‘Good morning, milady.’
A young girl in uniform bobbed a curtsey before bringing a breakfast tray to the bedside table. ‘I am Mary and will serve as your maid while you visit Highborough House.’
Isabelle rose against the pillows, her eyes adjusting to the ample sunlight. ‘It is nice to meet you, Mary, but I already have a maid.’ She blinked twice and surveyed the lush bedchamber. Persimmon-coloured curtains and floral wallpaper bursting with shades of moss green and butter yellow complemented the silky bed coverings, so soft she was tempted to bring the fabric to her cheek. A large crystal vase brimming with red dahlias graced the bureau beside a huge wooden wardrobe and small writing desk, all carved in the finest detail. Three doors, aside from the hall entrance, lined the far walls: entrance to a dressing room and water closet likely, but the third door? Isabelle puzzled at its purpose. Whoever decorated the guest chambers knew much about style and the interplay of colour. The room balanced a welcoming comfort with exquisite refinement.
Mary began to serve and the clink of the china drew her attention. ‘His grace did not know of your pleasure so Cook prepared an assortment of breakfast dishes.’
The maid uncovered plate after plate, and then paused to pour tea that she somehow knew required cream and two sugars. Isabelle watched with a furrowed brow.
‘His grace also requested you accompany him on a walk of the grounds after you finish your meal and toilette.’
Isabelle smiled at Mary’s dulcet tone, although her mind raced upon hearing the earl’s requests. What would she wear? Where were her trunks? Janie disappeared last night and she hadn’t seen her since.
‘And my maid?’ She bit into a lemon biscuit and followed it with a sip of hot tea.
‘His grace believed your maid needed rest as much as you did. She is currently asleep in the guest chambers. His grace asked her to be left undisturbed.’
Isabelle’s brow quirked in a peevish arch. It would seem his grace made many assumptions. It was not the first time she noticed this audacious habit.
She finished eating and rose from the bed to explore the room. For guest quarters the furniture and decor went beyond lavish. Thick sumptuous rug cushioned her feet as she circled the room and admired every aspect, from the tall glass windows to the plentiful artwork hung on the walls. A long ivory chaise angled near one of the corners, a scarlet pillow rested against its arm, the effect beautiful. Someone possessed an eye for colour indeed.
She did not see her trunk anywhere and her heart skipped into a quiet panic. ‘Mary, where are my things? My clothes?’
‘I believe whatever you may need hangs in the wardrobe or lies in the bureau.’ The maid moved with swift efficiency to open a few doors and drawers and display their contents. Everywhere she looked, clothing overflowed. There were several day gowns, evening gowns and a beautiful kelly green riding habit. The drawers brimmed with every type of undergarment imaginable. Her eye caught a pair of silk hose, the edge tatted with the most amazing lace she’d ever seen. She fingered the delicate piece and lifted it from the drawer to reveal a matching chemise underneath, made of the softest silk, as sheer as gossamer.
The quiet panic of her heart turned into a tidal wave of emotion. She slammed the drawer closed as an ugly wash of shame flooded her. She motioned to Mary and her hands trembled with embarrassment and rage. His grace placed her not in a guestroom, but in a boudoir littered with the discards of his latest paramours. Good heavens, to what did she agree when she ventured here?
Isabelle knew tears threatened and she strove to hold her voice steady. ‘Mary, these are not my things.’
‘Yes, milady. They are yours. His grace ordered them from Paris especially for you. They arrived yesterday.’ The maid reached forward and adjusted a dove grey pelisse on its hanger at the same time Isabelle withdrew with a wary step.
‘No, and I do apologise for your trouble.’ She knew no fault fell to the maid, but the sting of her pride overrode good sense and her words burst forth tetchily. ‘You have emptied and filled the drawers many times over I’m sure, but I will not be wearing these things.’
‘Milady, I have never done so before. His grace was implicit in his directions. I was to arrange these rooms for your arrival.’ Then almost as if she hesitated to continue, the maid lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. ‘His grace has never brought a woman to Highborough House. I must say, the entire staff is excited to have a guest in residence, never mind a lovely lady such as yourself.’
