When she entered the drawing room, Isobel saw that Miss Harriet had also done honor to the occasion and was looking very well in a lavender gown, heavily trimmed, and a frivolous little lace cap. Isobel had no more than enough time to settle in a chair and converse briefly with her cousin when Haggock announced Lord Francis. He was wearing evening dress, and it was clear that no less a personage than Weston must be his tailor, for his coat fit his broad shoulders without a wrinkle, and molded itself to his upper body. His knee breeches fit closely, and Miss Harriet, who had already commented favorably on his lordship’s legs, allowed her eyes to linger on these magnificently proportioned and muscled features of his physique for longer than a young unmarried lady could have without blushing or occasioning comment.
A snowy cravat, perfectly creased, surrounded Lord Francis’ neck and a single diamond winked among its elaborate folds. Despite having one arm in a sling, his lordship made his finest leg to the two ladies, kissing Miss Harriet’s hand, and bowing low over Isobel’s while appreciatively eyeing her fine bosom.
At this somewhat unpropitious moment Haggock announced, "Viscount and Lady Wereham," and Isobel’s brother and his wife entered the room.
At the sight of Lord Francis bowing over his sister’s décolletage, Wereham frowned, but the little tableau soon changed as Lord Francis greeted the Viscount and Isobel rose to embrace her sister‑in‑law.
"You look very fashionable, I am sure, dear sister," declared her ladyship in a faint voice. "I vow I should catch my death of a fever were I to be so daring in our wintry weather."
As her ladyship was robustly built, dressed in a long sleeved gown, draped about with shawls, the fire was roaring, and it had been a mild day, Isobel was somewhat nonplussed by this remark. However, she replied with a laugh that she was merely preparing to attend parties in drafty town houses on cold April evenings when no one with any pretensions to fashion would carry so much as a shawl.
The Viscount and Lord Francis had discovered that they had attended Eton at the same time, though not in the same form, as the Viscount was two years Lord Francis’ senior. Isobel noticed with some surprise that Lord Francis appeared to be making an effort to tailor his conversation to Wereham’s pedantic style. It seemed to be pleasing her brother, for the storm clouds that had clearly been gathering on his brow when he first entered the salon had dissipated, and he was smiling.
Lady Wereham had seated herself with Miss Harriet and was describing the latest accomplishments of her various offspring. Isobel, who was well acquainted with them, and felt they were children only a mother could love, had no choice but to join the gentlemen in their conversation. Her astonishment to discover that Lord Francis was amiably discussing modern farming methods, and pig breeding with her bucolic brother was great. She, however, dared to tax Wereham with the dullness of the topic, and urged a livelier discussion.
"Well, sister, I vow ‘t’is no more uninteresting than those everlasting diggings of yours," he replied. Lord Francis raised his eyebrows at this comment, and gave Isobel a shrewd glance. He began to open his mouth to comment, and she first cursed herself inwardly for giving her brother an opportunity to criticize her yet again on this head, and then for possibly exposing her scholarly activities to Lord Francis, before hurrying into speech.
"Ah, but I do not discuss my pastimes, Frederick. Music, gossip, or politics, if you please, shall be the topics of the evening. But as you are a confirmed Tory, and I do not know Lord Francis’ political views, perhaps I should not suggest politics," she added.
Lord Francis could not now politely pursue the topic, so he amiably did as she commanded.
"My political views have largely been military, ma’am," he commented. "I do plan to take up some occupation now that the wars are over, but whether it will be politics, diplomacy, or even farming I cannot say. Wereham certainly convinces me that successful farming requires far more study than I had any notion of."
"You should not be thinking so seriously of a career when you are just returned from the wars," said Isobel merrily. "You have the best excuse a young man would ever have for a year or two of folly and self indulgence."
"I find such seriousness of mind refreshing," said Frederick. "You should not encourage a young man to waste his time in frivolous pursuits."
