Impossible.

He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal, Miss Townshend?”

Pulse pounding in her ears, Isabel reached out and took his hand. “Yes.”

9

Nine: Rain Drops

Anthony was surprised by the nerves that hummed through him as he entered the drawing room, intent on seeking out Miss Townshend. The last time he remembered being nervous to spend time with a woman was almost nine years ago. He swept aside the unpleasant thought, wishing he’d taken the second glass of port he’d been offered.

Miss Townshend sat on a small settee next to her father. The glow of candlelight made her dark hair shine. Anthony took a moment to appreciate her profile: her slender neck and the graceful slope of her shoulders.

Before he could cross the room, Miss Anne stood and approached him. “Lord Anthony, do come join us. We were just speaking of you.” She motioned toward her father and sister, an inviting smile on her face.

As he approached, however, Miss Townshend gave a little start, smoothing her dress in an obvious attempt to cover her surprise. “Lord Anthony,” she murmured.

He did not miss the color that rose to her cheeks, likely remembering their encounter in his bedroom this morning. “Sir George, Miss Townshend.” He greeted them with a slight bow. “Miss Anne assures me I am not intruding.”

“Of course not.“ Miss Anne inclined her head as they both took a seat. “Why, your presence makes our gathering acceptable. Otherwise we would appear very closed off to the rest of the party. But the truth is, we’ve missed our time together as a family.”

“Yes.” Miss Townshend arched a brow at Anthony. “We aren’t accustomed to such persistent attention.”

It appeared that her agreement to his little charade did not mean she would make this easy on him. His mouth quirked up a bit. “Surely the desire for your company cannot come as a surprise.”

Sir George piped in. “I’ve always felt Isabel is a little standoffish to those of the opposite gender.”

The insight intrigued Anthony, for he’d been certain he alone raised her hackles.

The indent above Miss Townshend’s upper lip became more pronounced. “If you mean I don’t flirt with every man who passes by, you would be correct, Father.”

Miss Anne shot her sister a look of exasperation then turned to Anthony with a smile. “Come now, Lord Anthony. We’ve heard rumors of your adventure from yesterday, but wish to hear the story from your own lips. Please oblige us.”

Sir George placed a weathered hand on his cane. “Oh, were you one of the fellows out riding yesterday? I’d love to hear a firsthand account.”

Anthony nodded. “I’m afraid the story is very anticlimactic.”

“That is quite at odds with the account I’ve heard.” Miss Townshend turned toward him, her eyes extending a challenge.

“Very well, then.” He sat back in his chair, stretching out his legs, grateful at least to be engaging in conversation. “Beauchamp, Tauney Easton, and I were enjoying a scenic ride through the countryside yesterday morning. We’d gone about ten miles when Beauchamp’s horse threw a shoe. Do you know what exists ten miles outside of Somerstone?” He paused for a moment, making sure he had their attention before continuing on. “A wretched lot of nothing, that’s what. We had to walk nearly two miles before we reached a small tenant farm where the owner could only offer us an old and cantankerous donkey.”

The corners of Sir George’s mouth tugged upward. “Heavens.”

“I have not even reached the worst part of the tale,” said Anthony, shaking his head. He was determined to make Miss Townshend laugh, even if it required embellishing the story some.

“Go on,” Miss Anne urged.

“When Beauchamp tried to mount the beast, it bucked him off most determinedly. And I’m afraid Easton shared the same fate.”

Sir George began to chuckle and Miss Anne covered her erupting giggle.

Even Miss Townshend’s mouth twitched. “Well,” she prompted, curiosity lighting her eyes. “What happened when you attempted to get on the donkey?”

“The worst thing you can imagine.” He held her gaze, though he knew he should look away. “The donkey was as docile as a lamb and allowed me to ride him the entire seven-mile journey into the village.”

Miss Townshend joined the laughter then, and Anthony reveled in the sight. Her eyes crinkled at the corners and her nose scrunched up in a manner Anthony found quite charming.

Sir George’s laughter faded to a smile. “What a sight to behold. If only I’d come across you while I was out riding yesterday!”

“You were out riding yesterday?” Anthony asked, trying to hide his surprise.

“Oh, yes.” He nodded firmly, gripping his cane as if it were a riding crop. “Why just yesterday Mr. Tillbury and I wagered a bet on whose mare was faster.” A faraway look entered his eyes, one that Anthony couldn’t quite place.

Miss Townshend gave a slight shake of her head, her mouth pinched.

Anthony looked carefully at Sir George once more, and understanding dawned. He had seen the same distant expression in his uncle the few years before he died. The confusion and forgetfulness. The blending of past and present. His heart went out to Miss Townshend and Miss Anne for the pain of having to watch their father fade away.

Anthony leaned forward. “And who was the winner, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Sir George huffed. “Why me, of course.”

“I can imagine you are quite the rider, sir.” He patted the man’s shoulder.

Miss Townshend’s lips parted, her studious gaze upon him.

“Why yes, I am,” replied Sir George. They continued in that vein for several minutes, Anthony asking questions while Sir George recounted old stories as if they’d only just happened.

A few minutes later, the countess cleared her throat. “Miss Greystock has organized some games, for those of you who wish to participate. I believe it will be quite diverting.”

Anthony watched Miss Townshend carefully, trying to decipher her reaction to the announcement, but she kept her gaze in her lap. Teirny approached the four of them. “Miss Anne, would you care to join me for some of the games?”

“I’d be delighted, Mr. Teirny.” She took his hand as he helped her to her feet.

A frown pulled down Anthony’s mouth as he watched the two of them join the others. Teirny was wealthy, but Miss Anne certainly deserved better.

“I must be off to bed,” said Sir George. “Will the two of you join in?”

Miss Townshend set a hand on her cheek. “I am not certain I am up for games tonight. In fact, I’m feeling a little warm.”

Anthony’s heart began to race, for this is when the real experiment would begin. “It’s cloudy outside, but it hasn’t yet begun to rain. I could escort you to the verandah for some fresh air, Miss Townshend.”

Her posture stiffened.

For a moment, he questioned the wisdom of forcing Miss Townshend into this agreement. Perhaps it would have been wiser this morning to act the gentlemen and let her escape, but Anthony feared losing his only chance to court her. And now that the decision had been made, he would not waste a moment of it. He rose from his chair. “But first, let me fetch you a drink.”

“How thoughtful of you, Lord Anthony,” said Sir George. All Anthony could do was hope that his choice had been for the best.

* * *

Isabel watched Lord Anthony cross the room, the thought of spending time with him sending a tumult of confusion through her. The man was far too handsome for his own good, and their waltz the other night was proof that his proximity dulled her good senses and made her feel more than was prudent. Especially for a man of his reputation.

She’d spent the afternoon isolated in her room, thinking about her predicament and Lord Anthony’s motives. What could he possibly hope to gain by pretending to court her? Was this all some ploy, some trick to get her to fall in love and leave her broken hearted at the end of the party? Was she just another—albeit more challenging—conquest? She pursed her lips together, the thought rankling.

Lord Anthony returned with a cavalier smile, drink in hand. She took a small sip and set the glass down on a side table, raising her guard.

“Miss Townshend?” He held out his arm.

She placed hers on his, this time not surprised by the flutter of warmth that radiated up her arm at his touch. Instead, she was annoyed by it.

The verandah doors were slightly ajar, but Lord Anthony pushed the door back, leaving it wide open so propriety might be maintained.

“Tell me truthfully.” He tugged at his cravat, loosening its hold. “Did you only agree to come out here so you would not be forced to pretend to tolerate my company any longer?”

His candor took her off guard, and she ducked her head. “It did cross my mind. I have never been one to excel at covering my feelings.”

He laughed aloud, and she found she enjoyed the way it erupted from his chest, the free sound of someone determined to enjoy life.

“I suppose I should have expected as much.” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “You’ve never left me with any doubt as to how you feel about me.”

Isabel flushed anew, grateful for the soft breeze that cooled the night air. “There is something about you that ruffles my feathers.”

“And it started when I came upon you in that rainstorm.” His voice grew gentle, and he turned to face her, focusing the whole of his attention upon her.

She laughed quietly. “Yes, I suppose it did.”

Smoky gray clouds filled the night sky, and she remembered the absolute indignation she’d felt at Lord Anthony’s insolent flirtation when she’d first met him. But, just now, he’d been so gracious and understanding with her father. How was she to reconcile these different versions of the man who stood at her side?

Confused as Isabel was, he deserved her appreciation. “I’m sorry about my father. He is not himself these days. Thank you for humoring him.”

Anthony put his arms on the railing, leaning over it. He looked out into the distance. “I’m sure his moments of confusion are difficult to watch, but I assure you, there are worse things in a father.” His features hardened, mouth pressing into an unforgiving line.

Much as she wished to ask what he meant, she wasn’t sure she dared. “Well, thank you all the same.”

“It was nothing.” He shrugged, but his face remained tense, the muscles in his neck taut.

What could so disturb a man like Lord Anthony, who never seemed to take anything too seriously. “Does your father suffer from something worse then?”

He gave a short laugh, full of bitterness. “You could say that.”

They stood in silence. But for once, Isabel’s mind wasn’t full of censure or disdain for the man that stood next to her, only mere curiosity. “Forgive me for prying.”

He blew out a breath. “You weren’t prying. It’s only that I don’t wish to speak of him. Not tonight.”

There was a raw quality to his voice that pricked Isabel, making her wish she knew what to say, how to smooth over the hurt that seemed to be eating at him.

Lord Anthony broke the silence with a sigh. He held out his palm, several droplets of rain hitting it as it began to sprinkle. “I am not sure what kind of omen this new bout of rain might be.” He gave her a brief glance. “I’d like to think it means we could start anew.” He said the last words softly, as if speaking to himself.

But they grabbed hold of Isabel, easing their way through her and settling into the tiniest fissure in the wall guarding her heart.

Lord Anthony shook his head. “Should we go back inside?”

