by Laura Landon
“Then I will hire a chaperone,” she argued. “But I am not returning.”
“I’m sure your father would not approve of that decision, my lady.”
Isobel felt her temper rise. “In three months it will not matter what my father approves of, my lord. I will have reached my majority, and my actions will no longer require his consent. Nor will I require yours. You will have nothing to say about what I decide to do.”
“Since you have not yet reached your majority, my involvement in your actions is more essential than ever. Your welfare became my responsibility the moment you arrived on my doorstep alone, unescorted, and pretending to be a housekeeper.”
Isobel rose from her chair. He rose, too. “If you refuse to allow me to continue on my way, then what do you intend to do?”
“I’ll write your father and explain that your traveling companion died, and you were forced to take refuge here. You will remain in my home until he can send someone to collect you.”
“No!” she shouted. “I refuse to go back!”
He paused with his hand on the doorknob. He stood for several moments without moving.
Isobel almost heard his thoughts as he considered his options. She almost saw him tick off every choice he had as to how to handle this situation. And she waited.
Finally, he dropped his hand to his side and pointed to her chair. “Sit down.”
When she sat, he did, too.
“I will allow you one chance to explain why you are running away from a perfectly acceptable match and traveling to Scotland. If I think for one moment that you aren’t telling me the truth, or are omitting details that I deem important, I will escort you to a room upstairs and keep you there until your father arrives to collect you.”
Isobel didn’t doubt his sincerity. The cold look in his eyes told her he meant every word he said. But what if he sent for her father even after she told him why running away was so terribly important? What if he refused to help her even after he knew why she was here?
She thought for several long agonizing moments. She didn’t want to risk it, yet what choice did she have?
She lifted her gaze and focused on his icy calmness. She’d felt a connection to him the minute she’d walked into the room. Felt as if he were someone she could get along with tolerably well. Now she wasn’t so sure. The harsh glare in his eyes and the serious expression on his face gave her cause to doubt that he would understand her dilemma and help her. Yet what choice did she have?
“Very well, my lord. I will tell you why I chose to run away rather than marry the Marquess of Partmoore. But if you expect a sorry tale of unrequited love, or Lord Partmoore a monster to whom I cannot bear to agree to marry, you will be disappointed. Those aren’t the reasons for my flight.”
Isobel sat back in her chair and watched the Marquess of Halverston’s expression change as he evaluated her words.
“Are you familiar with my father, the Earl of Gilchrist?” she asked.
He nodded sharply. “We’ve met at social functions, and he and I belong to the same clubs, but I’ve never had any business dealings with him.”
“And what was your assessment of him?”
“I found him to be an opinionated sort, with a decent head on his shoulders.”
“Then you have judged him fairly. He is a clever man and has been very successful in his business ventures. One might say he has the Midas touch. Which, of course, he doesn’t. He is successful because he considers what he wants, then calculates as to how he might get it.”
Isobel rose and walked to the window that looked out onto the park beyond the carriage porch. The cobblestone approach was smooth, and the trees that lined the lane were a healthy shade of green. Her father would be impressed with the care Lord Halverston took of his home. He was impressed with anything that indicated wealth and success. To her father, those two elements indicated power.
“One might consider my father ruthless in his dealings, and I wager he is. My sister prefers to think of him as an intelligent businessman who sets his mind on what he wants and doesn’t give up until he gets it.”
“And what did he want from you?”
She turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder. “Nothing. He wanted nothing from me.” She turned back to the blooming parterres on either side of the drive. “He wanted something from the Marquess of Partmoore.”
The room was silent for several moments before either of them spoke.
“His ships,” the Marquess of Halverston whispered from behind her.
Isobel turned. “Yes, my lord. My father wanted to invest in Lord Partmoore’s shipping business.”
“And Partmoore wanted you.”
Isobel shook her head. “My father was on one of the House committees that oversaw shipping and trade regulations. His influence was important to Lord Partmoore. I was offered to assure the connection benefitted both Father and Lord Partmoore.”
Isobel walked to the table that held the crystal decanters. She studied them for a moment, then turned. “Do any of these contain wine?”
He walked to her and reached for a decanter filled with a dark-red liquid. He poured some into a glass and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass from his hand.
Their fingers touched, and she was glad for the gloves she still wore. She knew had her flesh met his, the encounter would have been disturbing in a physical sense.
She took the glass and returned to her chair. “Are your parents living, Lord Halverston?” she asked after she took a sip of her wine. It was excellent. Sweet, as she liked it.
“No, my mother died giving birth to my sister. And my father died a few years after.”
“Did they love each other?”
The surprise on His Lordship’s face was evident.
“Love?”
“Yes, love. Or don’t you believe in the emotion?”
He hesitated. Any light she’d glimpsed in his eyes died. He withdrew as if the question of two people loving each other wasn’t a topic he wished to discuss.