Isobel was relieved when Haggock chose that moment to announce Dr. Alvey, whose presence meant that the group could soon dine. Naturally, the Viscount led his wife in to dinner, followed by Isobel on Lord Francis’ arm, and Miss Harriet escorted by the doctor.
Harriet could not help reflecting sentimentally on what an attractive pair Lord Francis and Isobel made. Her chestnut curls stood out against his blonde locks; her height and statuesque presence were made queenly by his tall, intensely masculine figure. Lord Francis’ thoughts were somewhat similar, though he concerned himself only with his hostess’ distracting attractiveness, which had never been more obvious to him than tonight with the silk of her dress clinging lovingly to her curves and caressing her thighs as she walked beside him. He enjoyed it.
Isobel was impatient with herself for being overwhelmingly conscious of Lord Francis, of the sinewy arm she touched, the warmth and magnetism of his body, and the faint, clean scent that hung about him. She did not enjoy it. Lord and Lady Wereham thought only of their dinners, and Dr. Alvey looked forward to port and a rubber of whist after a fine meal.
Chapter 6
Although the party was small and quite intimate, Wereham’s presence imposed a formality that forbade talk across the table, and Isobel, with her brother on one side and Lord Francis on the other, found herself with little to say. Frederick’s conversation was never very amusing, and his presence prevented her from making the lively, sportive remarks that she was accustomed to address to her guest. Talk ran desultorily along the line of horses, weather and the coming delights of the Season.
When the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, Isobel resigned herself to the undiluted doings of her young nephews and nieces. However, Lady Wereham did not require a response from her audience, so Isobel was able to allow her thoughts to wander, only occasionally murmuring in agreement or surprise at some remark of Lady Wereham’s, and allowing Miss Harriet to carry on such additional conversation as was required to maintain her ladyship’s flow of words.
Wereham was disposed to linger over the port, for he refused to stock the highest quality in his cellars, and enjoyed indulging in his sister’s vintage bottles while pontificating to a new audience. But Dr. Alvey longed for his cards, and Lord Francis began to find it difficult to maintain his calm in the face of some of his lordships more absurd pronouncements, so the gentlemen soon joined the ladies.
Once Dr. Alvey and Lady Wereham were together in the drawing room, whist was inevitable. Isobel found little pleasure in playing cards, so she contrived to substitute Miss Harriet, who was quite a gamester when given the opportunity. Lord Wereham must perforce play with his wife, so Isobel and Lord Francis were left to their own devices. He strolled towards the pianoforte and opened it with a significant smile.
"We must either read in silence, converse under your sister‑in‑law's eagle eye, or entertain ourselves with music," he murmured to Isobel. "Since it can soothe the savage breast, perhaps it may also quiet gossip."
Their eyes met in a moment of good-humored understanding as Isobel moved towards the pianoforte, where she began to unbutton her evening gloves. He came closer and took her hand, making to assist her by slowly opening the tiny fastenings. His long white fingers lingered over the task, and she felt a sudden stab of heat where his hand held hers, followed by a shiver through her body. She snatched her hand away and finished the unbuttoning hastily.
"Silence gossip, indeed," she hissed. "See how Honoria stares at your gesture, my lord. You are more like to compromise us both."
"Although that would be hard to achieve in a drawing room with this crowd around us, perhaps that would not be so ill, Miss Paley," he responded. "I must marry, yo
u know, as my brother is sickly and has produced no heir in ten years of marriage. You are a beautiful, gracious and eligible lady. Surely I could convince your brother that I am a suitable parti." His voice was teasing, but his grey eyes met hers directly.
Isobel’s face flamed, but she answered robustly. "Nonsense. I have no interest in the wedded state, while your ambition, I feel sure, is to cut a dash in London this spring. There will be plenty of young ladies with an eye to your many advantages. You need have no thoughts of me."
He raised an eyebrow, but did not reply. Her blushes having receded, she finished removing the gloves, and seated herself before the instrument with some works of Handel. His lordship had just settled himself, resting his elbows on the instrument and smiling at her in a disturbing way, when she paused.
