by Liz Carlyle
“You may go so far as that bench,” he said, “where the girl is standing. If you go farther without first asking, I will have to take you home. That is a firm rule. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, leaping up.
“Don’t forget your bag,” he said, thrusting it at her.
She giggled, grabbed it, and went flying across the grass.
Hepplewood had already learned, from his near-daily forays into Hyde Park, that one little girl loved nothing so well as another—and absent that, a little boy would do.
Out of desperation, Lissie had already tried to coax Bertie into playing dolls. But Bertie, fettered as he was by one of the most pitiless creatures on earth—an elder brother—had wisely declined her every invitation.
Once or twice Lissie had managed to strike up a sort of temporary acquaintance with another girl in the park, but the same girls seemed never to appear two days running, and Hepplewood was never quite sure how to facilitate a proper introduction in any case, for the girls were invariably with nannies or mothers.
But this new girl seemed inordinately friendly and had opened her bag at once so that Lissie might take a handful of crumbs. Lissie flung them wide, and two of the ducks collided with predictably hilarious results; flapping, honking, nipping, and other acts of anatine umbrage.
The girls fell at once into peals of laughter, and soon they had emptied the other girl’s bag. Lissie offered up hers, and the pair bent over it, struggling together to unfasten Cook’s tight knot. They had an instant camaraderie, it seemed.
This time, he decided, he would simply go and make an introduction, and try to determine what time of day the girl was most apt to be in the park. Oh, perhaps the girl was not quite of Lissie’s social standing, but he had been in an oddly egalitarian frame of mind lately. He had begun to wonder if status mattered as much as happiness. His mother was almost certainly spinning in her grave over that one.
This time, however, he did not need to facilitate an introduction.
He realized it the moment the lady knelt down to help the children unfasten the knot and something besides her hems came into view beneath his hat brim.
Suddenly, his heart leapt a little oddly in his chest. His breath caught. And yet he somehow managed to lie perfectly still and let the situation unfold as he observed from beneath his hat.
Isabella was biting her lip as she worked determinedly at the knot. Soon it loosened, then slipped free. The girls ran back into the ducks, now milling about with some impatience, and Isabella stood up again, beyond his line of sight.
Good Lord, but he missed her.
It took every ounce of his determination to restrain himself from simply getting up and going to tell her so. His every instinct still urged him to go and lay claim to her. But he did not, for he now understood that Isabella was struggling to bear up beneath the burdens she already had. She did not need him to add guilt and pressure to the mix.
No, she would either come to love him, or she would not.
He would either resolve her situation, or he would not.
And they would decide, together or apart, the right thing to do for their families.
If these last, lonely weeks had taught him nothing more than the importance of having his own mind—and his own life—straight, then at least he had learned a valuable thing.
She was not carrying his child, she had said.
He told himself he was glad; glad she would not have to make a difficult decision when her life was already awash in difficulty, and glad she would not have to take the awful risk of childbirth. The thought of Isabella wracked with pain and torn quite possibly to pieces struck him with a terror so cold and so deep that he knew it was irrational.
But he was not glad. Not on some dark, primitive level. Not in his heart. And he did not know what that said about him.
That he was still selfish, he supposed.
As selfish as his father had brought him up to be.
As selfish as his mother had always accused him of being.
Almost as selfish as he had been in seducing Felicity, then taking her to Burlingame and throwing her in everyone’s faces—no, in Diana’s face—and setting in motion that awful chain of events that could not now be undone.
He drew a deep breath and realized that all the bread was gone, and that Isabella was looking about the park in some concern, her hand wrapped tight around Lissie’s.
Lissie pointed at the blanket, and the three of them started up the slight incline in his direction. He tossed his hat aside and sat up, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.
She looked more beautiful than ever today, he thought, as she waded through the grass toward him. And when recognition lit her face—along with a fleeting look of joy—something in his heart seemed to rise and almost go to her.
You are in deep, old boy, he thought to himself. So deep, there is no turning back.