“For myself, I don’t have an opinion one way or the other,” he answered. “But yes, I suppose there is such an emotion. Claire—my sister—and her husband are living proof that the emotion exists. And my sister’s husband is the last person I thought capable of loving anyone.”
“What about your parents? Did they love each other?”
“Yes, I believe they did. In fact, I believe my father would have lived several years longer had my mother not died. I think he lost the will to live once she died.”
Isobel suddenly felt sorry for Lord Halverston’s father. She didn’t know what was worse—to love someone and lose them or love someone and know that person could never return your love.
She took a small sip of her wine to hide how much Lord Halverston’s admission affected her.
“Do your parents have that in common with my parents, my lady?”
“No, my lord. They do . . . did . . . not. In fact, I believe my mother would have lived longer had she not been married to my father.”
Lord Halverston’s silence was deafening. Isobel suddenly wished she hadn’t been so honest. She wished she hadn’t revealed something she’d never told another living soul. Not even Vanessa. And there was little she didn’t share with her sister.
“I know I’m asking the impossible, but please forget I said that. I didn’t mean to imply that my mother died an early death because she was married to my father. That wouldn’t be true.”
“If that isn’t what you meant, then what did you mean?”
Isobel lifted her glass of wine to her lips and took a small sip, as if her hesitation would make him forget she hadn’t answered his question. But when she focused her gaze on him again, he was still watching her, waiting for her to explain her remark.
She released her pent-up breath, as if resigned to the fact that she had no choice. He would need to know the reason she was escaping a marriage to Partmoore. It was the only c
hance she had to keep him from informing her father of her whereabouts.
She set her glass on the desk in front of her and folded her hands in her lap. “If I believed there was another way of convincing you to not reveal my whereabouts to my father, I would do it. But I don’t see one, so I am going to disclose several details I wouldn’t expose under any other circumstances.”
“Would it help if I gave you my assurance that I will keep what you say between the two of us?”
She tried to smile, and she thought she may have succeeded. “You misunderstand, my lord. It’s not so much that I’m afraid you will broadcast what I’m about to say. It’s that I feel as if by telling you, I am betraying my family’s very heart and soul. You may even agree with the decisions my father made concerning my future. But those decisions are what forced me to leave.”
“And one of those decisions was the demand that you marry Lord Partmoore.”
Lord Halverston voiced his accusation as a statement, not as a question.
“My father views marriage as a business transaction. Emotions play no part in the union of two people. Only the advantages that can be gained by their merger are important. Marriage between Lord Partmoore and myself would have benefitted Lord Partmoore and my father. My feelings were unimportant. I did not matter. Nor did my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes. You see, I love my sister more than anyone in the world. And I couldn’t countenance driving a wedge between us that would destroy any chance she had for happiness and cause her to hate me.”
“Why would your marriage to Partmoore cause her to hate you?”
“Because Vanessa is in love with Partmoore, and I believe he has the same feelings toward her.”
Lord Halverston leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. “Have you discussed this with your father? Perhaps he would be willing to encourage a suit between your sister and Partmoore instead of Partmoore and yourself?”
“Yes, I discussed this with Father. And he agreed to allow Partmoore to court Vanessa instead of me.”
“Then I can’t see the need for you to run away. If your father will allow Partmoore’s suit to continue with your sister—”
“You don’t understand, my lord. Father has not made plans for only one of his daughters, but for the both of us.”
“Who has he chosen besides Lord Partmoore?”
“Someone who can guarantee him introduction to the coveted Fortune Club.”
Surprise was evident on Lord Halverston’s face. “But that is a highly selective club whose members are almost exclusively limited to the highest-ranking members of Society.”
“Yes. But my father has always entertained aspirations of grandeur. He’s convinced that all he needs is a recommendation from one of the Fortune Club’s members, and he would be approved.”
“Who does your father think will provide him with such an introduction?”
“There is a member of the club who would like nothing more than to marry a young, innocent female who is beyond reproach.”
“Which both you and your sister are,” Halverston added.
“Yes, which we are.”
“Is there a reason this duke cannot procure a wife on his own? Is he so old that no young female would have him?”
“Far from it, my lord. He is young and handsome and tragically lost his first wife in an accident. As well as his second.”
A frown darkened Lord Halverston’s features. “Then why wouldn’t either you or your sister look forward to a match with someone so perfect? You would be duchesses, after all.”
“Because it is highly unlikely that either Vanessa or I would survive long enough to enjoy our status as a duchess.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Are you saying if you married this duke you would be in danger?”
“If our lives followed the pattern of the first two women who were lured by riches and a title, yes.”
The frown on Lord Halverston’s face deepened. Isobel knew the moment he realized who she was talking about.
“Surely your father doesn’t mean to offer one of his daughters to the Duke of Balsam?”