For a reason Isabel couldn’t have explained, she demurred. “No, let’s not.” She joined him at the railing, her shoulder brushing his. “I like the rain.”

10

Ten: Risks and Rewards

Isabel studied her poor attempt of a sketch. She frowned and put down her vine charcoal, absentmindedly rubbing the spot just above her lip. She sighed. The trunk of the tree was far too wide, and now the whole picture looked out of balance.

“Oh, it isn’t as terrible as all that,” said Miss Greystock with a smile.

“The fact that you feel the need to say so indicates it is.”

Miss Greystock’s eyes remained on her own work, a fleck of green paint on her cheek. “I am just happy you could join us. How is your father feeling?”

“A little peaked I’m afraid. I took him to his room after lunch.” Isabel glanced back at Somerstone Manor, hoping her father was resting. The house party was taking a toll on him.

The sun shone overhead, its rays filtering through the overhanging trees. Isabel’s poor sketch seemed to mock her, interrupting the tranquil afternoon. Biting her lip, Isabel stared at the tree, wondering how to repair such a faux pas on the canvas.

Her eyes wandered, and she spotted Anne near the middle of the group. Worry lines ran down the center of Anne’s forehead, marring her usually mild expression. Isabel wondered what could be bothering her sister. Unfortunately, in such a setting, it was nearly impossible to have a private word. She tucked the thought away, determined to visit Anne’s room tonight and ask her about it.

She turned back to her canvas, but her mind couldn’t seem to focus. Last night’s conversation on the verandah persistently weaved toward the forefront of her thoughts.

He’d shown a side of himself last night she hadn’t known existed, and it intrigued her more than it ought. What had he said to her about the omen of rain? I’d like to think it might mean we could start anew. Could they? Last night, out in the restful canopy of drizzling rain it had almost seemed possible. Now, in light of day and away from Lord Anthony’s charm, Isabel doubted once more.

Distant angry voices broke through her reverie, and she put down her charcoal, trying to make sense of the sound. No one else seemed to have heard, engrossed as they were in their artistic endeavors. Isabel arose, curious. She’d heard the gentlemen were engaged in fishing down by the lake and hoped there hadn’t been some mishap.

She’d only just reached the tree she’d been trying to draw when Mr. Teirny, wet from head to foot, stalked toward her. Isabel stepped back in order to avoid a collision with the man, whose face was contorted in anger. And was that blood dripping down his chin? What on earth?

Quickening her pace, she continued on. Several minutes later, Lord Anthony came into view, sitting on the bank, shaking his head. He removed his boot and held it upside down; a steady stream of water poured out.

“Lord Anthony?” She said his name with some hesitance.

He turned his head.

She gasped a little, for a dark welt was forming just under his eye. “Did you and Mr. Teirny—.”

“Yes,” he said gruffly. “But he got the worst of it.” Lord Anthony stood, pulling on his boot with more force than necessary. His breeches were soaked up to the knees and his hair fell across his forehead in disarray.

“I gathered that.” Isabel tried to gauge his mood. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

He stilled, the disgruntled look on his face turning to surprise.

She stepped forward. “I’m no doctor, but I do have some recent experience with bruising.”

Lord Anthony gave her a chagrined smile. “Yes, I suppose you do.” He winced.

Isabel reached out a tentative hand, touching the skin on his cheekbone as she tried to determine how severe the swelling was.

He winced and gave a sharp intake of breath as her fingers touched a tender spot.

She flinched and pulled back, worried she had hurt him. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He met her eyes, the force of his gaze sending a jolt through her middle.

Isabel looked away. “Perhaps we should head back to the house, see if we can find something to bring down the swelling.”

He nodded, falling into step beside her. “Otherwise I won’t dare show my face at dinner.” A grin crept across his face. “The countess may throw me out.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t doubt it. She is a formidable creature.” Several of the ladies painting on the lawn glanced in their direction. They walked in silence until they passed the group. Then Isabel ventured to ask, “Do you mind if I ask what your disagreement was with Mr. Teirny?”

A shadow passed over Lord Anthony’s face. “Have you spoken with your sister today?”

She shook her head, confused about the change in subject. “No, why?”

His bottom lip jutted out. “How aware are you of her intentions with Mr. Teirny?”

Isabel laughed. “Whatever her intentions may be, they never last longer than a day or two. Why, you must have noticed how besotted she was with Mr. Tauney Easton and how quickly her attentions have turned.” Her amusement faded at the worry in Lord Anthony’s eyes.

“I have reason to believe she may do something foolish, just as I have reason to doubt Mr. Teirny’s honor. I won’t claim to know Miss Anne better than you, but perhaps you should speak with her about the matter.”

Her ire rising, Isabel came to a halt in front of the doors on the west side of the house. This was the same pretentious Lord Anthony she’d known all along. “How you presume to know my sister, as well as doubt my ability to look out for her, is quite offensive.” Her words were clipped and cool, but inside she seethed. She turned and reached for the door. “I’ll let someone know that a salve should be made up for your bruise. Good day, Lord Anthony.”

“Wait just a moment, Isabel—Miss Townshend.” He laid a soft hand on her arm, and instead of the usual impertinent expression on his face, his brows were furrowed with concern. “Hear me out and then, if you wish to go, I won’t keep you. But I’ve been privy to enough information to know your sister may do something rash—because she is concerned about you. As well she should be. You try to shoulder everything in your family without a thought for yourself. Are you seriously considering becoming a governess?” He let out a noise of disbelief and shook his head.

How had Lord Anthony come to have such an intimate knowledge of her plans? His words shocked the anger from her, and she stood open-mouthed.

He inclined his head, his voice softening. “And despite what you may think, I believe you are more than capable of looking out for your sister. Which is why I’m giving you a word of warning about Mr. Teirny. The man can’t be trusted.”

His words struck a dissonant cord inside Isabel, awakening a vulnerability and fear that hummed through her constantly, whispering that she was failing her family. She lashed out. “And I suppose you consider yourself an excellent judge of character.”

His voice remained calm, not rising to her bait. “Before this house party I may have. But since I have found myself quite mistaken in my judgment of you, I would refrain from claiming as much.” A muscle pulsed in his jaw.

His candor took Isabel off guard, and she took a slight step back.

Lord Anthony turned, exposing the pronounced welt on his cheek “But I do know this, if any man talked about my sister the way Mr. Teirny spoke about yours, there would be no doubt in my mind as to what his intentions were—none of which are decent or honorable.”

Isabel opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again. She needed a moment apart, a chance to process this strange turn in their conversation. “If you’ll meet me in the small parlor off the library, I’ll go and see about that salve.”

* * *

Anthony stared at the floral mauve carpet, occasionally glancing up at the clock on the mantle. He waited almost a quarter of an hour as he silently berated himself for revealing so much to Miss Townshend. He touched the rising bruise on his cheek. That was twice today his frankness had gotten the better of him.

He sighed aloud and stood. She wasn’t coming, and he could hardly blame her.

Just then, Miss Townshend opened the door. She looked down, blushing. “I’m sorry to have taken so long. I had to find my maid and ask where she had put it.” She held out a small jar. “It’s the salve I was given for my bruise. There’s still plenty left.” She walked toward him and gestured toward the settee where he’d been sitting a moment before. “Won’t you sit?”

They sat down in unison, awkward silence filling the space between them as she twisted the lid off the jar.

Hoping to make her smile, Anthony attempted to lighten the mood. “To be clear, this salve will help my bruise—not make it worse?” He raised his brows. “Not that you wouldn’t be justified.”

Her cheeks twitched. “Fortunately for you, I know very little about mixing tinctures and salves. Your safety is assured.” She took a breath. “If you’ll just turn your cheek . . .”

Anthony turned, and her soft fingers met his skin, rubbing a bit of the salve on his cheekbone.

Her lips puckered in concentration. “Be careful not to move, I don’t want to get it in your eye.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The salve brought relief to the sting at once, but Anthony was surprised at how the gentleness of her touch soothed something inside of him as well.

Miss Townshend looked up and met his gaze, her eyes full of hesitant curiosity. “So this”—she gestured toward his face—“was in defense of Anne?”

He nodded, trying to read her expression.

“Then my earlier outburst was undeserved, and I apologize.” Her fingers came to a halt as she finished rubbing in the last of the salve.

The minute she withdrew, Anthony missed her touch. Impulsively he reached out and took her hand in his own. “It was not undeserved. You’re under a great weight. More than most people could bear.” His hold was light, giving her the opportunity to pull away if she so chose. She didn’t move.

Her voice dropped so low it was almost a whisper. “Might I ask what you meant when you said you were mistaken in your judgment of me?”

He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, debating how much he should reveal. Honesty seemed the only way forward. “Past experience prejudiced me, and I made some erroneous assumptions about your character. I have your sister to thank for correcting me. And now, knowing what I do, I realize I could not have been more wrong.”

She blinked twice, biting her lip. “I’m not sure I understand.”

He pushed his hair back from his forehead in agitation. “Miss Townshend, I must be candid; anything less would be a disservice. The first day I met you—yes, even soaking wet—I was quite certain you were the most beautiful creature that had ever crossed my path. Yet seeing how much you would sacrifice for your sister, your father . . . you possess a greatness of heart I did not believe existed.” He cleared his throat but didn’t break their gaze. “Perhaps I’ve done this all wrong. When you mistakenly entered my bedroom the other day, I should have been a gentleman and let you go.”

Miss Townshend’s silence, the stiffness in her posture, set Anthony on edge. His collar grew tight and he tugged at his cravat. “But I was certain you loathed me, so I justified my actions. I’d be a fool if I didn’t take a chance to see if you’d be willing to consider me a true suitor.”

The air between them grew taut as he waited for her response. She glanced down at her hand in his before meeting his eyes. “Perhaps you are not the only one guilty of misjudgment, Lord Anthony.” A soft smile stole across her face. “Much as it surprises me to say it, I believe I could.”