Isabelle cast the maid a suspicious glance. ‘That is hard to believe when one considers his popularity among the ton.’
Mary closed the drawers and cabinets. When she finished she turned and tilted her head in question. ‘Shall I tell his grace these items displease you?’
The maid’s perplexed expression caused Isabelle unease. She released a stilted breath, and then another. ‘No, that will not be necessary.’ Her whisper could hardly be heard, her thoughts occupied with an onslaught of tumultuous questions.
Imported from Paris? In two day’s time? Why would he go to such trouble? It made no sense at all. Emotion pressed hard on her heart. No one had ever treated her with such extravagance. Each piece of clothing appeared more beautiful than the next. Her mind flittered back to the gossamer gown and she blinked hard to dismiss the temptation of donning such revealing lingerie. What type of woman could wear the provocative garment and not feel vulnerable? Exposed? She swallowed hard and folded her arms over the sleeves of her cotton night rail as if to ensure it remained in her possession.
Once dressed, she followed Mary down a long hallway. Her pulse calmed as she admired the superlative artwork and vibrant landscapes that covered every available wall. Perhaps the earl deemed himself a collector. The sudden conclusion provoked an image of Lily, but Isabelle forced it out of mind knowing the remembrance of her conflict the evening past would nip close at its heels. At least she needn’t worry Meredith would discover she’d never reached Rossmore House. Her stepmother would relish the time spent apart.
She followed Mary down a shorter hallway, the young girl keeping a brisk pace. Art connoisseur or not, she hoped the earl’s reputed collection of broken hearts was exaggerated and did not rival his vast group of paintings, otherwise she was hurdling headfirst towards heartache.
They descended a curved staircase and proceeded into a salon at the front of the house. Here too an exquisite attention to detail proved evident. The furnishings enhanced the room, but it was striking colour that dominated the décor. Even the inlaid floor tiles was made of two different marbles. Everywhere Isabelle looked the interplay of colour entranced her and always, a splash of red hinted at playfulness. It became a little game, to find the red accent among everything she viewed. She studied a dramatic painting above the fireplace, the dark colours and somber tone discordant with the others displayed in Highborough House, when Constantine’s deep timbre interrupted her deliberation.
‘Good morning.’
Her hands fluttered to the folds of her skirt and she turned, half aware she’d wrung them as she stood woolgathering.
‘I hope you feel rested and have found everything to your liking.’
He moved further into the room and the air bristled with something intangible. All conscious thought evaporated. It was unsettling, the enigmatic pull between them, the power and the acute masculinity of the man who entered the room and the immediate response of her body. It was no use denying him handsome, he was inconceivably so. She was all at once dizzy, and never more alive, as if something unknown awakened inside her with every flick of his appreciative crystal gaze. She reached out and grasped the back of the nearest stuffed chair for support.
He quirked a smile, his eyes warm with approval, and only indignation recovered her good sense, although she dared a glance to his mouth before she looked away. His eyes glinted this morning as compellingly as they had in the moonlight when he convinced her to journey to his home and make a bargain with the devil. She swallowe
d against a recurrence of panic.
‘Thank you, milord.’ She watched his lips part, to interrupt or correct her, but she continued with more finesse than she knew she possessed. ‘From the courtesies extended to my maid, to your generosity with my wardrobe, it would appear you have thought of everything.’
If only she knew.
Once they’d arrived at his home and everyone was settled, Con had gone to bed painfully discomfited. He yearned to stride across his bedchamber, open the wooden door that separated their rooms and rush to her bed for no other reason than to view her while she slept. Bloody hell, he would not have stopped there. With Isabelle under his roof, a room’s length from his bed, he would never be satisfied until he had had her in every manner he imagined while he suffered alone through the long quiet night.
