He came to stand behind her, his tall, broad body so close she could feel the heat radiating off of him. Her skin tingled and she fought to keep the feeling at bay as he reached up and systematically undid the ties on the back of her corset. Though his skin never once touched hers, hers heated up as if he had.
“Done,” he practically barked, taking a step back.
Isabelle flushed then reached behind her for the ties. He’d only loosened them. Not a lot, just enough to allow her to remove her corset without further assistance. She flushed again. Of course he’d been careful to only untie the ties, and not actually press her to do anything further was because he didn’t want her. He’d said earlier that one set of breasts was just like any other. He probably felt the same about the female body in general. Only her body wasn’t good enough for him at all. She held no appeal to him and though it shouldn’t and was preposterous to think otherwise, the knowledge of disinterest cut to the bone.
“I’ll come by to call upon you tomorrow.”
The words, “Please don’t”, were on the tip of her tongue to speak, but not trusting her voice, she just nodded.
Chapter Fourteen
Isabelle pulled the pillow over her face tighter.
Unfortunately, though she couldn’t see Tilde, it did not mean she or her announcement actually went away.
She tossed the pillow off. “Can you please tell everyone that I’m unwell and in need of some time to recuperate?”
The young housemaid that Mrs. Finch had ordered to come up and inform Isabelle that a gentleman caller was here to see her shook her head wildly, her eyes wide. “I cannot lie,” she whispered in a strong French accent. “It is not allowed.”
Isabelle wanted to groan. Why did Mrs. Finch have to hire a maid who had been raised in a convent? Sighing, she pushed her feet into her slippers and stood. “All right. Tell them I’ll be there in just a few moments, please.”
Tilde’s eyes narrowed on Isabelle and she bit her lip.
“Yes?”
“I won’t be lying, will I?”
“No. I’ll come.”
Looking relieved, the maid bobbed a curtsey and left the room.
Isabelle shook her head. Tilde was a good sort, if not a bit religious at times. At first it irritated Isabelle because she felt like she was constantly under scrutiny with Tilde because of her past, but she’d since learned that Tilde was too steadfast in her beliefs to even read a scandal sheet, let alone stay in a room long enough to hear gossip.
Sighing with resignation, Isabelle stood and straightened her skirts. Tilde had come by a few hours ago to help her dress for the day. Since then, she’d spent the day sitting on a chaise, staring out the window in hopes the world would just fade away.
It didn’t.
It was custom for a gentleman to have to wait for a young lady to enter the room, would it be so horrible to make him wait so long he left? She admonished herself for her thoughts. She might not wish to speak to Sebastian, but it didn’t mean she needed to be completely rude in her attempt to go about it.
When at last she could walk no slower, she screwed up her bravery and entered the drawing room.
“Mr. Appleton?” she gasped when she saw him sitting across the room with his hands on knees, staring at the floor.
Simon rose, his cheeks turning slightly red. “Excuse me, I was woolgathering.”
“I’m sorry.” She offered him a small smile. “I didn’t realize it was you or I wouldn’t have taken so long.”
He grinned. “I shall take that as the highest compliment.”
“As you should.” She took a seat. What had brought him by today? He’d left the dinner party early last night. Had he come for information? Unease swirled in her stomach.
“Isabelle,” he said a moment later, startling her. “I wanted to explain to you about last night—”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
He looked at her askance. “Yes, I think there is.”
Isabelle sucked in a sharp breath. She really didn’t think he needed to explain anything, but his tone and the rigid expression on his face kept her words firmly in her mouth. “All right.”
Simon let out a deep exhale and rubbed his hands together. “Giles Goddard and I are…related.” The way he choked his last word, made Isabelle’s heart melt like a pastry that had just come out of the oven. “We have—” he took another deep breath— “a common relation. My mother.”
“I take it you didn’t know of this until last night?” Isabelle ventured.
He nodded. “I know it sounds petulant—” he shrugged— “but I can’t help it.”
Isabelle lowered her lashes. As odd as it might seem, she could understand his hurt. It rivaled that of the hurt she felt at being abandoned and betrayed by everyone she’d ever thought loved her to be packed off to the country. She started. Those two were not the same thing at all. Besides, she didn’t have anyone to blame for her being sent away except herself. She was the one who’d brought scandal to her father’s house.
“Had it been my father,” he continued, “it would be easier to accept. But my mother?” He shook his head and sighed, pain and confusion stamped all over his face.
Instinctively, Isabelle reached her hand toward his forearm to comfort him.
Swallowing, he covered her hand with his and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I wanted to tell you this because I have something to ask you and I don’t want to be dishonest or you to get hurt if this scandal ever breaks.”
Isabelle went numb. What could he possibly ask her? Never mind. She had an idea of what it could be and though she knew she’d never have a love match, only a marriage of friendship and mutual respect, for reasons she couldn’t name exactly, she wasn’t sure she’d find either of those things with Simon Appleton. The brutal truth was, she didn’t hardly know the man. Dances hadn’t really allowed them any time to talk and this was only the second time he’d come to see her. “Simon, please don’t.”