11

Eleven: The Sonnet

Isabel knocked on Anne’s door. Unease crept into her stomach as she pushed open the door.

Anne sat at her vanity, struggling with the clasp on a string of pale-pink pearls. “Am I late for breakfast?”

“No, I only hoped to speak to you for a moment. Here, let me.” Isabel fastened the clasp, adjusting the pearls around her sister’s neck. “Lovely, as always.”

Anne smiled, her doe-like eyes meeting Isabel’s in the mirror. “What was it you wished to speak with me about?”

“Mr. Tauney Easton,” said Isabel quietly.

“Mr. Easton?” Anne stood quickly. “Why, whatever for?” She began to pace the room, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles in her dress.

Isabel knew her sister too well to believe Anne unaffected. “Because I thought I saw something between the two of you, something different. But now you won’t even spare him a glance. At least not when you think anyone is looking.”

“Someone new has caught my eye.” Anne clasped her hands together.

“Mr. Teirny?” Isabel raised a brow.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Anne, you’ve never been interested in men like Mr. Teirny.” Isabel shook her head. She tried to be forthright, without raising her sister’s defenses. “Why, the man is downright rude, always making jokes at the expense of others. And I heard he was a good deal less than gentlemanly during that game of charades the other night.”

Anne wouldn’t meet her eyes. “It was merely a joke. A jest.”

“But you’ve been out of sorts ever since.” Isabel walked over to her sister, taking her hand. “And I’ve seen him flirting with several other young ladies, as well. Mr. Teirny is not the kind of man who will make you happy. Yet you seem determined to pursue him. Why?”

Anne remained silent a moment before letting out a sigh. “You aren’t the only one in this family who can make sacrifices, you know. How can I allow you to give up your dowry—for me, for our family—and then not give a thought to what kind of position you might find yourself in?”

Isabel blew out a breath. Anne should not concern herself with such matters. “How did you find out?”

“I overheard you speaking with the countess.”

Her stomach dropped. “And here I thought I’d done a fine job of sheltering you from the truth.”

“But that’s what I don’t understand, Isabel. Why is it that you think you should have to? Are we not sisters? Allies?”

Isabel studied Anne, remembering her as a girl of five or six. “I’ve always thought of myself as more than a sister to you. More like a . . .”

“A mother?” Anne supplied.

“I suppose so.”

“You’re only five years my senior. That hardly makes you a matron.” Her tone grew clipped. “And you certainly won’t be allowed to dictate my interest where men are concerned.”

“I know I’m often heavy-handed where you are concerned, Anne, but please put aside this pursuit of Mr. Teirny.”

Anne pulled away, frowning. “Isabel, I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, but you aren’t my mother. I shall pursue whomever I think best. And as I see it, it now lies on me to marry well and secure all our futures.”

Isabel’s control of the situation seemed to be slipping away. She had never seen her sister so determined, so strong-willed. “Anne, I don’t understand. At least consult with me. Can we not discuss the matter further?”

Anne whirled, her mouth set in a resolute line. “As you discussed the matter of your dowry with me?” She shook her head. “You’ve made all sorts of decisions without consulting me, and now I shall do the same. You’ll have to excuse me, for I don’t wish to miss breakfast.”

Isabel’s stomach churned, her mind racing. Never had she felt such a chasm between the two of them. She missed her father fiercely, for she wanted someone to confide in, someone who could help her fix this disaster she had unwittingly created. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Anne turned on her heel and walked to the door, not even turning back to see if Isabel would follow.

* * *

Anthony caught sight of Miss Townshend outside of one of the smaller music rooms. She leaned against the wall, rubbing the spot between her eyebrows, her mouth pulled down in a frown.

“Miss Townshend?”

“Oh, Lord Anthony.” She quickly smoothed her face into a smile.

“Is there something amiss?” He came to stand beside her.

She bit her lip. “I tried to speak with Anne this morning. About Mr. Teirny.” The spot between her brows creased once more, and she began to rub it. Her gaze grew distant.

“Here, let’s take a seat in here.” Anthony motioned to the open door of the music room, and Miss Townshend nodded, following him in. He left the door only slightly ajar so they might speak in privacy.

After they were seated, he turned toward her. “Isabel?”

Her dark brown eyes grew wide, unblinking.

Anthony cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Miss Townshend. It slipped out.”

“No. I like it.” She ducked her head. “It’s friendlier.”

The way she said friendlier awakened a host of feelings in Anthony, which he did his best to put aside. “You tried to warn your sister against Mr. Teirny, I take it?”

She nodded, her mouth pulling down at the corners. “It was rather a disaster. I’ve never seen her so determined, so intractable. Perhaps I was wrong to do what I did without consulting her.”

“You mean the matter of changing your dowry?” he prodded.

“Yes.” The way her shoulders slumped, as if defeated, tore at him.

Anthony inclined his head. “Isabel, you were only doing what you thought best—for her and your father. No one can fault you for that.” Her selflessness still astounded him, made him wish to be even half the person she was.

She turned to him, an acute look of misery in her eyes. “Yes, but at what cost? I can’t bear the thought of this coming between us. Or of her with Mr. Teirny, or anyone like him.”

“Would it help if I talked to her, do you think?” He was taking a risk. The last time they’d discussed the matter, Isabel had taken offense at his interference.

“I really couldn’t say. Perhaps she’d be more willing to listen to you.” She fiddled with the seam of her glove. “I just can’t bear to have such feelings between us.”

Anthony cleared his throat. “I probably have no right to speak so frankly, but, even knowing you both for only a short time, I can’t imagine either of you holding on to bitter feelings for long.” He gave her a half smile. “Except, perhaps, where I am concerned.”

Isabel laughed, and the sight of her nose wrinkling in delight filled Anthony with such warmth he became determined to help repair whatever was amiss between her and her sister.

“I’ll think on it. But for now, could I interest you in joining me for a duet?” He motioned toward the pianoforte, hoping to distract her from her misery.

“You play?” Her tone was doubtful.

“I . . . try,” he hedged.

She stood, a look of intrigue upon her face. “By all means.”

They settled on the small bench, Isabel blushing as their knees brushed. She shuffled through the music. “Perhaps you should choose.”

Anthony chose a duet he’d played once before, hoping he could at least muddle through. He took a moment to study the notes.

“Shall we give it a try?” She removed her gloves, resting her hands gently on the keys.

He nodded and they began. Anthony tried to focus, but, with Isabel seated next to him, his heart raced. He played slowly and missed a good many notes. When Isabel tried to wait, he would speed past her as he tried to catch up. They laughed as they struggled to stay together, but Anthony soaked in every moment, trying hard not to stare at her. Though he’d never admit it, Isabel’s closeness, the faint scent of rosewater that reached his nose, made it almost impossible to concentrate.

“Perhaps we could try something simpler?” she suggested, reaching across Anthony for a new piece. Her gloves fell to the floor. And as they both reached for them, Isabel’s head collided with his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she said, laughing.

He handed her the gloves, chuckling as well. “I think we’ve established that the two of us near the pianoforte is a dangerous affair.”

“Fortunately, Lord Anthony, your shoulder is much more forgiving than your head.” Isabel rubbed at her temple, face aglow with delight. “That night seems ages ago now.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” He shook his head in wonder. “And please, call me Anthony.”

“Anthony,” she repeated, laying the music sheets in front of them. “Perhaps this time you can take the melody.”

* * *

For the rest of the day, Anthony considered on what he might do to help smooth over the situation between Isabel and Anne. As he chatted with Ian and Beauchamp over port that evening, he caught hold of an idea he thought might work, given tonight’s poetry recitations.

Anthony bowed out of the conversation and hurried to the library. After a few minutes perusing the shelves, he found the small book of sonnets he was looking for.

Poetry had, to Anthony, always been a means to an end. It was a way to flirt and trifle with women while never saying anything of meaning. Tonight, as he took the seat next to Isabel, he hoped to use it in a much different way.

Several of the recitations were quite amusing, one even bordering on scandalous. The countess seemed to enjoy it all. During Lord Bloomsbury’s performance, however, things took a turn for the worse. It was hard to believe a man could show such an absence of self-awareness. Though one glance at the man’s mother made it a bit more understandable. When her son finished, she stood and boisterously applauded, amid the quiet and reserved applause of the audience.

“Are there any other couples who are planning to share a recitation?” asked the countess.

Anthony broke the silence. “Oh, Mr. Easton, I believe you left this behind from your practice this afternoon.” He pulled the book of sonnets from his dinner jacket and held it out. “With Miss Anne.”

Anthony quite enjoyed the look of shock upon both their faces. Easton came forward and took the book, a look of warning in his eyes.

Anthony merely smiled. “I left the passage marked as I found it.”

Miss Anne moved to the front, wringing her hands and looking very perplexed.

At his side, Isabel touched his elbow, giving him a questioning look.

“It is a risk, no doubt. But one I hope will pay off,” he whispered. He settled into his seat, intrigued to see what would come of it.

Miss Anne gave Easton a hesitant glance as he opened to the marked passage. He cleared his throat and began.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds.

Admit impediments. Love is not love . . .

He turned and looked at Miss Anne, his eyes full of longing.

Which alters when it alteration finds,
or bends with the remover to remove.

He paused, giving her a slight nod.

She leaned into him so she could read the next lines, a soft blush stealing over her cheeks.

O no! It is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken. . . .

An ever-fixed mark. Isabel’s rapt attention was on her sister and Mr. Easton, but Anthony had become distracted by the beauty of Shakespeare’s words, of how completely he’d begun to feel them for the woman sitting by his side.

Easton resumed once more, but the words faded to the background when Isabel turned, as if sensing his gaze. Her dark eyes were full of warmth, her lips slightly parted.

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error, and upon me prov’d,

I never writ . . .

Easton paused.

Anthony placed his hand over Isabel’s, whispering the final words of the sonnet into her ear. “Nor no man ever lov’d.”

