Isabel hated to disappoint, but if it came down to disappointing someone else and disappointing herself, she rather thought it was better to disappoint someone else, since she would have to live with herself the rest of her life.
“Izzy, are you paying attention at all?”
Emma’s exasperated voice brought Isabel from her thoughts. “Shall I tell you what you want to hear or shall I tell you the truth?”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Never mind. I shouldn’t expect you to help me with matters of the heart, should I?”
Isabel reared back a bit. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’re far too sensible to ever let love cloud your vision.”
That was true. “Well, why should I? Love is a horrible emotion that makes people do ridiculous things. Like send fake letters to their brothers’ friends.”
“Just because you don’t care for the idea of love and romance doesn’t mean you have to poke fun at those who do.”
“I’m not poking fun,” Isabel said, tilting her chin up indignantly. “I’m just being…sensible.” Silence fell between them. Isabel hated silence. “Besides, what you wear today is hardly a matter of the heart.”
“If you’re not going to be helpful, you might as well leave.” Emma’s tone held censure, and Isabel felt properly chastised by her sister.
“Fine.” Isabel rose and crossed to the armoire where Emma stood staring at more than a dozen dresses and gowns. “What about this one?”
“Don’t be silly, I’ll freeze to death.”
Isabel gave her a wry smile. “Isn’t that the point? To inspire a chivalrous act from your dear Lord Heathfield? Surely he will offer to warm you if you’re turning blue.”
Finally, a smile appeared on her sister’s lips. “You are truly ridiculous sometimes, you know?”
Isabel shrugged. “Yes, I know. Ridiculous, but brilliant nonetheless.”
Emma ignored her last statement and moved on. “And what will you wear today?”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? A houseful of cousins is certainly not equivalent to the marriage mart.” Her eyes scanned the multitude of fabrics hanging before her and settled on a long-sleeved cotton gown with a high waist and a high neck.”
Emma gasped. “You can’t wear that! You’ll look like a maid…or a spinster at the very least.”
“Then it’s perfect!” Isabel smiled wide at her sister and then swept from the room to begin getting ready for the day.
No one had arrived yet, thank the good Lord, but the estimable Lord Heathfield would arrive this afternoon. Her sister’s chicanery—forging a letter from their brother Andrew to his good friend, Lord Heathfield, inviting him to spend Christmas at Danby Castle—had actually worked, or at least Emma was certain it had. Isabel’s twin was equally certain her dashing paragon would arrive this very day and planned to spend her afternoon in the castle’s highest turret to await her one true love’s arrival. Nonsense, all of it.
But no matter what, Isabel loved her sister and would be there to offer her full support as she attempted to woo the man to her bosom. She only hoped it would happen sooner than later, as Isabel was eager to return to her books. She had begun reading about the mating rituals of ancient mammals recently and found the subject fascinating. But since the ancient mammals were probably not going anywhere, Isabel decided she could give up a day or two of study in order to assist in the mating ritual of her dear twin sister.
However, when Isabel arrived in the drawing room that afternoon in search of Emma, she was met with an unwelcome visitor. One she knew for certain had not been invited to Danby Castle for the holiday.
“And just who are you?” she asked of the unkempt and uninvited guest who lounged on the chaise as if he owned it.
“That does seem to be the question of hour,” he said as he rose from his spot and bowed to her.
She crossed her arms over her chest and challenged him with a question she already knew the answer to. “Are you one of our absentee cousins come home for the holidays? You don’t look like a Whitton.”
He shook his unruly head of blond hair. “Damien Lockwell. I’m a friend of Lord Hardwick’s. He invited Lord Heathfield and myself to Danby Castle for Christmas.”
Isabel looked to Emma, who shrugged in response. “Drew invited you? Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“Isabel!” Father’s voice boomed from the threshold, causing Isabel to jump slightly. But whatever it was he had meant to say to her was forgotten when he realized there were guests. “I didn’t know we had visitors. Heathfield, is that you?”
Heathfield rose from his spot to shake Father’s hand. “Good to see you, Lord Norland. It has been an age.” He gestured to his friend with a cock of his head. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Lockwell?”
Father nodded. “Not formally. You’re one of Totterdown’s lads, aren’t you?”
“Indeed,” the scoundrel replied. “Third son, to be exact. I attended Eton with Drew and Heath.”
“Did you?” Father grew uncomfortable at the mention of Andrew.
“Drew invited… the two of us to spend the holidays here at the castle,” Heathfield added.
“You’ve heard from Andrew?” Father seemed surprised at this, and Isabel wondered why.
“Well,” Emma ran to father’s side, “I’m certain Drew was simply being solicitous since Lord Heathfield would be all alone for Christmas otherwise.”
“That did appear to be his concern,” Heathfield said.
Father sighed with relief. “I am glad to hear it. Edgeworth must have located him in France, then.”
“Edgeworth?” Lady Emma echoed. “Grandpapa sent him to France? How very dangerous. When did he leave, Papa?”
