Her stay at Mawbury wrought a gradual change in her appearance. For the first time in a long while she was getting enough to eat, and it was food of infinitely better quality than she had eaten in New York. She could sleep all morning if it suited her, but it was some time before she stayed in bed past eight o’clock. She began to gain a little weight, and, though she was still pale, she lost the ghastly pallor that had made her look so unhealthy. And her clothes! Never had she had so many dresses (she gave a sigh of relief to see not a single one of that hideous brown color), and she had enough underthings to last a lifetime. There was a pair of slippers for each gown and dozens upon dozens of silk stockings. There were garters, hats, and gloves and she was already collecting rich muffs, scarves, wraps, and even a beautiful black fur cape that she would be able to wear in winter. She shouldn’t have been surprised to learn she was expected to change her clothes several times a day: one dress for morning, one for afternoon, a blue habit for riding, a dress for walking in the park, and yet another gown for the evening. Sometimes it seemed to her that she did nothing but change her clothes.
Isobel passed the summer in tolerable comfort, and if she was sometimes a little lonely, all she had to do was think of New York and even Miss Steadly seemed good company. If she had not been anxious to find the music teacher Mr. Archer had recommended to her, she would have been happy to stay at Mawbury indefinitely.
In mid-September, the earl finally requested she come to London. She could not help feeling hurt when she found he had been in London for nearly two weeks before sending for her. When she arrived at Redruth she was informed by an unsmiling Mrs. Godwaite that his lordship had left word he was out for the day but expected to return in time to dine with her at half past four. At a quarter past four, he sent word that he would be joining her for tea at six, as he was engaged for dinner. He arrived at half past six and, after a perfunctory apology for having kept her waiting, received a shock when he actually took the trouble to look at her. She was still pale, but her skin had taken on a translucence that made her complexion seem delicate instead of sickly. Her nose, which had seemed a trifle too long in her thin face, now seemed perfectly suited to her high cheekbones. Most of all, she radiated good health, her golden hair was shiny, and, though she remained slim, she had lost the angular, half-starved look that had so concerned her Uncle Edward.
II
Isobel and her father had dinner together almost every day, but though there were often several people waiting for him, he never invited callers to stay. He would, however, repeat their stories to her so she could almost feel she had met them herself. Isobel looked forward to their dinners because it was the only time she might expect to have an intelligent conversation. Her father was invariably engaged for supper and Isobel generally spent the evening meal alone. The earl enjoyed their afternoons together for many reasons, not the least of which was the increasing evidence that his daughter might actually be considered a beauty. More than once, however, he took her to task for her blunt way of speaking.
“Ladies,” he warned her, “should not be so accomplished as you seem to be. It is well established that intellectual pursuits have proven to be too much of a strain on the fragile constitution of the fair sex, leading to ill health and, in dire cases, insanity.”
“Oh, Father! That’s nonsense!”
“Nevertheless, one would be hard pressed to find a husband who would appreciate such accomplishments. As the late Lord Chesterfield has said”—he raised a finger to make his point—“Women, then, are only children of a larger growth.’ You would do well not to forget it.” He shook his fork at her to emphasize the seriousness of his words.
“But, Father, if I really were only a child, would you need to remind me to act like one?” She looked at him as though puzzled.
“Your impertinence is not appreciated,” he snorted.
“Well, then, I think it unlikely I shall marry,” she said, looking down to cut into her roast beef in order to hide her smile.
“Who would have such an impudent little snip as you, I can’t imagine!”
“I promise you, Father, when at last I am presented to society, no one will ever suspect I’ve a brain in my head!” She waved her fork in the air.
“I do believe you’re too clever for your own good.” He was unable to suppress a smile, and he actually grinned when she began to laugh.
“Father, I know I am not all you might have desired in a daughter, but I can scarce be anything other than myself. You will have to be satisfied with me as I am.”