For a moment neither of them moved, their eyes fastened on one another. As the room broke into applause, all focus on the front of the room, Isabel intertwined her fingers in his. A rush pulsed through him, a warmth like he had never known. “Thank you, Anthony,” she murmured, then turned and brushed a kiss upon his cheek.

12

Twelve: Unpredictable

Anthony couldn’t keep a smile from lifting the corners of his mouth as he turned down the corridor to his bedroom. He’d gone out for an evening stroll, but even the fresh night air hadn’t been enough to get Isabel out of his head. The way she’d looked at him tonight, the brush of her lips against his cheek. He sighed, wondering if he dared hope.

“Anthony.” A faint giggle. There, standing in front of his door, was a pretty young woman with red hair and pale skin. He’d been introduced to her when she had arrived at the house party, and though she looked familiar, her name now eluded him. But there was something about seeing her in this light, the way she looked at him—

“Er, Lady . . .”

“Emily. You needn’t be so formal, Anthony. I know you like to pretend we don’t know one another, but surely after our rendezvous in the gardens at the Gillingham ball . . .” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

A sick pit formed in Anthony’s gut, for now he knew why she looked so familiar. She’d been flirtatious that night, and he’d had a little too much to drink. Even in the dim light of the hallway, he recognized the look of desire in her eyes. Tonight she sought more than just a kiss. Before he could say anything, she reached up and tugged at his cravat, leaving it hanging loosely about his neck.

He stepped back. “Lady Emily, it isn’t appropriate for you to be here. Someone could walk by at any moment, and how would it look with you outside my bedroom door?”

“Why, there’s no need for me to stand outside.” She gave him a seductive smile, her hand turning the doorknob.

Anthony reached out and laid his hand over hers. “I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea before, but I really must stop you before you—” Just then he caught sight of a maid coming down the corridor, a box of candles in her arms. He firmly removed Lady Emily’s hand from the doorknob.

He waved his arm, attempting to get the maid’s attention. “Excuse me, but Lady Emily has lost her way and needs to be escorted back to her room.” He laughed, trying to seem unaffected. “It’s a miracle anyone finds the right room in a house of this size.”

The maid’s wide eyes took in the two of them, her eyes lingering for a moment on his untied cravat. Anthony exhaled in frustration, knowing what the girl must think.

She bobbed a curtsy. “Lady Emily, if you’ll just follow me. I believe your room is over this way.”

Lady Emily’s parting look was one of hurt and confusion, but Anthony was too upset to acknowledge it. It was almost impossible to believe that a few weeks ago he might have welcomed the encounter, perhaps stolen a few more kisses with the girl before sending her on her way. He made a point to never become truly involved; he’d had no desire to make a permanent attachment with any young lady. Until Isabel.

Anthony opened the door to his room, shrugging out of his coat. He removed his waistcoat and pulled off his boots, then lay down on the bed, trying to decide whether or not call for Alfred to help him finish undressing.

Thoughts of worry swirled around Anthony’s brain. For the first time, he truly regretted his careless behavior. No doubt Isabel had heard rumors of his roguish conduct, most likely quite exaggerated, much worse than any of his actual misdeeds. He would have to speak to her about it, though he dreaded the very thought.

Just as he’d put his mind to rest on the matter, a large thud in the room next door startled him. He bolted upright as a moan sounded. Anthony quickly got to his feet, worry lancing through him. Sir George was in the room next door.

* * *

Isabel struggled to clear away the fog of sleep as an urgent pounding sounded at the door. She forced her eyes open and sat up as the loud knocking came again. Who would be at her door in the middle of the night?

She cleared her throat. “Just a moment.” Isabel stumbled out of bed, feeling her way over to the vanity bench. She slipped into her dressing gown and crossed the room as another knock sounded at the door.

“Lord Anthony?” Her heart jumped a bit at the sight of him, dressed in only his shirtsleeves. Despite the candle he held, the shadows made his expression impossible to read.

“It’s your father. You must come quickly.”

Isabel was out the door before he could say another word. “Tell me,” she said, matching her pace to his long strides.

“He has the room next to mine. As I was retiring to bed, I heard a thud. When I went to check on him, he was so twisted in his bed sheets, he’d fallen from his bed.” Anthony shook his head. “I don’t want you to worry—I don’t think he’s badly hurt, but he’s delirious. We called for the doctor.”

“We?” asked Isabel, still trying to convince her heart rate to slow.

“I summoned Miss Greystock, and she was speaking with the countess, so Lady Du’Breven knows as well. She is with your father now.”

The door to her father’s room was open. He was back in his bed, but there was a wild expression on his face, and his arms waved about restlessly. “Mary, please come at once. I need you.” His voice was soft but urgent, and it twisted Isabel’s heart to see him so distraught.

The countess stood as Isabel approached. “Thank goodness you’re here. I’m assuming Anthony informed you that we sent for Dr. Hill. He doesn’t live far.”

Isabel nodded, wondering what might have triggered her father into such a state. He’d been quiet at dinner and the poetry reading. Perhaps a little too quiet.

“He keeps asking for Mary.”

“My mother,” said Isabel softly. She went and stood at her father’s side, taking his hand in hers, but he quickly jerked it away, muttering to himself. “He’s not even lucid.” Worry coursed through her. She’d never seen him like this. What would become of them if he lost his mind completely? Or worse.

Anthony came and stood beside her. “The doctor will be here soon. Should I fetch your sister?”

Isabel almost shook her head, thinking it might be best to wait until the doctor had some news. But then she remembered their conversation from this morning. It would be wrong to keep this from her. Isabel looked up and met Anthony’s eyes, grateful he had thought of it. “Yes, if you would.”

She sat near the countess in silence as her father continued to mumble to himself, occasionally raising his voice. Her legs trembled no matter how she tried to still them. Isabel held her arms around her middle, trying to calm herself.

After what felt like an eternity, a distinguished looking gentleman with a gray beard entered the room, a black bag in his hand. “As always Lady Du’Breven, it takes me as long to make my way through this home as it does to reach it.” The doctor’s gaze went to where her father lay, murmuring to himself.

“Now is no time for your protests. This is Miss Isabel Townshend, Sir George’s daughter.”

Once Isabel had shared everything she thought might be of use to him, Dr. Hill asked everyone to leave the room. Isabel made her way into the corridor as the countess gave some parting instructions to the doctor.

“Is there anything I can get you, Miss Townshend?” asked Miss Greystock. The poor woman looked dreadfully tired, and Isabel felt guilty she hadn’t even acknowledged her earlier.

She shook her head. “Oh, no.”

“Some tea perhaps? With light refreshments?” Miss Greystock’s face grew soft with sympathy. “It may be a long night.”

“Yes, thank you for thinking of it. I’m afraid my mind feels a little fuzzy.”

“And with good reason. I’ll send someone up right away.”

Once alone, Isabel leaned against the wall, sapped of energy.

“Isabel?” Anne’s voice echoed through the long hall.

“Anne!” The sight of Anne and Anthony coming toward her brought a wave of relief. “The doctor is in with him now.”

Anne nodded. “Thank you for sending for me.” Her voice was timid, as if the words from earlier stood between them.

Isabel reached out her hand. “I need you here with me. And so does Father.”

The door opened and Dr. Hill emerged. Anthony stepped back as Isabel and her sister turned to him.

“There is no immediate cause for alarm. Your father has a high fever, but he doesn’t seem to have been injured by his fall. I gave him some fever powders as well as laudanum to help settle him down. He needs rest, but with a fever as high as his, he also needs to be watched. Is there someone who might be called in?”

Isabel glanced at Anne. “We’d prefer to be the ones who stay with him.” Anne nodded her agreement.

Dr. Hill stroked his beard. “Come with me and I’ll give you some instructions about what to look for.”

Isabel and her sister both fussed over their father for a few minutes after the doctor left. Though still awake, his eyes had a faraway quality, and he seemed much more restful.

“Anne, do you mind if I take the first shift? I’m far too alert to sleep right now.”

Anne turned back to look at their father. “You’ll send someone to wake me when it’s my turn?”

Isabel nodded. “Of course.” She embraced Anne briefly, hoping to convey how much her sister meant to her.

Once Anne had departed, Anthony cleared his throat. “I’ll be right next door if you need anything.” He gave a slight bow.

Watching him walk away, Isabel’s legs began to tremble once again. An invisible weight descended on her shoulders, but tonight she wasn’t sure she had the strength to bear it. Isabel tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat; why was it so hard to admit how vulnerable she felt?

Anthony reached the door before she finally forced the words out. “Won’t you stay? I hate the thought of being here alone.”

He stopped, turning to face her. “I will stay as long as you need me.”

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice small.

Anthony took two chairs from the corner of the room and brought them over near the bed. Within moments her father had closed his eyes, his deep breaths filling the room.

“Isabel?” Anthony murmured.

“Hmm? I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not very good company tonight.”

“No one expects you to be, in such a circumstance.” He placed his hand over hers, and with neither of them wearing gloves, it felt both intimate and reassuring. “I confess, I feel more concern for your father than I would for my own.”

Isabel glanced over at him and wondered if she dared broach the topic. “Will you tell me about your father?”

Anthony hunched over and stared down at the rug. “I’m afraid what I say might shock you. My family is nothing like yours.”

Suddenly Isabel longed to know this other side of him, to understand him better. “Please,” she whispered.

He sighed aloud and tugged at his cravat, seeming surprised to find it already untied. He must have been undressing when he’d heard her father. “My father is an arrogant, overbearing man. We never got on well.” He turned to look at her. “But once I found out he was unfaithful to my mother, I could never look at him the same.”

Philandering was commonplace, but Isabel could still hardly imagine it. She kept her face expressionless, afraid if she showed too much Anthony might hold back. “I’m sorry, Anthony. How awful for you. And your mother.”

“She turned a blind eye to it, because what else could she do?” His voice grew bitter. “But I swear my father made her so unhappy he drove her to an early grave.”

