A Lady of Passion
Isobel's After Dark Regency Romance
By Alicia Quigley
Text copyright © 2014 Alicia Quigley
All Rights Reserved
I dedicate Isobel's story in honor of all the women throughout the ages who kept their talents to themselves because it was "necessary" and to those, like Mary Wollstonecraft, who said "No more!" and blazed their own trails. May you, my dear readers, do the same.
Table of 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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 1
The Honorable Isobel Elizabeth Walcott Paley lay curled amidst cushions on a settee in the elegant sitting room of her manor house, Kitswold, a silk shawl wrapped around her feet. She was only slightly aware of the sound of a late spring rain spattering on the windowpanes. Although it was grey and raw outdoors, within a fire blazed merrily, and the cozy room was warm and welcoming. Isobel glanced up from the history of the Scottish Isles that she had been reading and smiled to see her companion, Miss Harriet Jane Walcott, sleeping quietly in her chair. A refined lady, Miss Harriet allowed no noisy snores to escape her, but her mouth gaped slightly and the frivolous lace cap that topped her fading blonde curls was askew. Her embroidery had slipped from her nerveless fingers to slide onto her capacious blue satin lap.
Isobel once more engrossed herself in the formidable history tome, which was her afternoon’s study. She made a lovely picture, for nature had provided her with ample physical blessings in the form of glossy chestnut curls which glowed with a hint of russet, an oval face of perfect proportions, a straight nose, a clear complexion, and large, sparkling green eyes, framed by perfectly arched brows and extravagantly long lashes. The lady’s dress, a green and white striped affair with long sleeves, with both hem and cuffs charmingly trimmed with dark green dagged flounces, was in the first stare of fashion, and suited her elegant figure admirably. But, after a brief attempt at concentration, it seemed the book could not hold her interest; with a sigh of exasperation she rose and strode to the window, gazing out at the rain-drenched park with a moue of distaste. How very much she would like to be out riding or walking, rather than held captive by the weather in her sitting room.
As she stood gazing in an abstracted way through the panes of glass towards the fine gardens and park‑like vistas now obscured by the lowering gray skies and persistent showers, she heard a sudden commotion in the hall. The noise was quickly hushed, and the well‑ordered silence usual in Miss Paley’s residence resumed, but it had brought her wandering wits back to Kitswold House and awakened Cousin Harriet from her noiseless sleep. She hastily straightened the little lace cap and twittered self-consciously.
"La, Isobel, have I been asleep all this time? What bad company I am for you, leaving you to while away these long hours without conversation, not but what my conversation is sadly lacking in much of what you take the greatest pleasure in, but there, where there is love and true affection, I make no doubt but what it is the feelings which are important. My mother always said that there is nothing like‑‑"
Isobel held up her hand to stem the gush of words. "Harriet, dear, fear not, I was well occupied with my reading. This history of the Northern Isles just published by Mr. Greycop has given me new insight into some matters of the Roman invasions which occupied me last summer when we were at Ballydendargan."
Harriet sighed. "There is no deterring you is there, my dear? I had such hopes that this Season you might find a proper gentleman and settle into the matrimonial estate, for surely there would be nothing more appropriate for you than to wed, especially now that you have gotten a little older, and while, of course, you are still lovely and will doubtless remain so for many years, Society will surely begin to remark that you do not marry after five Seasons in London..."
Isobel chuckled. "Surely, Cousin, you do not mean to tax me on this subject again? You know that my goal is not marriage, but to enjoy my life. I wish to be a scholar, and a lady of fashion. I can accomplish these things through my intelligence, face, and fortune, but nowhere in this recipe is a husband, who will necessarily be able to restrict my activities. I am fortunate enough to be able to remain independent of a husband, and I cannot think I will change my circumstances very soon."
"Well, my dear, I can perhaps understand you, but you must admit that to Society it all seems very odd. Not but what you are perfectly respectable, and no one has ever been able to accuse you of conduct unbecoming a lady, and certainly you have never put yourself forward brazenly, but a gentlewoman should be wed by her fifth Season. I believe Frederick is becoming positively worried that you will not marry, and surely you owe more to the family than to remain buried in books all the day."
"Buried in books? Why Cousin, in London I do nothing but dance and attend assemblies and pay calls! I am the very model of a nobleman's daughter. It is only in the summer and winter months that I indulge my freakish passions. And my brother need not worry! His pack of children would be enough to keep anybody busy; I daresay he need not meddle in my business."
"Why, you must not call them a pack of children, my dear, for they are all very sweet, I am sure," said Harriet, leaping to the defense of the maligned scions of the Wereham viscountcy. "Even if little Freddie did lock the cat in the cook's cupboard, I am sure 'twas only a mistake, and no harm intended."
Isobel congratulated herself at having successfully diverted Harriet from the discussion of her marital status, and rang the bell; she was ready for the tea tray now, and felt that there was no sense in waiting, as there was no one to please except herself.
Haggock, her aging but devoted and capable butler, soon appeared at the door. His demeanor was slightly ruffled, but he acquiesced to her request for the tea tray to be brought.