No, it was now merely a matter of understanding how best to go forward.
This realization came to him with certainty—and a simple certainty it was, too. Like saying the night sky was black, or that rain was inevitable. That she was inevitable.
As they reached the blanket, he stood and held his arm out for Lissie.
“Papa, did you see the ducks?” she cried excitedly. “Did you see the little one bite the big one? He tried to take his bread.”
“I did see that.” He drew Lissie companionably to his side and took Isabella’s hand, bowing over it. “Mrs. Aldridge, you are a welcome sight indeed. I see you’ve made my daughter’s acquaintance.”
But the awkwardness of the situation had clearly caught up with Isabella, and she looked almost desperately uneasy now. The poor woman had not an ounce of dissimulation in her, he realized—and he loved her all the more for it.
Yes, loved her.
The last few weeks had taught him that, too.
“Good afternoon, Lord Hepplewood,” she managed. “Yes, Lady Felicity joined us by the ducks—quite of her own accord.”
This last was added hastily, as if she feared some other interpretation.
“Yes, I’ve been watching. Thank you for taking care of her. So, is this Miss Georgina Glaston?” He took the girl’s hand and bowed over it. “You are almost as beautiful as your sister—which is quite an accomplishment.”
The girl giggled, then turned her face to Isabella’s skirts.
“Oh, are you friends?” asked Lissie innocently.
“Yes, friends of some significance, I think,” he said, his eyes upon Isabella.
“Oh, good,” said Lissie. “Can Georgina play with Pickles, then? We want to walk him along the footpath.”
“Hmm.” Hepplewood turned and looked. “A spot of exercise would do the old boy good, I daresay. You may go as far as the Ring—but not inside the fence, mind—and then back again. Assuming Mrs. Aldridge agrees?”
Isabella looked a little nonplused, then, after a moment had passed, she nodded and said, “Certainly.”
“Shall we walk a little behind them?” he suggested.
She nodded again.
Hepplewood put his hat back on, and they set off at a sedate pace behind the girls.
“Take my arm, Isabella,” he gently instructed. “We are friends, remember?”
“Yes, friends of some significance, you said,” she murmured in that deep, almost throaty voice that left him shivering inside.
“Aren’t we?” He stopped on the path and turned to look at her. “Isabella, aren’t we friends—people who care for one another—if no more than that?”
“I do not know what we are,” she said, seeming unaccountably shaken.
“Isabella, my dear.” He wanted desperately to hold her, but they were in the middle of the park, beneath the watchful eye of at least a hundred people—and half the windows of Park Lane. “What is going on?”
She lifted her gaze to his then, her eyes wide and filled with some nameless emotion. “Have you been watching my house, Lord H
epplewood?”
“Have you, Anthony,” he softly corrected. “And the answer is no, not very often.”
“But . . . sometimes?” she pressed.
He nodded, wishing they did not need to have this discussion. Not now. Not just yet.
“Sometimes, yes,” he replied, “when my man Jervis—or someone he has employed in his stead—is not available. But they, perhaps, blend in a little better than I? And I dare not stand by your front door, my dear. I am too easily recognized. You don’t need more trouble than you already have.”
She looked at him a little pleadingly. “What sort of trouble do I have?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Merely a great many worries, that is all.”
“Then why are you watching my house?” she said sharply. “I don’t understand.”
Isabella had pushed him into a corner, he realized—and she was far from stupid.
“Because I do not trust your cousin,” he said bluntly. “No, Isabella, not as far as I could hurl the rotter. Perhaps I overheard a little more of your conversation in Fulham than I might have let on.”
“Oh.” Some of the pain and indignation went out of her then. “Thank you. You are kind. But Everett is mostly just a nuisance, I think. I am used to him.”
“Smallpox is just a nuisance when it first starts to itch,” he said grimly. “But once its full evil is revealed, you’re already damn near dead.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Evil?”
“What would you call it?”