Isabel winced. Though she’d grown up without a mother, she’d always known the love her parents had shared. “How old were you when she died?”

“Sixteen.”

She sat quietly, waiting for him to go on.

“In some ways, after her death, things between us improved. My father’s indiscretions didn’t bother me so much when they couldn’t hurt my mother.”

Isabel nodded. She sensed a darkness in him but couldn’t imagine anything worse than what he’d already told her.

“When I was nineteen, I began courting a young woman who lived nearby. We’d grown up together, and I’d always held a tendre for her, but it grew into something much deeper. We were young, yet there was no reason to wait to marry.

“I came home from school on a break, planning to propose.” Anthony stared straight ahead, his voice devoid of emotion. “I came home a day early, unable to wait any longer. But clearly my presence was unexpected. For when I entered my father’s study, I found her with my father—in a compromising situation.” Agony crept over his face for only a moment before it disappeared under a mask of indifference.

Horror washed over Isabel, her stomach turning. “Oh, Anthony.”

“It was a long time ago.” He shook his head.

How he could he be so nonchalant, so carefree, with such a history? But the answer was in the façade Isabel had just witnessed—it was all a show, an act. To distract himself from the betrayal of his own father and the woman he’d once loved.

She tightened her grip around his hand, wishing to take away some of the pain. “I can’t make sense of your father’s behavior.” Isabel reached up and traced a path down Anthony’s jaw, willing him to look at her. “But I can promise you that not every woman is so careless with a man’s heart.”

The candles in the room flickered, and Isabel’s pulse stuttered as Anthony’s eyes met hers, unguarded and burning with something she couldn’t name. “Almost, you make me believe it,” he whispered, leaning toward her, just a breath away.

They both jerked back as a maid pushed her way into the room, carrying a large tray. She set down the tray on a small side table and curtsied. “Miss Greystock wishes to know if there’s anything else you require.”

13

Thirteen: Misconstrued

Anthony combed a hand through his hair, deep in thought as Alfred finished tying his cravat. He loved Isabel. He was more certain now than ever that he would offer for her hand. A smile crept across his face, thinking of the woman who had so completely caught his heart off guard. Something had changed between them the night her father had fallen ill. He supposed moments of insecurity revealed vulnerability in people, brought it to the surface.

The last several days had been a blur. Mostly time spent with Isabel as she’d been watching over her father in his sick bed. They’d read together, played cards, even tried whistling some duets, which had been just as disastrous as their duets on the pianoforte. Last night, before she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, Isabel had even confided in him about her tendency to mother Anne and how hard it was to let go of that tendency, even now.

Luckily, just this morning Sir George’s fever had broken and he was on the mend, though he seemed more disoriented than he had before his illness. But as much as they’d both worried over Sir George’s health, Anthony was grateful for the past few days. They had brought more certainty to his and Isabel’s relationship, and how could he regret that?

“Is there anything else you require of me before dinner, Lord Anthony?” Alfred bent over, rubbing at one last spot on Anthony’s shoe.

“No, thank you, Alfred.”

Anthony studied himself in the mirror, looking at his perfectly tied cravat, and a niggling worry wormed its way to the front of Anthony’s mind. The look on that maid’s face when she’d seen Lady Emily outside his door wouldn’t leave him. With Isabel so worried about her father, Anthony hadn’t had the heart to weigh her down with yet another burden, and so the matter had gone unaddressed.

What would she think if word somehow got back to her? She’d be shocked, angry, disappointed. No doubt Anthony was deserving of just such a reaction. He’d had plenty of time for self-introspection, which had left him unhappy and disappointed in himself. But since he’d met Isabel, well, he couldn’t stand the thought that she might believe his attentions had been anywhere but on her since his arrival at Somerstone.

Now every moment that passed made him uneasy, for Anthony knew better than anyone how quickly rumors could fly. In the past, he’d relied on it. Enjoyed it.

The only thing for it was to tell her. He would be candid, painfully blunt if necessary, about what he was—or had been—and hope she could overlook his past flaws and see in him the desire to change, to be a better man. He shook his head, still marveling at the alteration Isabel had wrought in him.

One thing was certain: time at the house party was running out. Anthony needed to speak with her tonight. Tomorrow the countess was throwing a large ball, and Anthony had toyed with the idea of proposing to Isabel there, hoping to make things official between them before the house party ended. In truth, Anthony couldn’t abide the thought of watching Isabel leave without any sort of understanding between them.

* * *

“Isabel, that lavender color is stunning on you,” said Anne, who had shooed away Dorothy and was now repinning Isabel’s hair.

Isabel smiled then blushed when she couldn’t seem to stop. The thought of dancing with Anthony tonight filled her with a girlish giddiness unbecoming of a woman of twenty-three. She’d spent the entirety of last night in her father’s room. And, with the household all a bustle today, she and Anthony hadn’t seen one another. It was a little embarrassing to think how much she had missed him over the course of just a day. “Thank you,” she said, biting her cheek and hoping her sister wouldn’t tease her.

Anne just gave her a knowing look. “Oh drat, now I’ve ruined the curls around your face. I should have just let them be.”

“We’re going to be late.” Isabel frowned. “I’d hate to have the countess think us rude after the doting hospitality she’s shown to us these past few weeks.”

“Here, you just wait a moment.” Anne held up a hand. “Betsy was telling me about one of the maids who is a wonder with hair. I’m sure she can fix the mess I’ve made in no time.”

Knowing her sister wouldn’t take no for an answer, Isabel nodded. She sat at her vanity, sighing at the languishing tendrils around her face. Perhaps agreeing to a new hairstyle for the ball hadn’t been the wisest thing. But she’d so hoped to look—and feel—different tonight. Tonight seemed so full of possibilities, and Isabel couldn’t remember the last time she’d been excited for a social event. Usually these sorts of things felt like an obligation, one in which she’d act as a chaperone for Anne, feeling lucky if she was surrounded by people who were more witty than dull.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Anne peeked her head in. “This is Margaret, who has agreed to come and undo the damage I’ve done. I have to go and get my gloves, but I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Isabel nodded and Margaret, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, crossed the room, greeting her with an unpolished curtsy. “Thank you so much for having me. I’ve only been brought up to the big house to help during the house party, and it’s an honor to serve you.”

“The countess must be quite impressed with you if she trusts you with such a grand event.” Isabel smiled her encouragement.

“I doubt she even knows who I am, but it’s of no consequence.” Margaret shook her head. “I can’t wait to watch all the fine couples dancing together in such elegance.” She grinned, examining Isabel’s hair from all angles. “And I hope to see if I was right about who might be partnered together. The past few weeks I’ve seen all sorts of goings on, and me and the other maids have made some wagers about who might dance together, or meet for a rendezvous out in the gardens.”

Margaret wound a small section of Isabel’s hair around her finger, then pinned it back in perfect form, making sure the pin was invisible. Isabel raised her brows, surprised at how good it looked. “And who do you predict might be together this evening?” she asked absentmindedly, wondering what Anthony would think when he saw her.

“Oh, well.” She blushed and then giggled. “Since you asked. I’ve no doubt that both Lord Beauchamp and his brother will be flocking near Miss Fairchild. It’s difficult to know who will come out ahead, though if you ask me Miss Fairchild prefers Lord Beauchamp. I’m sure I can’t understand why. His younger brother is much more dashing.” The girl hardly took a breath between sentences. “And then I’m fairly certain Lord Anthony and Lady Emily will be dancing together this evening, and perhaps more than that.”

Isabel’s voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “Lord Anthony, did you say?”

“Yes,” she went on. “Why, just a few nights ago I caught the both of them outside his bedroom door, and I don’t think I imagined the disappointment on their faces when I interrupted their little meeting.”

Margaret seemed completely unaware of the sinking feeling in Isabel’s stomach. “Though I admit, I don’t think he looks well paired with a redhead.” She twisted back one last piece of Isabel’s hair. “There. You look perfect.”

“Thank you,” Isabel whispered, feeling oddly distant. The girl had to be mistaken. In the past, she might have believed it, but now, knowing what she did . . . the sincerity and devotion Anthony had shown her the past few days . . .

She breathed in courage and determined she would ask him herself. They had such an open way about them now, Isabel could almost feel comfortable broaching such a topic. And once she did, she was sure it would all come to naught. Glancing at the clock, she pulled at her gloves and ran her hands down the front of her skirts before hurrying down to the ball.

* * *

Anthony looked around the room again, impatient when he couldn’t find Isabel. Somehow, with all of the day’s goings on, they hadn’t run into one another. Anthony still felt restless with the pent-up need to tell her the truth. As much as he’d hoped to avoid it, it would have to be here. Tonight.

After spending a few moments with Beauchamp and Ian, Anthony excused himself and worked his way back to the balcony doors where he could more easily survey the room. What could be keeping Isabel?

“Anthony?”

He jerked his head up, only to find Lady Emily at his side. He bit back a groan. “Lady Emily, what do you want?”

She clicked her tongue. “So harsh, Anthony. You would think we weren’t even friends.” Her pout, which he used to find charming, grated on his nerves. Her manners were girlish and shallow in comparison with the authenticity he admired in Isabel.

Lady Emily stepped closer and rested her hands on his chest. He peeled her hands away and stepped back. “We cannot be friends if you insist on being so friendly. People will get the wrong idea.”

“You’ve never cared what people think. Tosh, Anthony.” She slid closer. “Or is it Miss Townshend you are worried about?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Miss Townshend, the countess, anyone at this party. Take your pick.” He glanced around the room, looking for an escape. “There is nothing between us, and there never will be.”

She let out a slight hiss through her teeth and glanced to her left, but Anthony didn’t follow her gaze until too late. Lady Emily put her hand around the back of his neck and slinking closer, pulled him into a kiss. Stunned, it took him a moment to draw back, but as he did so Isabel came into view. She stared at the two of them, open mouthed. Lady Emily didn’t waste a moment.

“Oh, Anthony.” She giggled. “Don’t make me swoon.”