He hovered over her for a moment, and, at Isobel’s inquiring look, shook his head slightly. "Miss Isobel, there may be a slight inconvenience to be dealt with this evening. I hope it will not set the Hall all to sixes and sevens, but I wished to mention it to you."
"You are very mysterious, Haggock," Isobel said. "Of what nature might this ill-defined inconvenience be, I wonder?"
"It seems that there has been an accident, Miss. Old Thompson’s little Billy just came running in, and says that a carriage overturned in the road just in front of our drive, and at least one man is lying unconscious in the road."
"How very dreadful, Haggock. Do send for Dr. Alvey, and I assume that you have dispatched some men and grooms to see to the gentleman and the horses?"
"Aye, Miss," intoned Haggock.
"Well, we must do whatever we can for them. It is our duty to our fellows. Call me when you have them placed in bedchambers and the damage has been assessed. I will see if there is anything I can do for them until Dr. Alvey arrives."
As Haggock exited, Miss Harriet fluttered her hands. "Gracious, an ove
rturned carriage! I hope there are no serious injuries; why when I was a young girl my poor brother quite cracked his head open attempting to drive a carriage over an excessively bumpy road in the rain. He was very lucky and lived to talk of it, but we could not help wondering if perhaps it affected him in some permanent way, for ever afterwards he did not seem to be quite right, and at times, especially when it thundered, he seemed positively odd, if you take my meaning. I can only wonder what sort of man might be out travelling on such a dismal day."
"Doubtless a selfish, careless brute, with no thought for his horses or coachman, but only a craving for the entertainments of London," said Isobel. At Harriet's surprised look, she laughed. "There, I have given the poor man a dreadful character without evidence or defense," she continued. "How unfair I am to him. Perhaps it was the most urgent business which made him set out on such an afternoon."
"I hope that all is well," said Harriet. "For it would be quite inconvenient to have house guests now, just when we are preparing for our removal to London."
At that moment, the door opened, and the tea tray arrived with a little clatter of cups, which was music to Isobel's ears.
"A guest would be likewise inconvenient because I have a great deal of reading to do for the paper I am writing," she observed. "I am afraid I must finish this work of Mr. Greycop's and I still have to essay the volume on Roman coins by Mr. O'Brien."
"But what is reading in comparison to the companionship of one who is your true friend..." countered Harriet.
"What is friendship or literature compared to a cup of tea and cakes on such a day as this?" said Isobel. "I shiver to merely look out of the window. Let us eat. I will be very surprised indeed if our dinner is not late and limited due to the tumult which this exciting event will have produced in the servant’s hall. In addition, if Dr. Alvey is difficult to find, I suspect that I will be called upon to do some physicking. I wish to fortify myself well against both eventualities."
With this speech Miss Paley fell to her tea with gusto, making quite a hearty meal.
Her forethought was demonstrated only some three quarters of an hour later, when Haggock opened the sitting room door to opine that the gentleman from the coach seemed to be rather knocked about, and Jemmy, who had ridden for the doctor, had returned with a message that Dr. Alvey was in the next village helping with the labor of a farmer’s wife who was in a bad way and might be some time in arriving.
"Where have you put the victim, Haggock?" she asked. "In the Green Room, I suppose. Well, show me up."
Isobel followed the butler to the guest chamber, and when the door was opened and she walked across to the bed, she could not help drawing in her breath. The gentleman indeed looked very knocked about. His face was bloody, with a badly swollen lip, and his arm hung at an odd angle, which, she was convinced, indicated that his collarbone was broken. She touched his forehead with her hand, and felt that it was cold and clammy. The man was in shock as well. She sighed deeply.
"Were there others involved?"
"His Lordship’s groom was thrown from the curricle, Miss, but landed soft in a bush. He’s asleep in a spare room below the roof. Rose is taking care of him, and Mrs. Baggs has made a nice bean soup and a gruel for him. Unless he takes an inflammation of the lungs from traveling in the rain he’ll be right soon."
Isobel’s perfectly arched eyebrows rose. "A curricle, in this weather? He must be perfectly mad in addition to his other injuries." She paused. "His Lordship, you said. Who is our distinguished guest, and how do you come to know his name, Haggock?"
"His card case had fallen out of his pocket into the road, Miss. Billy picked it up and handed it to me. He is Major Lord Francis Wheaton," replied Haggock.
"Wheaton, Wheaton," she mused. "Why he must be some relation of the Duke of Strancaster. His son, I suppose. Back from the wars, no doubt. Well, he will wish he were back in the Army soon enough with that collarbone to set when Dr. Alvey arrives. The pain will be horrendous, I make no doubt."
"Have the maids bring me hot water and towels to bathe the wound, and then cold compresses for the swelling on his head," she commanded. "Did you warm the bed?"
The butler shook his head mutely.
"Well, then you had best bring up some bed warmers and warm some blankets in the kitchen and stuff them around him. Between the shock and the cold he took in the rain he is in grave danger of taking a life‑threatening chill. Send up some willow bark tea as well. I will change into more serviceable clothes and be back to bathe and dress the wounds. And send another message to Dr. Alvey at Paggleham. He is not to leave Mrs. Fletcher’s confinement while the case is desperate, but he should come here immediately that he may be spared. I believe that Lord Francis’ collarbone is broken and he is needed to set it as soon as may be. If Lord Francis is very lucky, he will still be unconscious and he will not know of the pain."
