Isabel: A Regency Romance (Families of Dorset Book 2)

by Martha Keyes

  When Isabel saw Mr. Galbraith's face, rigid and dark, she hesitated.

  "Are you well?" she said softly.

  He looked at her and forced a smile. "Never better."

  She looked over at Miss Darling, the picture of enjoyment, who seemed to smile all the brighter after whatever had passed between her and Mr. Galbraith. Isabel detected a slightly forced quality to the smile, though, and she frowned.

  "Well, I shall pretend to believe you," she said.

  Mr. Galbraith's brow lightened slightly, and the hint of a smile appeared.

  "I wish to speak to you," she continued, "on some of the matters we were discussing at the church, but I'm sure you'll agree that this is neither the time nor the place."

  He nodded. "Shall I call on you tomorrow?"

  "Perhaps we could meet at the churchyard again? My friend Mary and I will be there with Hetty in the late morning."

  Mr. Galbraith had nothing to say against the plan, and the two soon parted ways, Mr. Galbraith leading her to Mary who was agog with curiosity to hear what had passed between the two.

  "For he looked so cross when he danced with Miss Darling and not at all when he danced with you," Mary said once Mr. Galbraith was out of earshot.

  "Nonsense," said Isabel, though color crept into her cheeks. "Anyone can see they are in love and only unsure how to manage the muddle they've made of things."

  Mary looked skeptical and intent on pursuing the subject, but Isabel successfully distracted her with talk of the plans for the following morning. When Mary discovered the assignation, she was delighted to be informed she would play a part in it and equally so that she would be meeting Hetty.

  "For I am exceedingly curious," she declared, "to discover who is to blame for the poor girl's situation. I shouldn't be at all surprised if it were Lord Essop, for he is the most detestable blackguard, and I believe him capable of anything."

  Isabel considered staying silent. She didn't like to gossip, nor did she feel it was her place to share the information. However, with a girl as sweet and naive as Hetty, Mary would have whatever information she wanted from her in a matter of minutes.

  "It is not Lord Essop,” Isabel said.

  Mary whirled around to face her. "You know who it is?"

  After ensuring that Mary understood she was only relaying the information because she knew it to be an inevitability, Isabel revealed Mr. Farrow's name.

  Mary's hand shot to her mouth. "Good heavens!"

  Isabel let out a small sigh. "I seem to be the only person who did not share your reaction upon hearing the name."

  Mary was still processing the revelation and didn't seem to hear Isabel. Her eyes stared ahead, but they were wide with excitement.

  "Izzy," she said in a slow voice infused with energy. "I think that we are in for quite a spectacle to end the Season."

  "What do you mean?" asked Isabel, nose and brow wrinkled.

  "Just think." Mary placed a hand on Isabel's arm. "Mr. Galbraith loves Miss Darling but offered for you; Miss Darling is torn between Mr. Galbraith and Mr. Farrow; Mr. Farrow having a sordid affair which is sure to come to light now that Hattie has run away from her family."

  "Hetty," Isabel patiently corrected.

  "He is lucky his father has just died, you know," Mary added as an aside. "Farrow, I mean. I understand his father became extremely strait-laced in his final days—they say he found God again. He would likely have cut Farrow off if he discovered such an affair. But alas, we will have to content ourselves without that part of the drama." She let out a small sigh.

  "You are incorrigible, Mary," said Isabel, suppressing a smile. She did not want to encourage her friend's love of scandal.

  "Perhaps," Mary replied, "but you must admit that it has been quite flat lately. Now we may really enjoy ourselves!" She clasped her hands and rubbed them together.

  Isabel sighed. "If I were not directly involved in the spectacle, as you call it, then it might be more enjoyable. As things stand, though, I am very anxious to wash my hands of it all."

  "I would never forgive you,” Mary said. “Besides, you haven't the luxury of that option. You have your father to contend with. And what of poor Hetty? You would leave her to fend for herself?"

  "Of course not," Isabel said. “I am determined to see her taken care of.”