Isabel’s face crumpled, and, before Anthony could speak or even move, she picked up her skirts and darted away, disappearing from sight.

He jerked away from Lady Emily as if he’d been burned. “Isabel, wait!”

14

Fourteen: Breathless

Isabel wove her way through the crowd, her vision blurry, a sick feeling spreading through her. The music continued to play, and soft chatter filled the room around her, but it all seemed far away. The image of Lady Emily, her knowing smile, and that display between the two of them burned in her mind. How could she have let herself be duped so completely? Lord Anthony had wooed her, courted her, made her feel the possibility of a future between them. And she, in turn, had allowed herself to believe she saw something in him, despite his reputation. To fall in love with a man who was, and always would be, a rake.

A dry, humorless laugh bubbled up inside her. She’d been so naïve. She, who prided herself on seeing through men and guiding Anne through the tangled tapestry of courtship. Right behind the laugh came a choked hiccup and a stifled sob. Isabel covered her mouth, doing her best to keep her emotions at bay.

It took a strong tug on her arm to bring her back to the ballroom, where Anne was looking at her with concern, Mr. Tauney Easton right beside her. “Isabel, what happened?”

Something about the smell of the crowded ballroom—the mix of so many people and burning candles—threatened to make Isabel faint. “Air. I need air.”

Mr. Easton turned on his heel to lead the way, and Anne laid a hand on Isabel’s back, guiding her toward the balcony doors, which had yet to be propped open. Soon Isabel was gasping in the cool night air, one hand on the balustrade, the other at her throat. As if such a gesture could hold back the torrent of despair threatening to crash down on her.

“Please,” Anne said from behind her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

And in that moment, as much as Isabel wanted to keep the truth from Anne, to be the strong one who never faltered, she couldn’t. “Lord Anthony . . .” She swallowed, her mouth dry. “I saw him with L-lady Emily.” She shook her head before going on. “I’ve been such a fool.” And with that she began to weep, her breaths coming in great heaving sobs.

Anne’s arms encompassed her, a fierce strength in her slender figure. “I can hardly believe it,” Anne murmured, muted anger in her voice. “I thought so well of him.” Isabel leaned into her sister, feeling her strength and allowing herself to be vulnerable.

“Are you certain you weren’t mistaken in what you saw?” Mr. Easton’s voice broke through the night air. “For I’ve heard some questionable things about Lady Emily’s character. Just tonight, I overheard her telling Lady Summers she was planning to retaliate against Lord Anthony for humiliating her.”

“Isabel, there you are.” A man’s frantic-sounding voice came from behind them.

Isabel stiffened, hating the way her skin tingled in reaction to hearing Lord Anthony’s voice.

He took several quick, shallow breaths. “I’ve been trying to catch up to you ever since you ran off. Please, allow me to explain.”

Anne didn’t move a muscle, she would let Isabel decide and not try to sway her one way or another. Isabel let out a heavy sigh, angry that she couldn’t avoid this encounter. But Lord Anthony would have to be faced. Might as well do it here, tonight, and have it done with. Though dread pooled in her stomach, reminding her that she was not so coolly unaffected with this situation as she wished herself to be.

Isabel cleared her throat, swallowing back any hint of reticence. She straightened her back as Anne released her hold. “Why yes, Lord Anthony, I believe I would like a word.”

Anne shot Lord Anthony a threatening glare. “Mr. Easton and I will be right through these doors should you need anything, Isabel.”

Isabel nodded, wishing her pulse wasn’t thundering through her veins, each beat adding to the headache forming behind her eyes. She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t feel so very exposed. It felt as if everything depended on this very moment.

At the feel of something on her arm, Isabel jerked, surprised to find Lord Anthony right next to her. The sleeve of his jacket brushed her elbow as he joined her at the balcony. He let out a despondent laugh. “I tried so hard to tell you, to warn you of my past, but it seems inevitable that it would catch up with me. If not here and now, somewhere in the future.”

Isabel stepped back from the balcony, wrapping her arms around her core. “So you and Lady Emily do have a past.”

Anthony turned, giving her a half-hearted smile. There was something in his coffee-colored eyes that tugged at Isabel, despite her determination to remain unmoved. “Yes, if you can call it a past. We flirted at a ball a few months ago, and once her interest in me became clear, I took her out to the gardens, where I kissed her, several times. Nothing more—that, I can promise you. But she clearly thought more was a possibility. She approached me a few nights ago outside of my room. I rebuffed her advances and it offended her. Tonight was nothing more than a ploy to cause trouble between us.” His shoulders sagged uncharacteristically, and he shook his head.

“Isabel, I feel sick knowing what you must believe of me. And to think I had begun to hope you might see me differently, that you might seriously consider a man with a multitude of past transgressions. But I suppose a man can only be careless with so many hearts before he ends up breaking his own.”

It felt like minutes since Isabel had drawn a breath. Her insides tensed, like a coil wrapped too tightly. There was something about Lord Anthony that frightened Isabel, for when he spoke he slowly undid her defenses. He made her listen when it was the last thing she wanted to do.

And with his hair mussed from his dash across the ballroom and the moonlight reflecting in his mournful eyes, her heart wanted to believe him. But her logical side, the side she’d always given preference to, couldn’t allow his words to take place in her.

She gave a derisive laugh. “Your words almost convince me, Lord Anthony.” Her voice was cool and distant, so unlike what she felt. “In fact, in this moment, I believe them. But this little charade must come to an end. I suppose it’s possible you’ve changed, and perhaps you believe you have. But what about the next time a beautiful woman flirts with you? How can I trust a man who has admitted to repeated past transgressions? To such carelessness with other’s hearts? I suppose the danger is I would never really know. And that would break my heart over and over again.”

Anthony pulled back from her a little. And Isabel wondered if he knew that, even though her words were directed toward him, each one was a knife to her own heart. “I can’t trust you, Lord Anthony. I can’t trust us.”

Something akin to determination lit his eyes, and he stepped forward before she had a chance to walk away. “No. Please.” He reached up, and the back of his knuckles traced a line down Isabel’s jaw, his touch like white fire that rooted her feet to the ground. His gaze roamed over her face, searching and hungry and desperate. In a moment, his lips were on hers, and Isabel felt as though she’d been struck by lightning. Heat poured through her, each millimeter of contact between them blazing, awakening all of the feelings she’d been so determined to tamp down. With each brush of his lips against hers, Isabel felt herself to be a starved woman, ravenous for Anthony’s love, for who she was when she was with him.

Her lungs seemed to sputter when he pulled back and touched his forehead to hers. “Trust this; trust us.” He kissed her again. This time without the heat and passion but with a soft tenderness that went straight to her heart. The warmth and surety she felt with his arms around her seemed to belie every protest her head could make.

“Isabel, are you all right? Is Lord Anthony—” Anne’s sharp intake of breath broke the moment as the two of them hurriedly stepped apart.

The warmth receded, all of Isabel’s former doubts rushing back in.

“I brought you a drink,” said Anne, looking back and forth between the two of them. “Why don’t you come inside for a moment?”

Despite the temptation to stay with Anthony, Isabel knew it wasn’t wise. Not when he could convince her so easily. Not when his kiss stole her breath, making it impossible to think.

As she turned to go he leaned forward and whispered, “I won’t push you anymore tonight. But please, I beg you, meet me tomorrow? Down by the bench in the gardens before breakfast. There’s something I must speak to you about.”

Isabel nodded dumbly. Anthony gave a brief bow, his gaze unrelenting as Anne took her arm and whisked her back into the ballroom.

15

Fifteen: Garden Tête-à-Tête

Tired of tossing and turning, Isabel climbed out of bed well before the sun crept over the horizon. She’d slipped in a few snatches of sleep, but mostly her thoughts had been consumed with Anthony. His eyes, his smile, his words. And his kiss.

Isabel blew out a sigh and padded across the room, grabbing her wrap off the chair and pulling it around her before taking a seat at the vanity. She gently teased out her braid, using her fingers to comb through her hair as she tried to reign in the wild tangle of her thoughts. She vacillated between allowing herself to believe Anthony’s sincerity and the promises he seemed so eager to make, and giving into the dark despair that spread through her whenever her mind conjured up images of him with Lady Emily.

How could she know, with any certainty, whether she could trust Anthony? The thought of letting him go and closing her heart seemed impossible. But the other alternative—opening her heart and loving him—seemed just as unbearable. She feared giving him power over her: the power to betray her trust and shatter her heart.

Isabel traced the dark circles under her eyes. For such a large house, her room felt awfully small this morning, closing in around her as she struggled to decide.

She needed to get out of this room at once. But she couldn’t face Anthony just yet. Her insides trembled at the thought of seeing him again after last night. A quick glance out the window at the rising sun and Isabel knew exactly where to go. Making her way to the wardrobe, she put on the first dress she touched and then pulled her hair back in a low chignon. Her father was a well-established early riser, and speaking with him would serve as a welcome distraction.

Once she reached the hallway where her father’s room was located, Isabel hesitated. Anthony’s room was situated right next to her father’s. Taking a sustaining breath, she quickened her step and knocked softly on her father’s door before slipping into his room.

He sat back against the pillows on his bed, but he was wide-awake, his eyes turned toward the window. “Isabel, my dear. How are you this morning? I didn’t expect to see you so early, what with the late hours of the ball last evening.”

Isabel smiled, glad to see his blue eyes sparkling. “I didn’t do very much dancing, I’m afraid.”

One side of her father’s mouth turned down, as if trying to discern what she meant. “Well it can’t have been for lack of willing partners. The countess invited half the county.”

She shook her head. “I think the whole county might be more accurate. The ball was lovely. I was just a bit distracted.”

He grinned. “Distracted, were you? Perhaps by that Lord Anthony fellow?”

Heat rose in Isabel’s cheeks as she remembered the passion in Anthony’s kiss, the smell of him, like warm cedar.