“Friday se’nnight there will be guests for supper. You may attend,” he said gruffly.
“And who is invited?” She failed to hide her excitement at the prospect of meeting some of his circle.
“Lord Burke, Lord Hartforde, his sister Lady Julia, Edward and his wife; and Mr. Mansfield Swaffing has prevailed upon me to have Mrs. Vincent. Mrs. Vincent is the widow of Mr. Humphrey Vincent.”
“I shall be a model of femininity, I promise.” She put a hand to her heart as she spoke. Mr. Swaffing, she knew, was a member of Parliament for one of the boroughs under her father’s control. About Lord Burke she knew little except that his father had been the earl’s closest friend. The marquess of Hartforde, however, was a man about whom she knew a great deal. His name was mentioned frequently in the political papers her father read. She knew he had held some post or other in the government until the death of his father, when he took his seat in the House of Lords and had proceeded to make his name known. She had found and read several pamphlets containing the texts of some of his speeches, and she was anxious to meet the man who could compose such inspiring words. Lord Hartforde was a man of impassioned beliefs who could temper his fiery rhetoric with good sense if it was necessary. She distinctly remembered reading somewhere that there were some who speculated Lord Hartforde might well be the next Prime Minister.
III
Isobel had to smile when Mr. Swaffing arrived on the heels of Mrs. Vincent. Angelica Vincent could not possibly be a day over twenty-two, which was about twenty years fewer than her escort could claim. She was a beautiful woman with dark hair and dark eyes, that, Isobel thought at first seemed introspective but, much later, realized was the result of her complete disinterest in any person not attired in breeches. She wore an exceedingly low-cut gown of watered green silk sprigged with darker green. From the jewels fairly dripping off her, Isobel surmised the woman’s late husband had left her quite well off. Mr. Swaffing was a roundish little man whose claim to good looks lay chiefly in the abundance of his dark hair and his having found an excellent tailor. His effusive greeting to Isobel was cut short by the arrival of Lord Burke.
“’Tis an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss St. James.” Lord Burke bent over her hand. “I am your servant.”
When he spoke, he gave the impression he was a sober man for all that the ruffles of his shirtlace and cravat bordered, by British standards, on the excessive. Though not a small man, he was by no means corpulent, and his auburn hair was artfully curled at the nape of his neck. He was almost handsome, with light brown eyes and a ready smile. He greeted Edward and Mr. Swaffing, then kissed Mrs. St. James’s hand before bending over Mrs. Vincent’s hand. Edward’s wife was a gracious and still pretty woman who, it was clear, was very fond of her husband. Isobel sat next to Mrs. St. James, sipping from the small glass of wine the earl had permitted her, quite happy to let Mrs. Vincent monopolize the conversation until Lord Hartforde and his sister were announced. The earl rose and took her arm as Lady Julia came in.
“This enchanting young woman is the Lady Julia Grey,” the earl said as Lady Julia reached out to take Isobel’s hands in hers.
“My brother,” Lady Julia said to Lord Chessingham, “is fussing over his horses and will be here just as soon as he can bear to tear himself away.”
“Lady Julia, my daughter, Miss Isobel St. James.”
“Your daughter!” Lady Julia looked at the earl in surprise, her pale green eyes q
uestioning before extending a hand to him. Her voice was warm as she spoke. “Miss St. James, it is a pleasure to meet you. You must tell me why Lord Chessingham is trying to keep you such a secret when all of London is talking about you! Shame on you, sir, for not introducing her to us sooner.” She shook her raven head at him.
“I have only just found her.” The earl placed a hand on Isobel’s elbow. “My daughter has been in London a very short time.”
“Good evening, Lady Julia,” Isobel said, already liking her. Lady Julia was about her own age, certainly no older than nineteen or twenty. Her smooth complexion was set off by glossy black hair, and her light eyes were open and friendly. She was not tall and her fine features and slender figure gave an impression of fragility. Isobel thought she seemed terribly young to be the marquess’s sister. She had expected a much older woman. She was soon so busy answering Lady Julia’s questions (How did she like London? Had she seen many wild Indians when she lived in America?) that she did not notice the tall gentleman who came into the room and greeted her father.