“Isabelle, I think you already know that I care a great deal for you—”
Stop! Stop! Stop! She wanted to scream it as loud as her throat would allow, but couldn’t embarrass him that way. Neither could she allow him to continue to embarrass himself this way. She opened her mouth to stop him, when suddenly she was struck dumb. “Wh-what did you just say?”
He offered her a half-smile. “I said that I have no ulterior motives. I don’t need your money and I genuinely don’t care about your previous scandal and neither will my family. ”
She’d known all along that fortune hunters of the worst sort would surround her this Season. She also knew that money made people ignore scandals if they wanted the funds enough. This wasn’t anything new, but for some strange reason, hearing it from someone else made everything seem so real. So definite. So cold and ugly. “But what about Miss Hughes?” she heard herself ask.
He pursed his lips. “I never had a true interest in her, you had to have known that.” The color heightened in his cheeks. “I was embarrassed that you were about to deny me publicly and I just selected the first debutante I could see.” A self-deprecating smile played over his lips. “Isn’t it obvious how much I adore you?”
Yes, it was. She cleared her throat. “It’s hard to know what’s genuine.”
Heedless to their quiet, nearly deaf chaperone in the room, Simon reached for her hand. “I am. I adore you. I genuinely want to marry you—even without your fortune.”
“Why?” The word was out before she even realized she wanted to ask the question.
“Because I think we’d be a good match.”
Was it a declaration of love young girls dreamed of? No. Was his proposal even in any way romantic? No. But it was truthful. And genuine. She wrung her hands and bit her lip. Hard. He was right. So very right. Everyone would look the other way for her money, but what would her life be like after she married? Would her husband grow to resent her? Would he scorn her once the money had run out?
She shook her h
ead to rid herself of the confusing thoughts. Did any of this matter? Edmund had already offered her the same thing and though he wasn’t anywhere within a quarter century of her age, she was friends—of sorts—with him and already knew they could live an amiable existence if necessary.
“Simon, I—I—I—” She what? She hadn’t accepted Edmund’s offer, and he was the only one under some false illusion who assumed she would if the Season didn’t turn out well. She licked her lower lip where she’d just crushed it with her teeth. “I promised Edmund that I’d entertain his suit if I didn’t find a suitable husband this Season.” It was all she could do not to choke on her own tongue as she said those words, but it seemed the only thing he might be willing to accept.
“And you’ve found a suitable husband. Me.”
A smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “I know you’re offering, but not for the right reasons.”
“The right reasons?”
She nodded. “I think you’re embarrassed about—” she waved her hand through the air in a circular motion, hoping he wouldn’t make her put voice to his mother’s indiscretion— “and because of that you’re making a decision because you’re upset.”
“No, I’ve wanted to ask you for a while,” he pointed out. “Just as recently as the Rutherford’s ball. I just wanted to tell you the trouble surrounding my family so you wouldn’t feel trapped in another scandal you were unprepared for if the story ever breaks.”
She nodded slowly.
“Is there something about me you find disagreeable?” he asked abruptly.
“No.” That was true enough. She didn’t know him well enough to know if he was agreeable or disagreeable, if one were honest. “But I’ve told Edmund—”
“That you’d agree to marry him if you don’t find another match,” he finished for her. He flashed her a rueful smile. “I’m not asking you to give me an answer today, but at least think about letting me court you in earnest.”
She swallowed. “I—I suppose I can agree to that.”
His grin grew so wide she thought he might strain the muscles in his face. “The thinking or the courting?”
She laughed. “You can court me.” She raised a finger. “But, you may not propose marriage to me again unless you are certain you cannot live through another day without me and I have made it clear I feel that way about you.”
“I can do that.” He grinned and suddenly pushed to his feet. “I need to be off. I have a courtship to plan.”
Oh dear what had she agreed to?
***
Less than three and a half hours later Isabelle’s mind raced and her fingers trembled as she reread the lines of the invitation she’d received only a few minutes prior. A house party? Surely not.
“Won’t it be splendid?” Mrs. Finch asked in a singsong voice.
Yes, splendid. That was exactly what it wouldn’t be. She sighed. Sebastian was behind this. He had to be. For who else would want her to attend a house party? Even as an heiress, she wasn’t the kind of young lady most wanted their daughters to associate with. The only people interested in her were gentlemen—and even that wasn’t as successful as she’d once hoped it might be.
She folded the invitation and placed it back on the silver salver before taking a seat on the green settee and picking up her dreaded embroidery. She hated embroidery. Almost as much as she hated Sebastian at present, she thought when she nearly pricked herself. Or had she nearly pricked herself because she was thinking of him? No. Absolutely not. That was not at all what had happened. He was just annoying and tedious, just like embroidery. That’s why she was thinking of him. It had nothing to do with the way he’d set her blood to racing with a single glance or burned her skin with his touch. Nor how he’d cut her to the core with his implication last night.
She groaned. She must put him out of her mind before she left bloodstains all over the fabric. Simon. She’d think of Simon and his promise to court her in earnest and not ask her to marry him again until the time was appropriate. Could he be behind the invitation? Before she’d even finished the thought, she knew that wasn’t possible. He was merely a gentleman. It didn’t matter what his mother’s position was, she rarely ever associated with those of rank unless they were her friends, most of whom were lesser gentry, not a marchioness like Lady Cosgrove.