“Why, there’s no need to be embarrassed, my dear girl. You two passed quite a bit of time in here while I was ill, and I saw how he looked at you.” He gave her a knowing smile. “Very much the way I imagine I used to look at your mother.”

* * *

Anthony double-checked his pocket, making sure the necklace was where he had put it. He raised his eyes at the sound of a soft knock, but by the time he opened his door no one was there. Odd. He left his room and shut the door quietly behind him, wanting to be at the bench early, just in case.

He made his way through the house with long strides, his thoughts so occupied that he didn’t see the countess standing near the library doors. “You’re up a good deal earlier than usual,” she said, one eyebrow raised. “Where on earth are you going at such an hour?”

Her directness provoked his honesty. “To make a desperate attempt to convince Isabel Townshend to marry me.” Saying the words out loud made him feel the enormity of his task, the impossibility that such a woman would want him. He’d never felt so insecure about anything.

“I see.” The countess folded her arms across her chest, eyeing him.

Anthony turned to go, but the countess’s words stopped him. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always believed you have a great deal more of your mother’s heart in you than your father’s. It’s part of why I invited you to this house party. Remember that.”

Her eyes were soft with sincerity, and a lump grew in his throat as he remembered his mother. Her devastation at his father’s infidelity. He gave the countess a nod, silently vowing that he would never bring his wife—whether it was Isabel or someone else—such heartache. He nodded. “Thank you.”

“I wish you the best,” she said, before turning away, an impish smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

Once Anthony arrived at the bench, he took a seat and interlocked his fingers, then just as quickly released them, checking his pocket again.

Would Isabel even come? He could hardly blame her if not. First the scene with Lady Emily last night, and then his frightful attempt to repair it, which had ended in . . . well, that part he couldn’t regret. His kiss with Isabel had been just as perfect as he’d imagined it would be, so much more than the shallow blandness of other stolen kisses. Anthony hadn’t fathomed what a kiss could be like when he felt so much, and he was quite certain Isabel had felt it, too.

At the sound of rustling leaves, Anthony glanced up, only to find a small hare slowly working its way across the path. He ran a hand through his hair and stood, unable to stay still any longer. His own words from last night came back to him, echoing through his mind: I suppose one can only be careless with so many hearts before he ends up breaking his own. Once again he berated himself for his past recklessness, for the hurt he’d seen in Isabel’s eyes. For even though he hadn’t intentionally caused it, he’d been the source of it all the same. The thought caused him intense pain, while bringing the newness of hope: if she didn’t care for him at all, she wouldn’t have been hurt.

Just as he was about to reach into his pocket for a fourth time, Isabel’s soft voice broke through the morning air. “Anthony?” The chirping of the birds seemed to recede into a soft background chorus as she walked toward him from the east, the sun shining behind her, a vision in a dress of sky blue and soft tendrils of her dark hair framing her face. Anthony couldn’t help the wide smile that crept across his face. “You came.”

* * *

“I did.” At the sight of Anthony’s smile, a wave of shyness rushed over Isabel, and she toyed with her shawl, unsure of where to look.

He gestured toward the bench. “Won’t you take a seat?”

They both sat on the bench, his knee brushing hers. Isabel glanced up at him, her eyes wandering to his lips and then immediately dropping to her lap, where her hands were clasped together. Anthony reached out and covered her hands with his own, and her heart jumped to her throat.

“Isabel, I used to believe myself charming and irresistible, until I met you.” He gave a soft laugh, his mussed hair falling across his brow. “For years I handed out trite phrases and banal compliments to women without a second thought.” He shook his head, his lips turning down before he looked up and met her eyes. “But I spent the whole of last night thinking of what I might say to you this morning. Nothing seems adequate.”

Anthony reached toward his pocket, fiddling with something there. Her heart warmed to see him so anxious, so different from his usual assured self.

He took a heavy breath and tightened the hand that rested over hers. “Isabel, I think I fell in love with you the moment you gave me a verbal tongue-lashing in that storm. Ever since then, you have consumed my thoughts. Though I convinced myself I felt nothing more than passing attraction.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “But the love I have for you is more than that—it is more than I thought possible for one man to feel. You ground me, you anchor me, you have given me reason to be something more than I was. For you deserve more than a charming fool whose head is turned as easily as a—” He shook his head, as if frustrated with his inability to complete the thought.

Isabel held her breath unwittingly, her ribs constricting as the force of Anthony’s words stormed through her.

He met her gaze, his eyes shining with emotion. “I love you, Isabel Townshend, and I want to marry you. But I can’t ask that of you without giving you some gesture of my devotion, some token to show you that I am determined to never betray your trust.” His hand came out of his pocket, and he held it toward her, slowly opening his fist. There, resting in his palm, lay a pendant on a silver chain.

Hesitantly, Isabel reached out her hand and turned the pendant over. Encased in the glass was a pressed violet. Another purple flower, yet this one with a very different meaning from the last. Faithfulness.

Isabel’s finger traced the smooth round pendant, heart pounding against her chest, spreading warmth through her entire body.

“I cannot change who I was in the past,” Anthony went on, his deep voice striking chords in her heart. “But I can promise who I will be from this moment on. I wish for nothing more than to spend the rest of my life proving my love, my fidelity, to you, Isabel.”

Isabel reached out and stroked back his hair from his forehead. She gave a little laugh. “If that is your wish, who am I to try and stop you?” He smiled, and his eyes were filled with such unwavering sincerity that it was impossible to disbelieve him. She was suddenly choked by emotion. “Oh, Anthony. I love you.”

“Is such a thing really possible?” Anthony’s voice was full of wonder as he leaned forward, hesitant, tentative.

Isabel closed the distance between them, placing a hand on his chest as their lips met. He reached up and caressed her neck as he pulled her closer, and a flutter raced through her stomach. Certainty surged through Isabel, a contented peace unlike any she had ever known.

When Anthony pulled back, a mischievous grin crossed his face. “Perhaps we’d better go in before your sister catches us again. If we don’t tell her you’ve agreed to marry me, she’ll think me quite the rogue.”

She laughed, her heart light and full. “Yes, we must tell Anne at once. And my father.”

Anthony stood and reached out to help her up from the bench. The warmth of his hand around hers confirmed all that she felt. And, for once, Isabel’s head and heart were in accord.

* * *

This is the first of many Regency House Party Collections. Follow our Newsletter to find out when others become available. HERE.

Read all the books in this first collection of our Regency House Party. They can be enjoyed in any order:

The Unwanted Suitor

Mistaken Identity

The Stable Master’s Daughter

An Unlikely Courtship

Tabitha’s Folly

Damen’s Secret

These stories first appeared in serial form at http://www.regencyhouseparty.com. Join us there for the next party.

To learn more about Heidi, you can go to her website: https://www.authorheidikimball.com/

To get all the latest updates on Heidi's upcoming releases, sign up for her newsletter here

This is the first of many Regency House Party Collections. Follow our Newsletter to find out when others become available. HERE.

These stories first appeared in serial form at http://www.regencyhouseparty.com. Join us there for the next party.

Guests are enjoying a certain amount of merriment on our Facebook page and group. Characters mingle with the visitors, Wellington the pug has an active presence and when a new party is in the works, we announce new chapters as they go live. RHP Group

See the First Chapter of Mistaken Identity next.

About the Author

At a young age Heidi perfected the art of hiding out so she could read instead of doing chores. One husband and four children later, not much has changed. She has an abiding love for peanut butter M&Ms, all things fall, and any book that can make her forget she is supposed to be keeping her children alive.

Getting a book published has been a dream come true. Heidi currently lives just north of Boston, in a charming old town in southern New Hampshire.

To learn more about Heidi, you can go to her website: https://www.authorheidikimball.com/

To get all the latest updates on Heidi's upcoming releases, sign up for her newsletter here

Copyright © 2018 by Heidi Kimball

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Chapter One of Mistaken Identity

"Bloo…" Conrad Pinkerton, the Marquess of Kendal, cursed to himself. He reined in his horse at the sight of several carriages lining the drive of the massive house. If he waited his turn in line, he would surely be caught in the approaching downpour, just visible in the distance. He moved his horse to the side, the stables his destination, passing ladies dressed in all their finery as they exited their carriages. Servants followed behind, loaded down with trunks and boxes of varying sizes. Probably filled with bonnets of great extravagance and even less taste.

Conrad snorted. He had no idea how Ian had convinced him to agree to this absurd plan. Demonic possession seemed the only explanation for what he was about to do. He hated society and a house party was one of the worst manifestations of it. Every mama able to finagle an invitation would be here to peddle her daughter before the highest ranking peer. It was beyond his understanding why his brother willingly submitted himself to this tabby gathering. Under normal circumstances, Conrad would never attend such an event, yet here he was.

He handed off his mount to a stable boy.

Moving quickly in front of the ladies currently being helped from their carriage, Conrad muttered another curse. A sharp intake of breath drew his gaze to a young woman waiting for the rest of her party. She looked at him with wide eyes.

Conrad dipped his head in apology and mounted the curved stairs, joining the other guests there.

An old hunched butler stood just inside the open the doorway, gesturing him inside. Conrad presented his card, or rather, Ian's.

"Lord Ian Pinkerton, welcome to Somerstone." The old man bowed so deeply, Conrad was afraid he may never be able to right himself again. Much to his relief, the man returned to his previous hunched position before reaching behind Conrad and taking the card of the group behind him.

A slim, dark-haired lady approached with a bright smile. She was not a doe-eyed debutante, but neither did she look to be on the shelf. She, or rather her family, must have money problems, Conrad thought with a small amount of sympathy.

"Ah, Lord Ian. I am Miss Graystock, the Countess's companion. Lady Du'Brevan has been waiting for you. Please, follow me. She wanted to speak with you directly."