"Will you not turn the pages for me, my lord? I fear I do not know Handel’s works intimately enough to play from memory."
Lord Francis quickly moved to oblige her, and Isobel was at first pleased at her suggestion, as she would not now have to look into his face. But as Lord Francis then took advantage of the task to take a stance rather closer behind her than was necessary, she began to wonder if her ploy had been wise. She could sense the warmth from his body near her bare shoulders and again she felt the disturbing pull of attraction that he exuded.
Fortunately for Isobel, she was a true musician, and well trained, so she allowed the melody to carry her away from the distressing present, into a place of sound and emotion. Never had she played with such passion, she realized as the music proceeded, nor with such skill in her interpretation. When the last strains of the concerto died away, she noticed that even the whist game had come to a halt.
"Bravo, my dear Miss Paley," cried the doctor. "I knew you played delightfully, but this is something beyond the common way. Your presence must inspire her, Lord Francis, for I know it cannot be our company."
"Indeed Isobel, you must have been practicing much more diligently than I had ever suspected for I have never heard you play with such energy and feeling," added Miss Harriet.
"Enough, enough," cried Isobel. "Spare my blushes, I beg you. Perhaps it is just the beauty of the music. I think I will settle for country music and simple airs for now, however, as I cannot believe it possible to receive such praise for a second effort."
Her voice, though light, was true and supple, so she was well able to please with simple airs. As she began to sing though, she heard Lord Francis join in. His husky baritone resonated in her ears, and she fancied she could feel his warm breath disturbing the small hairs on her neck. Isobel squared her shoulders, determined not to allow her consciousness of his lordship’s presence disturb her further that evening. She shifted through a whole series of simple well-known tunes, and again, the music did its magic of sweeping her away from the company and its discomfort, so that she could feel quite in charity with Lord Francis, when at length she had had enough. She stood up from the pianoforte and turned to him with a laughing smile to thank him for the pleasure. The arrested look in his eyes, and the way his hand crept up involuntarily from his side as though to take hers, made the words catch in her throat.
"You are very musical, Lord Francis. I wish you had told us sooner. Do you play as well?" she said instead, in a forced tone.
The warmth in his face faded to be replaced by his usual expression of polite boredom.
"Very roughly I fear, ma’am. I learned in Spain, when we were homesick and lonely for the music of England, but am not well trained."
"Did you discover your talent for singing there as well, then?" asked Isobel.
"No, my mother is musical and I have many childhood memories of evenings spent singing with my brother and her. However, my voice too is untutored, and I fear that of late I have used it more on Spanish drinking songs than the melodies of home."
Lord Wereham laughed at this and expressed a desire to hear his lordship play some Spanish music.
"For his lordship to be singing drinking songs is quite ineligible in the presence of ladies, my dear Wereham," pronounced Honoria.
"How can you know, dear sister, when none of us speak Spanish?" inquired Isobel.
"I suppose is Honoria is correct, Isobel," said Harriet, "only think how shocking to ask Lord Francis to sing coarse Spanish songs to us."
"I did not say that drinking songs were the only Spanish tunes with which I am acquainted," interjected Lord Francis. "I do know one or two quite unexceptionable airs."
Lord Francis took Isobel’s place at the instrument and proceeded to sing a plaintive lament that, although the words could not be understood, was clearly a love song. His gaze sought hers as he began to sing. Embarrassed, she moved away from his line of sight to seat herself.
What was he thinking of, she wondered furiously. The Viscount and Honoria must have noticed the particularity of his behavior. It was as though he wished to give credence to their suspicions for pure mischief, or perhaps that he really did mean what he had said to her of his interest, and now behaved in this way in order to apprise her family that he was epris in her direction. Either way, she thought with annoyance, it would do Lord Francis no good. He was very attractive, no doubt, but was a useless man of fashion, intent only on his own pleasures. And yet, she knew in her heart this was not a fair assessment of Lord Francis; he had shown himself to be a gentleman of considerable humor and character. She had no need of a husband, Isobel reminded herself fiercely, with her rich fortune, her broad acquaintance, and her distinguished family.