  8

  Charles Galbraith walked toward the church with a brow slightly drawn and lips pursed. He was reluctant to meet with Miss Cosgrove, knowing that he had nothing helpful to offer for Hetty. He had thought of her situation over the past two days, but his mind had been too consumed with other matters to really pursue anything meaningful.

  His reluctance to see Miss Cosgrove also stemmed from a malaise regarding how they had left things before finding Hetty.

  He had felt relief that Isabel had refused his offer, but he was unsure how he could convey this to Mr. Cosgrove without giving offense, which could be detrimental to his father’s financial prospects.

  The fact was that Charles had won, and the terms of his victory had been a marriage to Isabel. If Cosgrove had any sense or any decency as a father, though, he would honor his daughter’s wishes. It was she who was unwilling to honor the stakes, and understandably so, since she had no part in deciding them. And her wishes were well out of Charles's control.

  Surely Cosgrove would see that.

  That Charles was relieved at Isabel's refusal was further evidence of the rashness of his decision. He had been angry with Julia, but he had acted imprudently in accepting Cosgrove's crazed stakes. He couldn't throw in the towel on a future with Julia. Not yet. London had gone to her head; Farrow had exerted a negative influence on her.

  But she was going through a phase, nothing more, and Charles was confident she would come to herself if she were removed from their influence.

  How could she forget everything they had felt and promised just a few short months ago? If only he were able to spend time with her alone, remind her of the regard they had held each other in, the promises they had made prior to coming to London—she would come around.

  How that was to be accomplished, Charles hadn't any notion.

  He sighed and turned into the archway leading to the churchyard.

  Isabel, Hetty, and Mary sat on the same bench as Hetty had days before. But this time, Hetty wasn't downcast. She was radiant, speaking animatedly to Mary who listened with wide-eyed attention. The two had taken to one another quite easily, and Isabel sat on the end of the bench, resting her weight on two hands behind her, and looking at her friends with an appreciative half-smile.

  She was the first one to notice Mr. Galbraith's presence. Her face fell momentarily on seeing him and her stomach dropped. She couldn't put off the conversation any longer. He was here.

  "You've come," she said, rising to greet him.

  His eyebrows raised. "Of course," he said. "Did you doubt I would?"

  "Yes," she said frankly.

  "So little faith in me?" he said with a laugh.

  Isabel tilted her head to the side as she considered. "No, it is only that you seemed preoccupied last night, and I couldn't be sure you would remember."

  His smile faltered, but only for an instant. "I must have been an atrocious dancing partner."

  "Not at all," she said. "You were very civil and executed your duties admirably."

  "Good heavens," he said with a look of horror. "A dead bore, in fact."

  Isabel laughed and shook her head, turning toward Hetty and Mary. Hetty greeted Mr. Galbraith like an old friend, going so far as to offer him her hand.

  He looked at Isabel with a diverted expression as he took it.

  Mary was standing back, watching the interchange between the other three. There was a curious light in Mary’s eyes as she greeted Mr. Galbraith, and she soon insisted that she needed to speak with Hetty for a moment in private.

  Isabel looked a question at her, but Mary avoided her eye and guided Hetty with a firm arm around her waist further into the c
hurchyard.

  "They are fast friends, it would appear," said Mr. Galbraith, taking a seat on the bench and motioning for Isabel to join him.

  She hesitated a moment but decided that to refuse the seat and stay standing would be unnecessarily rude and awkward. She sat on the edge as far away as possible from him. So far, in fact, that Mr. Galbraith's hand shot out and grabbed her arm to keep her from falling off the bench. Her cheeks burning, she thanked him without meeting his eye.

  "You seem to be a bit on edge today," he said.

  A smile appeared on her face, and she nodded her approval. "A very good pun." She tilted her head and frowned. "Though somewhat unfeeling perhaps."

  Mr. Galbraith chuckled as he realized her meaning. "I'm all thumbs, Miss Cosgrove."