Conrad sighed internally, for Ian would never make such a sound out loud. Unless it was a matter of grave concern, such as a mis-tied cravat or a waistcoat of last year's fashion. Having committed himself the moment he walked through the door, Conrad pasted a smile upon his face, one he hoped conveyed a mixture of fecklessness and charm. The action proved more difficult than he had assumed. He loathed the role he must play, but he had agreed. Switching places was something they had done throughout childhood. Then it was a perk of being identical twins. Now the joke was stale and juvenile. Straightening Ian’s canary yellow waistcoat and checking that his hair was parted on the correct side, Conrad squared his shoulders and followed the woman through a hall with dozens of pillars supporting the upper floor. At the stairs, the lady waited for him to ascend first.

So, she has been trained to be a lady, then. His earlier suspicions were supported. At the top of the stairs, he again followed Miss Graystock down a sort of hallway, although it went through several rooms along the way. Conrad looked around, without openly gawking. Ian had been a guest of the Countess on several occasions. It would surely give Conrad away if he seemed overly interested in the grand home.

Conrad himself had only met the Countess Du'Breven on a few occasions in London. He did not know her well, but he did know her to be a busybody who, on occasion, could prove amusing. Perhaps the next few days would not be horrendous, after all.

He followed Miss Graystock into a library of sorts, although it's offering was sparse compared to many, including his own. From the expansiveness of the house, Conrad guessed it was more likely a personal sitting room of the Countess. The bookshelves only covered the lower half of the walls, the upper portion being covered in a rich red wallpaper. Windows spread throughout the room gave it a bright, welcoming warmth. The lady herself was seated at a desk, a quill in hand. She looked up at their entrance. Abandoning her parchment, she stood to greet them.

Miss Graystock curtsied. “I will see to the other guests, unless you need me for something else, my lady?”

The Countess waved her away and Miss Graystock closed the door behind her. Conrad envied the woman’s quick exit.

The old woman's shoulders relaxed a fraction as she smiled. "Ian, it is so good to see you."

"I can assure you, my lady, the pleasure is all mine." Had he used enough affection in his tone? Did his smile appear appropriately friendly? He should have paid more attention to Ian in social gatherings. Although, he tried to avoid doing both. Conrad took a calming breath. How had he thought this charade was going to work?

The Countess clasped his hands in hers, unabashedly looking him over. The scrutiny was unnerving. Conrad unconsciously took a step back, his smile dropping slightly, only to have the Countess take two steps forward, closing the gap. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she continued her perusal. Stopping at his face, her head tilting to one side. I can't believe it. I have been here less than five minutes and the lady has already ferreted out the secret.

"You seem different, Ian. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is definitely something amiss."

Conrad pushed his hair out of his eyes determining to have his valet trim it tonight. Forcing a chuckle that came out sounding slightly crazed, he stammered. "I…I do not know what you mean. Perhaps my hair is longer than usual, but…" He raised a brow, hoping he could distract her until he could make an escape to his rooms. "You on the other hand, have not changed a bit. How do you do it, my lady?" I have two whole days of this? He was beginning to think his best course of action was to keep to his rooms. Or rather to any room where the Countess was not.

She released his hands and rapped him lightly against the upper arm. "I can see you have not changed in totality. You are still quite the charmer."

Conrad gave an inward grimace at the description. It inferred such low character. He did not understand how his brother could not only endure such a title, but seemingly embrace it. "I was told you wished to see me upon my arrival." He winced slightly at the gruff tone of his voice. Softening it, he asked, "How may I be of service?"

Her head titled again, an appraising look entering her eyes. Moving back to her desk, she picked up the feather, tapping it against her chin. "I was hoping you had convinced your brother to accompany you on this visit. But seeing you are alone, I am guessing he was otherwise engaged?" There was a touch of challenge in her voice.

"My dear Countess, if I did not know better, I would think you were using me for my connections to the Marquess of Kendal." He gave a dramatic sigh, followed by a wink. He had seen Ian wink hundreds of times at as many ladies. It always ended with the same response —tittering and blushing. The Countess, however, neither blushed nor tittered, which squelched Conrad’s earlier confidence. "It is good I know better,” he quickly amended. “I did present him with your invitation, but as always, he declined. I cannot fathom why you desire his presence. Everyone knows he is a bore and most disagreeable." Conrad had heard himself described in these terms many times over the years. Along with contrary, surly and disobliging. He had begun to wear the descriptions as a badge of honor.

The Countess waved away his words. "On the few occasions I have met Lord Kendal, I found him reserved, but not entirely unpleasant." A puzzled expression crossed her face before she turned her back and took up her seat. "Very well. I shall see you at dinner."

Not waiting for her to change her mind, Conrad bowed in her direction and made his way out of the room. He was almost to the door when her words stopped him. "Lord Kendal?"

Conrad turned. "Yes, my la…?" What had she just called him? Was it just a mistake on her part? He chanced a look in her direction, but her head was still down, her feather moving furiously back and forth.

"You will have to try harder if you are to persuade anyone here that you are, indeed, Lord Ian. Granted, I am more observant than most, but there are several attending who boast quite an intimate acquaintance with your brother. Namely Lord Anthony and Mr. Beauchamp."

Conrad's back stiffened at the mention of Ian's school chums. They were three men of the same ilk.

She finally looked up from her work. "I am surprised either of you believed you could fool me." There was a touch of arrogance in her voice.

Conrad shrugged. "I tried to tell Ian this would never work, but he was insistent. His visit with Miss Simmons overlapped by a few days. He was afraid of offending you."

"Thinking me a dimwit is what I find offensive." The terseness of her voice told Conrad she was not happy with their plan. Hope blossomed in him. Was she so offended she would ask him to leave?

She stood, moving back towards him. "I find I am intrigued with the possible outcomes of this little charade, not to mention honored to have the Marquess of Kendal at my little house party." She quirked a brow, her lips pursed. "Tell me, when is your brother expected?"

Conrad's shoulders dropped and he let out a heavy breath. Not soon enough. "Tomorrow next, my lady."

She clasped her hands, a wicked smile on her face. "Then we shall have to have our fun quickly, my lord."

Conrad shook his head. “Now that you are aware of this ruse, I shall be on my way.”

The Countess cackled. “Oh, no. You started this little game, Lord Kendal and you will see it though. At least until your brother turns up.” Her brows raised in challenge. “And then perhaps, you could arrive again…as yourself.”

Conrad smiled tightly at her as he gave a curt nod, barely stifling his groan.

* * *

"Tell me again how you procured this invitation, Mama?" Jes stared out the rain-streaked carriage window at the vast home visible between the birch trees lining the drive. The darkness of the storm clouds overhead merely made the expansive house look ominous.

"Do not act so astonished, Jes. We may be paupers now, but there was a time when all the grand homes in England were open to me. I was even dear friends with the daughter of the Countess Du'Brevan."

Jes turned sympathetic eyes to her mother. "We are not paupers, Mama." Not that it had mattered when they did have money. "Though, it still does not explain the invitation. Our less than winning reputation among society was made very clear during my last season." She knew her words were harsh, but none the less true.

"Come now, Jes." There was a hint of aggravation in Lady Rachel's voice. "Wipe that suspicion from your face. I did nothing dishonest. I simply made contact with an old acquaintance."

With each turn of the wheels, Jes felt her unease increase. These were not her friends. There were bound to be people in attendance she met while in London. They had not wanted her friendship then, why should they want it now? “Perhaps we could return to Aunt Lydia’s. There is bound to be a cottage nearby we could let with the money we have left.”

Her mother looked out the window, conveniently avoiding eye contact. "As to the remaining money, I am afraid the bulk of it is gone." At Jes's sharp intake of breath, her mother turned back to her. "We could not arrive here in a mail coach wearing rags, now could we? It was necessary to use the remainder of the money to…" Her mother paused. "Put our best foot forward. This is precisely the type of event that could change your life."

Jes shook her head. "But Mama, you said Aunt Lydia paid for all of this." She lifted the fabric of her new traveling dress.

Her mother shrugged. “I knew you would dig in your heels if I told you where the money was coming from. It is a risk, I know. But the risk I believe is necessary.”

"Do you not remember London? If I could not secure a match there, among dozens of eligible men, what makes you believe I would make one here?" Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "I will be seen as a fortune hunter." She turned toward the window, resting her forehead against the pane. A sigh of frustration puffed out her lips. How could her mother have done such a thing? This irrational woman was not the mother Jes knew. She whispered her newest fear into her hands. "It will all come to naught and we will be left with nothing."

Her mother placed a hand on her back, rubbing small circles, taking Jes back to her childhood. "It is not for me I am doing this. It is for you. I want you to be happy and well settled."

Lifting her head from the glass, Jes turned. "And I can only be well settled and happy with a gentleman of large fortune? It was not the life you chose for yourself."

Lady Rachel's head dropped to the side. "I loved your father and we had a good life, but that does not mean there were not difficult times. I am trying to help you avoid that."

Jes turned back to the window, her eyes widening as Somerstone came into clear view. "Everyone has difficulties, Mama. Even the rich and titled. You should know that as well as anyone."

The carriage moved forward, stopping in front of the curved steps. Jes moved to the edge of the seat, anticipating the footman opening the door. She was not, however, anticipating his very handsome face. He smiled, making her face warm slightly. Lady Rachel cleared her throat, moving Jes's feet just a little faster. Once they were both on the ground, he handed them off to another footman.

Jes entered the house, stopping in the entryway. Her mind could not process the opulence of the house. Lady Rachel touched her arm, leaning in so only Jes could hear. "It is amazing, is it not?"

Nodding, Jes whispered back. "Have you never been here before?"

Lady Rachel shook her head. "No, my associations with the Du’Breven’s was in London. Although, I did attend a house party at their estate in Kent one summer."

They followed the footman through a room filled with pillars and up one side of the rounded staircase. As they reached the first landing, movement on the floor above drew Jes's notice. She looked up. Her heart quickened and her breath caught in her throat. It could not be. He was here. She felt the wetness of her palms beneath her gloves. It had been nearly two years since she saw him last. In point of fact, she had given up the hope she would ever see him again. But here he was.