“Is something wrong, dear?” Mrs. Finch asked; her face contorted in confusion that made her usually slight wrinkles deepen.
“No, Mrs. Finch. I’m just having a difficult time.”
“Gentleman can often create such difficulties, I’m afraid,” came Sebastian’s deep voice from the door. “Particularly when I’m the one they’re thinking of.” He winked at her and she was tempted to throw a pillow at the insufferable man.
“Oh, do come in,” Mrs. Finch encouraged with a hesitant smile.
Sebastian was in the room before she could finish, then, as if he were a welcome guest and the dearest friend to Mrs. Finch, he unceremoniously took a seat on the settee next to Isabelle and stretched his long legs out in front of him, grinning.
She willed herself to remember her manners and not poke him with her needle. “What has brought you to calling at such an early hour?”
He frowned. “It’s not so early, is it?”
“Not for most of us, but for those who lose large quantities of sleep each night to build up their pride, it might be considered early yet.”
Sebastian arched a brow at her. “And how would you know about my sleeping patterns?”
She flushed and chided herself. She’d played right into that snare. Clearing her throat, she glanced toward Mrs. Finch. “Have you come to discuss the potential of the house party?”
He blinked. “House party?”
“Yes. The one Lady Cosgrove is hosting.”
“Lady Cosgrove?” He furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes as if he were truly confused. “Giles’ cousin?”
Well, now that made sense. “Yes.”
“I didn’t know she was hosting a party. May I see the invitation?”
Isabelle retrieved the vellum and handed it to him. His light red lips moved as he read the lines, the crease between his brows growing deeper with each line. When he lowered the invitation from his face, Isabelle pressed her lips together to keep from giggling at the look of bewilderment on his face.
“Do you know Lady Cosgrove?” he asked.
“No.” Nor did she really find it so exciting to be invited to a house party where she’d have to spend an entire ten days in the company of some of the highest ranked people in the country, but for now, it was rather amusing that she’d been invited without him even knowing about it. “But I do look forward to going,” she lied with a dazzling smile.
“And am I right to assume that Lord Kenton will be there, too?”
Isabelle fought to keep her smile firmly in place, but couldn’t help but wonder if it was just her imagination or if his words had come out with a slight dose of bitterness. Was he jealous? Her skin prickled at the thought. No, it couldn’t be, she reminded herself. She was the last person he wanted. He’d even told her that he’d have stayed married to her sister. Her mouth suddenly became as dry as cotton. “I’m sure he will,” she said as best she could, considering it felt like her tongue had become paralyzed in the last three seconds.
He pursed his lips and nodded. “I see.”
She doubted he did, but didn’t wish to discuss this any further—for her lack of ability to speak more than anything else. Perhaps now would be a good time to tell him of the events of this morning and how she no longer needed his help to seek a husband. Truly, Simon wasn’t the kind most unattached ladies would fawn over by any means with his young age, but with his kind and genuine demeanor, he’d ultimately be a good match to her. She just needed a chance to grow accustomed to his eagerness, hence her agreeing to a courtship.
“Can I take you for a walk in the park?” Sebastian asked suddenly; his voice just loud enough for Mrs. Finch to hear.
“Oh, I believe that is a wonderful idea,” the older woman said with a clap of her hand. “The weather is just perfect for a stroll in the park.” She paused for a moment, then added. “Be sure to take Beatrice with you.”
Isabelle wanted to groan. Beatrice had at least seventy years in her dish. Ancient by anyone’s standards. Though propriety in all things was her biggest concern in life, the poor woman could hardly see any longer and frequently had to stop and sit to rest. Unfortunately, she took her duty as a servant of doing her best to be unseen and unheard so strongly she didn’t like to inform those she was with that she needed one of these little rests and would just sit down. In short, she was a dear woman but a terrible chaperone.
Chapter Fifteen
Under the watchful, cataract-covered eye of Belle’s chaperone Beatrice, Sebastian handed Belle her bonnet with his left hand and gripped her parasol with the right. He doubted she needed both, but she seemed bent on having them so who was he to argue? They’d done enough of that in their lifetime and they were about to have another bout, of that he was certain.
“I don’t think you should go to this house party,” he said without preamble as soon as they were off the steps of Mrs. Finch’s townhouse.
“Oh, you don’t, do you?”
“No. I think house parties create…opportunities.”
“Such as those that lead to marriage?”
“Sometimes, but not without scandal.” He stepped behind her so they could walk through a narrow walkway. “You don’t need any more scandals, Belle.”
“No, I don’t,” she agreed in an arch tone. “But I do need a husband. I see no reason why I shouldn’t go.”
Sebastian reached for her wrist to stay her, then moved to stand in front of her. No matter that there were other people wanting to keep passing. “I don’t think you should go.”
“I don’t care what you think. I’m going.”
“I understand that you don’t care what I think, but you’re not going.”
Something flashed in her eyes. “What makes you think you have any right to tell me where I can and cannot go?”
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