  Isabel smiled and looked toward Mary and Hetty. They seemed to be engrossed in conversation with no immediate intention to return. Feeling Mr. Galbraith's eyes on her, Isabel turned her head to look at him.

  His brows were drawn. "I believe you are the one who is preoccupied today."

  Isabel sighed. She didn't relish the conversation she needed to have with him. It went against her pride, but she didn't have the luxury of pride in her current situation. And if the conversation were necessary, it was better to face it head on. The sooner she broached the subject, the sooner it would be over.

  "I am," she acknowledged. "I need to speak with you on a difficult topic, and I admit that I am reluctant."

  He turned toward her, half concern, half caution. "What is it?"

  She took her lips between her teeth and took a deep breath. "My father insists that we marry," she said. She tried to ignore the way her stomach clenched as she watched him frown at the revelation. "He maintains that you gave your word, and unfortunately, my own arguments have done nothing to move him from his position."

  She waited for Mr. Galbraith to respond, but he said nothing, staring ahead.

  She took another breath and, her cheeks infused with color, she continued. "He takes no pains to hide the fact that he is anxious to marry off my sisters and me, but I doubt you can be fully aware how providential he views the opportunity to marry me off. He has long commented that he expected to be responsible for me financially until his death."

  Mr. Galbraith turned his head to look at her, and she saw in his eyes a hint of what she had most dreaded: pity.

  She smiled wryly. "Don't, please."

  His brow furrowed. "Don't what?"

  "Pity me," she said, turning her head back to watch Hetty and Mary. "I have long since learned to disregard the things said by my father. But when he threatened to speak to you himself—to attempt to force you to honor the terms of play, I felt it would be much better if you and I could discuss things. Perhaps come up with a plan of our own to appease him."

  Mr. Galbraith was looking at her with a curious expression. "And this is more preferable to you than simply honoring the agreement between your father and myself?"

  "What, and marry?" She looked at him and raised a brow.

  He returned her gaze but remained silent, his lips pursed.

  She sighed. "Mr. Galbraith, may I be what I am certain my mother should call 'vulgarly frank' with you?"

  His mouth twitched. "Please do."

  She looked at him with an intense, calculating gaze, trying to guess how he would respond to her forthrightness. What would he think of her? She couldn't imagine Miss Darling saying what she was about to say, nor Cecilia, nor any one of the ladies she knew.

  But she had given up trying to be like them.

  "It is obviously none of my business at all,” she said, “but I believe that, given the situation we find ourselves in, we must agree to dispose with formality, do you not agree?"

  He nodded his agreement, but a smile still tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  "Very well," she said, exhaling. "Am I correct in my understanding that you hold Miss Darling in—" she searched for the right words "—shall we say, higher than common regard?”

  Mr. Galbraith drew back slightly.

  "I did warn you," said Isabel with a defensive note in her voice.

  Mr. Galbraith smiled and relaxed. "You did."

  Isabel grimaced. "I have shocked you with my vulgarly frank ways."

  He laughed. "No. I am not so easily shocked. It was simply unexpected." He was silent for a moment. "To answer your question with equal frankness, yes. Julia and I grew up together and have long intended to wed. Had, I should say. Had long intended to wed. Her parents were insistent, though, that she not promise herself to marry before enjoying a Season." His eyebrows went up. "Julia and I both fought them on it, found it to be terribly unjust. They must have been wiser than I. No sooner did Julia arrive in town than she caught the attention and admiration of nearly every eligible bachelor in London. Men far more eligible than I."

  Isabel watched his profile, frowning, and said softly, "And she lost sight of things." It wasn't a question but a statement.

  Mr. Galbraith looked at her and nodded slowly.

  "But you," she said, "remain constant in your regard." Again, it was a statement more than a question.

  He hesitated for a moment, as if trying to judge how his response would be received by Isabel, and then nodded again.

  It was only what she had expected, but somehow to see him acknowledge it made her stomach clench.