‘I am pleased you are enjoying my hospitality.’ He took in her tidy auburn bun and muslin dress. He knew she would wear what he chose for her. At times, sensibility proved its purpose. Of course, neglecting to deliver her trunks proved its usefulness as well. With practised precision, he dismissed her tolerant expression and let his gaze drag down her length. Most women would rejoice in the gift of a new wardrobe, but not Isabelle. He suspected she wore the dress out of necessity only. Although there was no denying how fetching she looked in buttercup yellow. ‘Would you join me for a stroll? The air is fine and I believe you will adore my gardens.’
She followed his lead through the French doors and out along the estate walkway lined with ornate urns that overflowed with vibrant snapdragons and white lilies. They fell into step, perfectly matched, and satisfaction curled his lips before he labeled it contentment. Isabelle appeared enchanted. Her eyes flittered with avid interest from one end of his estate to the other, taking in the meticulously manicured lawns and sculpted fountains. The back wings of the house extended outward on either side, as if the building wrapped its arms around the elaborate centre gardens in a protective gesture.
‘How did you manage to turn my world upside down? I cannot believe I am here and not at Rossmore House.’ A reluctant laugh escaped before she caught herself.
He watched her eyes, so lovely, sparkling like raindrops during a sun shower. ‘When I learned you intended to leave London, I stationed Brooks to watch for your carriage. He holds an affinity for window surveillance.’ Con leaned down and plucked a daisy near the path and offered it to his lady. She stroked the petals as he continued. ‘From that point I planned for your arrival, hopeful you would see reason. Time was of the essence last evening, but you should not worry of scandal. Brooks has instructions for a driver to take my carriage throughout London providing the gossipmongers with the illusion I remain in residence.’
He offered her a quick smile, but stopped in his tracks when he noticed the intense sincerity of her expression.
‘You detest all the attention, don’t you? You do not like it.’
She stated it as fact, not question, and he paused, taken aback by her perceptiveness. Even his closest friends did not consider how much he loathed the irrational interest afforded him in London. When they spoke about it they overlooked how the monotony made him miserable. Even Phineas, one of his closest friends, rarely considered the paradox of his complicated lifestyle and the inconvenience it presented. No one detected his loneliness. Without a doubt he needed to bury his scars deeper if she could see them so easily.
‘At one time I did, but no longer. While I enjoy the cut of a well made suit or the jovial entertainment, the tedium of the season holds less appeal each year.’ He followed her lead and began to walk again. ‘And too, it has grown exhausting, practicing insincerity on such a regular basis.’
He didn’t say more and they continued in amiable silence until he smartly changed the subject. ‘It could be true my valet’s vigilant watch for your departure will redeem him for the dahlia incident.’
She wrinkled her nose in an adorable gesture and he could not help but chuckle. She joined him, her laughter a love song as she quipped in return. ‘I rather doubt that.’
He moved forward to unlatch the first gate and glanced back, a droll reply at the ready but the words evaporated on his tongue. Isabelle stood beneath a wooden arbour overgrown with clinging roses. Struck with the image, as breathtaking as a Renaissance oil, he remained motionless until she matched his eyes, her expression curious at his sudden quiet.
They left the immediate property and moved towards the profuse and abundant flower gardens of the back acreage. A stir of anticipation unfolded in his chest at the thought of showing Isabelle the floral fields and the sudden rise of emotion caught him unaware. Forcing himself to discard the unexpected reaction, he opened the latch and swung the second gate forward, sketching an elegant bow as her skirts swished past.
He did not miss her sharp intake of breath, nor how she remained perfectly motionless, a smile on her face enhanced by a touch of wonderment.
‘It is so lovely. I do not know where to look first. It is as though an artist spilled his paintbox.’ She scanned the fields and spoke to him over her shoulder. ‘It must take a huge staff of gardeners to keep the landscape so breathtaking and pristine.’
Before them, for as far as the eye could see, verdant fields of bluebells, cowslip, mallow and poppy blended in a wild flower mosaic of vivid beauty. Con had painted the picturesque landscape many times, never able to capture the remarkable loveliness evident when standing at this crest. Now his eyes never left Isabelle. Every shilling he had paid any gardener was worth its weight in gold upon witnessing her reaction.