Her lovely brow furrowed. “Yes, evil,” she finally said. “Everett is evil. But you seem to be speaking of a different sort of malevolence.”
“That is the very problem, Isabella,” he said. “I do not know what I’m speaking of—not yet—which is why I should prefer not to speak of it at all.”
“Oh.” She paused as if to consider it. “Is that why you’ve stopped writing to me?”
That made him laugh. “Dare I hope, my dear, that you are disappointed?” He leaned dangerously near then; so near he could draw in the clean scent of her hair and a warm hint of perspiration. “Do you wish me to write? Given how we parted, I was not sure. I would love nothing better than to resume my letters at once.”
“No, no, I merely meant—”
He cut her off by setting his lips to her ear. “And, if you wish, Isabella,” he whispered, “I shall write with far more specificity—and far less restraint—than I have thus far shown. I will tell you how desperately I need to hear your voice, and precisely what dark deeds I long to subject you to. How I burn to touch you and feel you writhing and crying out beneath me. You are, I collect, opening all your own mail?”
Isabella seemed unable to get her breath. “Well—usually.”
“Ah, usually.” He drew away then with a rueful expression. “Alas, you see my conundrum, my dear. The things I would prefer to write to you are things apt to give anyone else great pause—if not heart failure.”
She looked at him very steadily. “I still don’t know what to make of you,” she said. “After all this time . . . I still do not know.”
Impulsively, he took her hand and carried it all the way to his lips, pressing them fervently to her glove. “You are in the happy position, my dear, of having time to decide,” he said, looking at her very directly. “And I am learning to be a patient man.”
She was still staring blankly at him when suddenly, a voice carried from farther down the hill. “Tony—?” came a distant shout. “Oh, Tony, that is you!”
He pulled away and looked far down the bridle path. “That sounds like my cousin Anne,” he murmured, slanting a hand above his eyes to block the sun. “She is bringing ponies. And more children. And at least two grooms. Quite the entourage. Will you stay? I am reliably informed there will be pony rides. Would Georgina like a pony ride?”
Isabella seemed to snap to full awareness of where she was. “Thank you, no,” she said breathlessly, looking about in a panic. “We must go. Georgie? Georgie! Dear God, where has she got to?”
“Just a few feet behind you,” he said, sliding a steadying hand beneath her elbow. “I’ve had my eye on her the entire time, Isabella, I promise you.”
He felt some of the tension go out of her then, and she cast him a grateful glance before turning around to see that Georgina and Lissie were indeed approaching.
“Here I am,” said Georgina, drawing up beside her sister. “Must we go now, Bella?”
“Yes,” she said, giving a tight nod. “Come, Georgie, and give me your hand. Thank you, my lord, for your many kindnesses. And thank you, Lady Felicity, for playing so nicely with Georgie.”
Isabella did not look back. The pair hastened away, Lissie watching them depart, her small face screwed up, as if she might cry. She had spared the approaching ponies not a glance, he noticed.
“I liked Georgie,” she said on a small, choking sound. “She was n-nice.”
Hepplewood knelt to look at her. “I thought so, too,” he said, kissing the corner of her eye. “Don’t cry, sweet. Would you like to play with Georgie again sometime?”
“Yes,” said Lissie fervently. “Oh, yes, Papa. May I? Do you know how to find her?”
“I do indeed, poppet,” he said, cutting a glance at the lovely sway of Isabella’s backside as he stood. “I most certainly do.”
Just then, Anne’s mount drew up. “Good Lord, wasn’t that Richard’s widow?” she said, unhooking her knee to dismount. “She’s grown so thin I almost didn’t recognize her.”
Hepplewood lifted her down. “Richard?” he said stupidly. “Richard who?”
Anne landed, then looked at him impatiently. “Richard Aldridge,” she said. “Philip’s cousin. Wasn’t that Isabella Aldridge?”
But Hepplewood had turned to stare at Isabella’s spine, ramrod straight as she continued toward Kensington Gardens, the child tripping along by her side.