  But it was better to be in possession of all the facts than forever hanging on to some ignorant, silly hope. And much better that she help him toward achieving his own desires than to pursue her fruitless ones.

  If Miss Darling had loved him, surely that love could be rekindled. It might require some unconventional tactics—ruthless and heavy-handed, even—but only because the tactics employed by the forces at work on Miss Darling were also ruthless and heavy-handed.

  If all went according to plan, Miss Darling and Mr. Galbraith could marry happily. Though such an outcome might not appeal to Isabel on first consideration, the practical side of her knew that it was far preferable than for her to marry a man who had no heart to give her in return for her own, one who would secretly be wishing he were with Julia Darling.

  "May I now," said Mr. Galbraith, "be what I apprehend your mother would call 'vulgarly frank' with you?"

  Isabel couldn't help but smile. "I beg you will be."

  "What bearing does my regard for Julia have on our situation? Things between her and myself are at an end."

  "Well," said Isabel, "as to that, we shall see. The fact of the matter is that neither of us wishes to be constrained to marry the other, despite my father's insistence that it be so. My first thought was that we offer him something more valuable to him than the marriage of his most ill-favored daughter—" she shot him a look full of humor "—but I believe the only thing which could tempt him would be money, and far more of it than I could ask you to give. It is the most unfortunate circumstance, you know, that he should have won against you for he is unaccountably unlucky in gaming. But that ship has sailed, and we must now make the best—."

  Mr. Galbraith put up a hand to stop her. "You are mistaken," he said. "Your father did not win. I won."

  Isabel's jaw hung slack, and she looked at him with a blank expression.

  "Your father is not, I admit, a paragon of virtue—or of filial affection, it would seem—but he is not so black as to stake his daughter's hand as his reward for winning. It was his loss that brought this about."

  Isabel's wry smile appeared again. "I admire your confidence in my father, sir."

  She was silent for a moment, digesting the information he had provided. "I don't pretend to be the quickest wit," Isabel said with a wrinkled brow, "but I am normally accounted to have a sound understanding. I fail to see what could have possessed you to agree to such stakes, particularly given your regard for Miss Darling."

  Mr. Galbraith gripped his lips together. "My behavior that evening was headstrong and unwise. I am not proud of it, and I am particularly sorry to have involved you. It was
abominable of me. I despaired of my success with Julia, and I was angry with her. I wanted to put it all behind me, and your father offered me a way to do that. He had no money left to wager, and he knew I was blue-deviled. He suggested that I marry your sister—Cecilia, is it? Then he had the idea to play for her hand. I think it was in jest at first. But somehow I began seriously considering the idea." He shrugged his shoulders, as if he couldn't account for how it all had happened. "I insisted on you rather than Cecilia, and suddenly we were playing."

  Isabel had been listening intently, but she grew suddenly still. No one had ever chosen her over Cecilia. The suggestion would have been laughable to most people.

  "Why me? Why not Cecilia?"

  Mr. Galbraith shrugged again. "She reminded me too much of Julia. I wanted someone nothing like her; didn't want the constant reminder of her."

  Isabel swallowed painfully. She could never escape the comparisons to Cecilia. For a foolish moment, she had felt a flicker of hope that Mr. Galbraith had seen something in her that attracted him. But the only thing which had recommended her to him was how different she was from the woman he loved. It was hardly a compliment.

  She had grown to accept that everyone viewed her as inferior to Cecilia. And for a long time, she had seen herself that way. She had once tried to be more like Cecilia—to laugh and flirt, to always be on the cusp of fashion. But her efforts had not left her feeling the confidence she sought. They had only left her feeling like a shadow; a poor imitation of something far superior. And they had left her with animosity toward her sister.

  When she had confided such unchristian feelings to the rector, Mr. Safford had taken pains to help her see her own value, to understand that her worth was inherent and not something society bestowed upon her. His kindness and care had had its effect over time, and Isabel had shed much of her resentment. She had gained a quiet confidence, and it was rare that she let a feeling of inferiority weigh on her.