‘Let’s go.’ He reached for her hand and moved to where stone stairs led to a cobblestone path, through a tree-lined garden, and further to a folly at the rear of his property. Long-forgotten memories wriggled up to the surface: the endless hours he’d spent in the fields as a boy, and how the sanctity of the gardens brought him peace...and relief. Safety. He opened his mouth to speak, but discarded the thought with a brisk turn of his head. He had never shared the sordid facts of his past. No one enjoyed a sorrowful tale.
‘What is over there?’
Isabelle pointed to the left, where a low stone wall formed a square enclosure, far beyond the colourful gardens. It was as if she knew the path his thoughts had followed and prodded him to speak of unpleasant things.
‘Nothing of importance.’ He cleared his throat. His father did not deserve the smallest plot of ground afforded to his gravesite. It remained the one area of the estate left unkempt, akin to the parenting of the man buried there. To withstand verbal abuse at the hand of one’s haughty sire was not uncommon among aristocracy, but physical abuse from one’s parent was unconscionable. Myriad heavy emotions clawed themselves towards the surface but he refused to allow them to break through. When he returned his eyes to Isabelle, her brow creased with curiosity, but she did not question him further.
They walked on and the silence between them did not matter. He offered his arm as they manoeuvered the slate stones where England’s fickle weather had eroded the slabs into glass. Isabelle held firmly to his elbow and the trust in her touch caused a rush of emotions to whip through him. His blood stirred in sexual response. Caught up in his reaction, when she spoke her words caught him unaware.
‘Highborough House is very impressive and the furnishings are exceeding well done. These gardens are exceptional. Were they your parents’ handiwork or am I completely mistaken and nature, like everything else, has given you a generous gift?’
Provoked by curiosity, she had no idea how her question disturbed him. His mother left before his sixth birthday; a result of his father’s philandering. When he became of age and sought his mother’s whereabouts, he’d learned she’d died, stuck down in a carriage accident soon after leaving Highborough House. He wished his memories of her were stronger. If they did exist, they remained inaccessible, stifled by hatred for his father.
‘My father was not a very warm man.’ Isabelle reached forward and ran her fingertips over a nearby bloom. ‘He rarely spared a
kind word.’
‘Nor was mine.’ In that, they were two sides of the same coin.
She continued, her expression as melancholy as her words. ‘My mother…I was told I was too much for her.’ She faltered before she finished. ‘I believe my father blamed me for her death.’
Her steps slowed, but she did not stop walking.
‘I am sorry. It must have been very difficult to grow up in a household such as you describe.’ Of that he knew well. The commonality of their childhoods urged him to comfort her. ‘Had you no great aunt, no grandmother during those young years?’
‘No, just my father.’ Emotion laced each word. ‘He reminded me as often as possible that I was not what he wanted. A huge disappointment, actually. He disliked my unconventional appearance and rude colouring – ’
‘The breathtaking combination of your ivory skin and amaranth hair?’
She did not look at him, although her head bowed in modest acceptance.
‘And my unfortunate figure.’
She crossed her arms over her chest, whether in a gesture of comfort or to suppress a shudder, he could not tell.
‘Isabelle, everyone notices when you enter the room.’
‘For all the wrong reasons, no doubt.’ Her tone turned practical.
He took her hand in his and gently opened the two pearl buttons at her wrist. Under the close scrutiny of her soft grey gaze, he removed first one glove, then the other, and tucked them out of sight in his trouser pocket. Then before she might object, as he suspected she would, he raised one palm to his lips and pressed a kiss to the delicate skin over her pulse. Her shiver in response to the caress tremored through his entire body.
‘As much as I loathe to contradict a lady, you could not be more wrong.’ He released her hand and leaned closer. The scent of rosewater perfume assailed him even though they stood surrounded by fields of flowers. ‘Your lush curves make me hunger to discover what is under all those layers of muslin and cotton. There is nothing at all displeasing about you. Do not force me to defer to my reputed extensive knowledge of the fairer sex.’
To Love a Wicked Scoundrel Page 15