“Nothing for you to worry about, my dear.” Then he turned his attention back to Heath and Damien. “I do have a bit of business to attend to. I’m certain my aunt,” he glanced at Auntie, who still hadn’t acknowledge anyone’s presence, “and my daughters can keep you gentlemen entertained.”
“We’ll try our best, Papa,” Emma promised.
Heathfield turned to Emma. “Do you still have your doll collection, my lady?”
Isabel smiled as her sister’s eyes brightened.
“You do remember.”
“Doll collection?” Father asked, his brow raised in question.
“It’s nothing, Papa,” Emma said. “Lord Heathfield is simply jesting.”
“Well, I should hope so. A grown man playing with dolls is unseemly.” Then he turned his attention to Isabel. “Isabel, I nearly forgot. Your mother is searching for you. Perhaps you know why.”
Isabel groaned inwardly. She had an idea, but she kept her silence. “I have no idea,” she lied.
Father gave her a look that said he knew she was lying. “Best you go and find her, Izzy.”
“Of course, Papa.” Isabel excused herself from the unwanted company, though she would have far preferred to spend time in the parlor with them than be berated by her mother once again.
~*~
Damien Lockwell, third and best-looking son of the Earl of Totterdown, was on a mission. Well, two missions, to be more precise. The first was to get the hell out of the parlor where his friend, Heathfield, sat with Lady Emma Whitton, a meek little chit with whom Heath seemed to be rather smitten. The last thing Damien wanted was to be caught in the middle of a blossoming love affair.
His second mission thankfully coincided nicely with his first mission, which was to seek out Lady Emma Whitton’s twin sister, Isabel. Not only because she was an attractive little thing, despite her wretched choice in clothing, but because she seemed to be wound rather tightly. Damien happened to like it when a person was wound tightly as they provided him with a great deal of sport. He relished a good battle of wits, and he had a feeling Lady Isabel was of quite a witty persuasion.
Damien stepped into the hallway and glanced left and right. There was no sign of her. Her father, the Marquess of Norland, had sai
d her mother requested an audience with the chit mere moments ago, and now she’d vanished into thin air.
He turned back toward the parlor. Lady Emma and Heathfield sat far too close to one another—it made Damien a little nauseous.
No matter. He would instead explore the castle for a bit and hope that he crossed paths with Lady Isabel along the way. He turned to his left, taking the corridor toward what he assumed was the back of the castle. Truth be known, the place was monstrous, so it was anyone’s guess as to where he was headed.
He passed a good many closed doors on his journey, but as he neared the end of another long corridor, raised female voices caught his attention. He knew it was badly done of him to listen, but he couldn’t help himself.
“Isabel, we will not have this discussion again. Is that understood?”
“No, it’s not.”
Damien’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Apparently, Lady Isabel hid a large pair of bullocks beneath her hideous frock.
A weary sigh escaped the room, and Damien assumed it was from the marchioness. “What, exactly, don’t you understand, Isabel?”
“Everything. Nothing. I don’t understand why I am to act like someone I’m not in order to catch a husband who will surely discover my true nature once we’re married and then we shall both be miserable for the rest of our lives.”
“Isabel, I’m not asking you to change for the sake of catching a husband, I’m asking you to change period. No one likes a girl who is too smart or who is nearly useless at a party. You can’t play the pianoforte, your singing is appalling and heaven help us should you take to the dance floor.”
Damien cringed at the harsh words Lady Norland imparted to her daughter. Isabel may have had a large set of bullocks, but he was certain even she was feeling the sting of her mother’s censure.
The silence that descended told him all he needed to know. If she opened her mouth, she would cry, and he had a feeling even Lady Isabel would rather hold her tongue than cry in front of another person.
“Come now, darling,” Lady Norland finally said. “Chin up. You’ll be a proper lady yet. It’s just going to take a bit of work on your part. If only you would put down those silly books and apply yourself to more noble pursuits.”
Damien had never considered the ability to dance a minuet to be a noble pursuit. He shook his head. Women.
“May I please be excused now?” Isabel’s tone was flat, her voice even and emotionless.
“You will change into something more suitable before dinner. The Masons will be joining us, and I won’t have you looking like an ugly spinster.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The sound of a wooden chair scraping across the floor sent Damien running down the hall and into one of the closed doors he’d passed earlier. He shut it quietly behind him and then turned to see where he’d ended up. The telltale books that lined the walls let him know he’d found the castle’s extensive library.
Other titles available from
Jerrica Knight-Catania
The Wetherby Brides Series
A Gentleman Never Tells
More than a Governess
The Wary Widow
The Bedeviled Bride
Wetherby Short Stories
Christmas Warms the Harts
The Perfect Kiss
A Summer Loving Novella
Cruise to Destiny
About the Author
Jerrica Knight-Catania left her “glamorous” life as an actress in favor of becoming a romance author, where she could write about truly glamorous lives. She currently resides in New York City with her real-life hero of a husband, their shy Russian Blue, Dr. Snuggle, and their beautiful daughter who is most definitely a princess-in-training.
The Wetherby Brides: Second Epilogues Page 5