Julia turned her head and said, “I see my brother is being his usual graceless self.”
“On the contrary,” Lord Hartforde responded with a smile, “I merely choose to let my sister exhaust herself first. I find it is quite useless to speak until she has finished.” Isobel was surprised to see Lord Hartforde was much younger than she had supposed, and even from this distance she could see his eyes were not the piercing gray she had imagined.
“My Lord Hartforde, may I present to you my daughter, Miss Isobel St. James,” the earl said. “The most noble Alexander, Marquess of Hartforde.”
Lord Hartforde stepped forward and took her hand. “I am at your service.”
She inclined her head toward him, and when he straightened she found herself looking up into brilliant green eyes. Where Julia was dark, her brother was fair; his thick sandy hair was streaked with darker blond and his skin was faintly golden from the sun. His nose was straight and his lips were curved in a smile that did not reach the moss green of his eyes. No one feature was responsible for his extraordinary looks; it was rather the combination of them all that made him so handsome. What was remarkable was that it was quite plain he was utterly unaware of his beauty. Perhaps because he was so fair, he never had to give it much thought. He had such an air of quiet confidence that Isobel was convinced even if he had been a homely man it would have made no difference in the effect he had on her. He was not at all what she had expected. From what she had read about him, she had been fully prepared for a paunchy older man about her father’s age with a dignified but stuffy demeanor who, perhaps, walked with a slight limp from the gout.
“Lord Hartforde,” she murmured, feeling as though she might drown in those eyes. She forced herself to look away when she suddenly realized that, as he continued to look at her, there was a flicker of amusement in his gaze. She did not want to seem foolish or unsophisticated to anyone and, for some reason, especially to this man. She was quite, quite certain that Lord Hartforde had more than his share of women who made fools of themselves over him.
He turned away from her to speak to her father. He was wearing a suit of dark blue with gilt buttons, and the snug fit of his breeches showed the legs of a man who kept himself active. Isobel was glad that, like any man of fashion, he did not wear a wig; instead, his own tawny hair was pulled back from his forehead and tied at the nape of his neck with a blue ribbon. His cravat was simple; he forbore the frothy lace so popular among certain men of society, though the lace at his cuffs was not so plain as to miss being fashionable. She sat back down to talk to Lady Julia, but she could not take her eyes off him. Though she tried to resist, her gaze constantly moved to him. He was talking with Lord Burke and Mr. Swaffing, and she felt herself color when he saw her looking at him. After that, she succeeded in keeping her attention focused elsewhere until supper was announced.
Lord Burke lost no opportunity in taking Lady Julia’s arm. When Edward took his wife’s arm, and Mr. Swaffing Mrs. Vincent’s arm, Isobel had no choice but to take the arm Lord Hartforde offered her. She stared at the buckles of his shoes as they walked; they were fairly sparkling with diamonds. Isobel sat on her father’s left, with Lord Hartforde across from her. She hardly noticed where anyone else sat.
“And, of course, you are planning to give a ball for Miss St. James sometime soon…?” Julia smiled over at Isobel before giving the earl a stern look.
“I had thought at the new year,” he replied.
“Wonderful! Everyone will be back from the country, bored to tears and anxious to start the new season!” Julia clapped her hands. “Isobel, I shall give you the name of my dressmaker.” She fixed the earl with a grim stare. “She will need a gown, my lord! And this one must be exceptional!”
The conversation turned to horses, and Lord Burke was, he declared, shocked to discover Isobel had not been at Ascot. Lady Julia proved knowledgeable on the subject and soon engaged Lord Burke and Mr. Swaffing in a heated debate over a horse Lord Burke claimed to be worth its weight in gold. He professed to be stunned, therefore, when the earl announced he owned the fastest filly in the empire, bar none. “You do not know what you say!” he cried.