Isobel whisked out of the room and returned only a few moments later attired in an old and rather severe grey gown. For warmth she had covered it with a colorful Paisley shawl that brought out the russet glints in her hair, and the snapping green of her eyes. She seated herself at Lord Francis’s bedside and began to gently daub the mud and blood from his visage. As she did so a very pleasing countenance began to emerge.
Though marred by an unsightly gash and lump on his forehead, Isobel could see that Lord Francis was a very well-looking man indeed. He had straight, thick, blonde hair that lay in a shock against the white of the pillowcase. His eyes were closed, but had a fine shape, set deep and with well formed brows. A straight nose, firm chin, and pronounced bone structure completed a handsome face. Unconscious, his face was relaxed and he appeared rather young, but a faint tracery of lines near the corners of his eyes declared a man perhaps in his early thirties.
The cleansing done, Isobel wrung out a cold compress and set it against the rapidly darkening bruise on her unexpected visitor’s forehead. He moaned slightly and tossed his head, but allowed her to press gently. She worried that the cold water would bring him around, to suffer the torture of the bone setting, but knew that the cold compresses would minimize the swelling and reduce Lord Francis’ misery over the long term of his recovery. She made another compress and placed it on the swollen lip. Now his lordship started in earnest and his eyelids flew open. Clear grey eyes stared into hers, for a moment and then he muttered,
"That cursed branch...Grissom....my horses. Where am I?"
"Shhh, lie still, Lord Francis. You are at Kitswold Manor. I am Miss Isobel Paley. Your groom‑‑I apprehend he is the Grissom to whom you refer‑‑is in much better condition than you, my lord, and your horses are in my stables, receiving the best possible care. No one has told me of their condition, but had they been seriously injured I would have been informed by now, I should think."
For a moment it seemed as though her patient would struggle against the hand gently laid on his chest to prevent his rising, but at his first attempt to lunge forward a grimace of pain passed his face and he subsided immediately onto the pillows.
"Curse it... begging your pardon ma’am, but I am in a great deal of pain. Miss Paley, what do you fancy may be wrong with me?" he inquired in a low, thready voice.
She smiled. "Why, I believe your collarbone to be broken. You also have a nasty gash on your forehead. However, I do not think that you have a concussion. Your mouth is rather swollen, but it will not mar your looks for long. The collarbone, however, will certainly be a long and painful time in mending, unless I am very much mistaken, and there is always the possibility that you have broken a rib as well."
"Oh, Lord, what a coil. I fear that I will be trespassing on your hospitality for some time, Miss Paley, if your litany of ills is correct."
"Some weeks, unless I am mistaken, my lord. But you must not be concerned. My staff is very well trained and I am accounted an excellent nurse by most. And now you must rest.
She picked up the bottle she had earlier placed on the desk, and poured a dose into a spoon. "P
lease, take this. It is syrup of poppies, and will help you sleep, and dull the pain when Dr. Alvey sets your collarbone."
Lord Francis eyed the potion suspiciously, but submitted to Isobel’s request. He lay back on the pillows, his gray eyes following her with a worried expression.
"He’ll be fast asleep soon, Rose," said Isobel. "Please fetch some more pillows and blankets so we can be sure our guest is comfortable."
Rose left the room to do her mistress’s bidding, and Isobel seated herself by the bed to wait. She watched as Lord Francis’s eyelids grew heavy, and his breathing slowed. She leaned forward to ascertain that he slept easily, and jumped when his good hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
"You’re a lovely one," he murmured in a sleepy voice. "Where did you come from?"
"Lord Francis, this is hardly appropriate," protested Isobel, but he cut her off.
"I’ve missed the English misses while in Spain," he continued. "They’re eager and available, but none can match a miss from my own land."
"I hardly think—-" protested Isobel, but was again interrupted.
"Shhh," he said, and inexorably drew her body across his with the strength of his one arm. "How about a kiss to welcome a gentleman home?"
Isobel began to struggle, but then perceived that this would only cause her patient pain. She tried to pull away as he momentarily released her wrist, but his hand instead rose to cradle the back of her neck and draw her face to his. Before she could make a sound, he had placed his lips on hers and was kissing her gently and persuasively, his tongue gently coaxing at her closed lips.
"Come, darling," he said. "It’s not as though you’ve never kissed a man before."
As Isobel had indeed never kissed a man in this way before, she found herself bereft of speech. Lord Francis’s fingers smoothly stroked the nape of her neck, while he pulled her closer and his mouth pressed against hers more firmly. Isobel realized she could not gain release from his grip without possibly damaging his collarbone further, and resigned herself to enduring his kiss until he slept. But slowly, instead of merely enduring Lord Francis’s attentions, she found herself responding to his kisses, as a feeling of something, she couldn’t say quite what, built in her chest.
A Lady of Passion: Isobel's After Dark Regency Romance Page 1