“Aldridge,” he murmured. “Good Lord! Fenster’s son?”
“Yes, the dead poet,” said Anne dryly. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper. “Uncle Fenster put it about that she’d poisoned him or some such nonsense, you will remember.”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“Ah, no, you wouldn’t, would you?” she murmured. “That, as I recall, was the winter of your discontent—or one of them.”
It had actually been the Season before, he recalled, when he’d learned the truth about Diana, though he’d still been on a dissolute binge many months later. Yes, the truth had sent him on a bitter and ugly journey—one that, some might argue, continued to this day.
Anne had handed her reins to one of the grooms and was giving precise instructions as to how the boys were permitted to go on. “And Bertie may take Lissie up before him,” she added, “but only in the Ring, mind—and watch her carefully.”
She returned to Hepplewood’s side and hitched her arm through his. “Is that your blanket, old thing?” she said, pressing one hand to her lower back as if it ached. “I should very much like to sit on it, if you please.”
Like an automaton, he set off back down the slope, Anne waddling a little at his side.
“It was a happy marriage?” he heard himself saying. “The Aldridges’?”
Anne seemed to ponder it as she settled onto the blanket. “Well, it was a love match, certainly,” she said, modestly arranging her habit over her belly. “She’d been meant for her cousin—Lord Tafford’s heir—but the silly girl came out and fell at once for starry-eyed Richard . . . which one can excuse, I daresay.”
“Excuse what?”
“Falling for Richard,” said Anne impatiently. “Heavens, the year before, I nearly did, and I was already in love with Philip. Fortunately, I knew the family well enough to see the poor boy was a tad loose-hinged.”
“Loose-hinged? How?”
She shrugged. “Like his mother,” she said. “Buoyed up by these soaring flights of fancy in which he’d write reams of dreadful poetry and dash madly abo
ut the world until, eventually, he’d come crashing down into this deep, frightful funk. Except with Lady Fenster, it was torrid affairs with other men. And shopping—sometimes until she literally collapsed.”
“Now that, I do recall,” he said. “Died of a laudanum overdose, didn’t she?”
“Rather like Richard and his drinking,” Anne mused, “though it never hurt his appearance. Only you, perhaps, could have rivaled Richard’s good looks. But whereas you are merely spoiled, Richard was . . . Richard was weak. He could never bear adversity.”
Hepplewood snorted. “What kind of adversity did Fenster’s lot ever suffer? He owns half the Bank of England.”
“Fenster cut Richard off,” said Anne. “Cut him off without a penny and told him he hoped he starved to death—which he would have done, had that poor girl’s father not taken him in and supported him.”
“Her father?” said Hepplewood. “Had he any money to speak of?”
“Baron Tafford? Lord, no.” Anne’s gaze turned inward. “There was a pretty little estate in Sussex. And she had a little something from her mother, I seem to recall, by way of dowry. But beyond that, almost nothing. It is so common nowadays, you know.”
Isabella had finally vanished from view. Hepplewood sighed. “What is so common?”
“Good Lord, Tony, keep up, do,” said Anne. “I’m speaking of noblemen who are land-rich and cash-poor.”
“Oh, that!” he said dryly. “No, I have firsthand experience with that.”
“Well, it’s not your fault Uncle Hepplewood let Loughford run to ruin,” she conceded. “At least you have turned everything around now—and then some.”
“Father let Loughford run to ruin because he let his estate agent get the upper hand and grow lazy,” he said quietly. “And Mr. Willet’s money turned things around. You know that as well as I, Anne. Felicity paid for it—paid for it with her life, really.”
“That is not true,” she said. “Felicity made her own choices.”
“Did she?” At last he turned to fully face her. “Did she really, Anne?”
“Did you force her, Tony, to do anything?” said Anne impatiently. “Did you? Did you force Felicity into your bed? She was twenty years old, and she was my friend. She was not green, and she was not stupid.”