When the song came to an end Isobel stationed herself near the card table and joined the others in praise of Lord Francis’ voice. The rubber was over, and though Dr. Alvey clearly wished for another game, the tea tray was brought, and thus fortified, the guests were ready to leave. Isobel was happy to make her adieux and then fled to her bedchamber, leaving Harriet and Lord Francis conversing politely in the drawing room. She must be thankful after the disturbing events of the evening that Lord Francis departed soon. His flirtatious behavior had distressed her deeply, for reasons she did not wish to consider, and Isobel had no wish for another disturbing encounter with him.
Chapter 7
The next morning was unusually fair and beautiful, and Isobel and Miss Harriet elected to stroll about the grounds. After some desultory conversation about the weather, Harriet trod into the dangerous waters of Lord Francis' apparent interest in Isobel.
"Lord Francis displayed a marked partiality for you yesterday evening, Isobel. I fancy that your brother and his wife cannot be unaware of it. Do you suppose he will soon be asking Wereham's permission to address you?"
Isobel's eyes grew wide. "Pay his addresses?" she asked incredulously, "Are you all about in the head, Cousin? Lord Francis is amusing himself, nothing more. He has been away from England for several years, and I have no doubt that he will flirt desperately with every young lady who comes his way this Season."
"Well, my dear, you may be correct, but I have watched many young men come back from wars, and I fancy that Lord Francis is doing more than flirting with you. He was wearing his heart on his sleeve as you played the pianoforte, but perhaps you failed to notice it. I fancy that Lady Wereham was more observant, however."
"Lady Wereham minds other people's business far more than is proper," responded Isobel. "She may be taken in by Lord Francis, but I will not be. He is personable merely, nothing more."
"I think that you should consider accepting him when he offers for you," volunteered Harriet. "You deal so extremely together, you know. I have seldom seen a couple so well suited, except perhaps for dear Maria Blackheath who married Lord Carringbroke...but there, it is you I am thinking of, not Maria."
Isobel, who had been hoping that Harriet would divert herself, sighed inwardly as her cousin persisted. "Lord Francis never seems perturbed at your odd fits, or even asks questions about why you live alone instead of with dear Frederick."
"He has met dear Frederick," interrupted Isobel. "What need has he to ask?"
Isobel had no reply to this and lapsed into thoughtful silence. She had been surprised by Lord Francis' attentions the previous evening, and still more startled by her own response, for none of her many previous suitors had had any effect on her heart. Now she found to her surprise that Harriet, and possibly Honoria, viewed Lord Francis' behavior as something far more than mere flirtation. Viewed in this light, Lord Francis, she had to admit, was extremely eligible. Furthermore, her own attraction to him was undeniable. His virile image appeared before her mind's eye, startling her by how pleasant she found it. She blushed as she remembered the kiss they had shared.
The two women's footsteps had brought them back to the front of Kitswold House, and Isobel was astonished to see a hired post chaise drawn by a pair standing in front of the door. Several trunks were strapped to the back and her footmen were engaged in removing the baggage to the house.
"How very odd, Isobel dear," exclaimed Harriet, "Are we expecting more visitors?"
"I think not, Harriet," replied Isobel cautiously. "But be careful what you say in front of the servants." She ran lightly up the steps and through the open door. In the hall, a beautiful fair‑haired young woman was standing forlornly in the middle of the floor, with a small child clinging to her skirts and a babe in her arms.
"Letitia!" exclaimed Isobel in amazement.
Letitia Winwood, Lady Morgan, had come out in the same Season as Isobel some years before, and they had become fast friends. While Isobel was more than fond of Letitia, she was not expecting her to appear at the doorstep of Kitswold House only a few days before she planned to leave for London.
"Oh, my dear," said Isobel, clasping her in her arms. "How good to see you!"
A Lady of Passion: Isobel's After Dark Regency Romance Page 5