Halverston’s hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. His eyes glared with contempt. His lips pressed tight in anger. “Your father would give one of his daughters to Balsam?”
“I see you’ve heard the rumors about His Grace’s violent temper. Unfortunately, I saw his handiwork firsthand. His second wife and I were friends. Her name was Genevieve. We grew up on neighboring estates. Attended many of the same functions. Had our come-out at the same time.
“Genevieve was ecstatic when the duke began courting her. He was all dashing politeness and showered her with expensive gifts. We’d heard the rumors concerning his first wife’s death, and the speculation that her death was caused from something other than a carriage accident. But of course we refused to believe it. And Genevieve was married in one of the most lavish weddings Society had ever seen.”
“How long was it before your friend realized Balsam had a vile temper?”
“Not long,” she answered. “At first His Grace would attend functions and Genevieve wouldn’t be with him. He always provided an excuse. She wasn’t well, or she’d gone to the country for a few days, or she was too tired to come. But I knew they were lies. Then, one day I called on her unexpectedly. I was told she wasn’t in, but I refused to accept what I knew was a lie, and went to her rooms. The butler tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t be deterred. That’s when I saw what the Duke of Balsam was capable of.”
Isobel’s stomach roiled when she recalled what she’d seen. And she chastised herself again for not helping Genevieve when she knew how desperate she was.
“Her face was so swollen and discolored she was barely recognizable. Her lip was cut, and she held her arm to her side as if it pained her to move it.”
Isobel hugged her middle, the same as she’d hugged Genevieve that day. “I begged her to leave Balsam and come with me. I told her I’d find someplace to hide her where she’d be safe. But she told me there wasn’t such a place. That her husband would search for her until he found her.”
A tear fell from Isobel’s eye, and she wiped it away. “A week later I received a note from Genevieve asking for my help. She was desperate to escape Balsam. I made plans to call on her on the pretext that we would go for an afternoon drive. But when I went to pick her up, I was handed a note saying today wasn’t a good day for a drive.”
Isobel paused. “I asked to see her but this time they physically restrained me from getting to her. So I left.”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Oh, how I wish I hadn’t abandoned her. The next day we heard that the Duchess of Balsam had tripped and fallen down the stairs. A few days later, we attended her funeral.”
Isobel lifted her teary gaze and stared at the Marquess of Halverston. “He killed her. As he’ll kill the next woman who’s foolish enough to seek out his title.”
“Does your father know what kind of man Balsam is?” Halverston asked.
“I told him.”
“And he still intends to offer one of his children to someone so vile?”
“In my father’s estimation, daughters are possessions. They are to be used to make whatever gains possible.”
The Marquess of Halverston stood with such force that his chair toppled to the floor. He slammed his fist against the desk with so much ferocity it frightened her, then threw his glass against the wall.
“Bloody hell,” he bellowed.
There was a savage look in his eyes, as if he would strangle Isobel’s father if he were within reach.
His glare blazed with a lethal hatred that startled her.
When he turned his burning look back to her, she realized she’d moved from her chair to stand with her back against the wall.
Chapter 4
Alex sucked in a gasping breath, then released it. He remembered the weeks he’d been held captive. The times he’d been beat
en and abused.
He unclenched his aching fists and braced his hands atop his desk. He closed his eyes and remembered how terrifying it had been to be bound and unable to protect himself. How helpless he’d been when he was at the mercy of his captors.
He took in one gasping breath after another until his racing heart slowed and his anger calmed. He thought he’d reached the point where he could keep such violent reactions under control during the day. It was only at night that . . .
He suddenly remembered that he wasn’t alone. He found her on the opposite side of the room. She stood with her back pressed against the wall, her eyes wide in shock.
“Oh heavens, my apologies,” he said when he had his breathing under control. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“You . . . didn’t,” she answered.
The terror in her eyes and the tremor in her voice told him her words were as far from the truth as dark was from light. He lowered his head between his outstretched arms and smiled. Even chuckled. Her effort to spare him from embarrassment would be comical if it weren’t so tragic.
“Would you consider stepping away from the wall if I promise you will be safe?”
She turned her head to look from one side to the other, then took a step forward as if she considered how cowardly standing with her back pressed against the wall must seem. Except Alex didn’t think it was cowardly at all. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she had raced screaming from the house and not stopped until she reached the Thorn and Briar.
“May I offer you another glass of wine?” he asked when she returned to her chair.
“Yes, please. That sounds . . . most appropriate.”
He answered with a nod and filled one glass with wine and another with whiskey.
“I assure you that I don’t usually drink anything stronger than tea before late afternoon,” he said when he’d handed her the glass of wine. He walked to his place behind the desk and returned the chair he’d knocked over to an upright position.
“I assure you,” she answered after taking a sip of her wine, “that I don’t drink anything at all. Except perhaps a glass of wine with dinner.”