Mr. Swaffing was strangely quiet.
“A thousand pounds says my Gazetta outruns your nag, Burke!”
“Done!”
Mrs. Vincent, during all this, did her utmost to be charming to Lord Hartforde, who, it seemed to Isobel, was spending a great deal of time leaning her way. Lord Hartforde smiled when Mrs. Vincent avowed she simply did not see the sense in racing, though she would allow a race could be an exciting thing to see.
Lord Hartforde thought Mrs. Vincent was an extremely pretty woman, and he glanced around the table to confirm his estimation that she was the handsomest woman present. He would go so far as to admit the earl’s daughter was practically lovely, and, though she was rather too slender for his taste, he did not fail to note her figure was not in the least displeasing. He considered Chessingham to be a good friend and an important ally in the House, but he had absolutely no doubt that he was hoping for a match between them, and no matter how advantageous such a union might be, he had no desire to be married again. Once had been quite enough for him, and he could not help but believe his wife’s death had been a blessing in disguise. They had all too soon discovered they detested each other. He was in no particular hurry to beget an heir while there was still so much time left in which to accomplish the deed.
The conversation turned to the opening of Parliament the next week, and Lord Hartforde was impressed to find Miss St. James knew something about English politics. He laughed when she turned to him after demanding to know Lord Burke’s political leanings and bluntly asked, “Of course, you are a Whig, are you not, my lord?”
“Naturally, Miss St. James,” he responded. “And yourself?”
“As you know, all women are disfranchised so I can be neither Whig nor Tory,” she said tartly.
“But if you were?” he insisted.
“A Whig. And I should work tirelessly to see that all English people, men and women, have the right to vote!”
“Your daughter certainly sounds like one of those dashed colonists, Chessingham!” He turned away from a pair of flashing eyes.
Not long afterwards, the earl asked Lady Julia for any suggestions she might offer to ensure the success of the ball he meant to give for Isobel. Lord Hartforde tried to hide his amusement when he saw the look Miss St. James gave her father for changing the subject. The topic next was society, and, though he had turned his attention to the delightfully ignorant Mrs. Vincent, from the corner of his eye he watched Miss St. James lean back in her chair and push her untouched veal around her plate with the tip of her knife. She listened to Lord Burke with an air of utter fascination, while she absently poked holes into the chop until she had almost shredded it. She looked down at her plate, evidently surprised at what she had done, then looked guiltily at her father. There was such a touc
hing mix of apprehension and affection in the look that Lord Hartforde thought to himself, Why, she is quite fond of him! And for some ridiculous reason, when she smiled at her father he felt a familiar tightening in his belly. He was staring at her so intently, wondering what made him react that way, that when Mrs. St. James asked him a question, he had to ask her to repeat herself.
By the end of the evening, when the men had joined the women in the drawing room, Isobel and Lady Julia had agreed to meet the next day for a ride in Hyde Park, Mrs. Vincent having begged off by virtue of a prior engagement.
“May I have your permission, Father?” Isobel looked at him, wondering if he would refuse her again. To her relief, he nodded his agreement. “At last!” she cried. “I have a lovely riding habit I thought was going to be out of fashion before Father allowed me out of the house! I am given to understand the design is French,” she told Julia. “All I know is that it is exceedingly uncomfortable and it matches my eyes!”
Lord Hartforde smiled at her sally, but he politely refused his sister’s entreaty to join them, though Lord Burke readily agreed. He knew his sister too well not to think she wasn’t already scheming to throw Miss St. James in his way. Julia had taken a liking to the girl, and he knew she would be matchmaking in no time. It was a shame he had no intention of marrying again, because Miss St. James was a very fascinating and beautiful young lady.
Passion's Song Page 6
