Julia sat on Isobel’s bed the next morning and watched Bridget brushing out her bright hair. “Do you mind that I’ve made you come here?” she asked.
“Not at all.” Isobel sat still while Bridget braided and pinned her hair.
“I expect we shall be utterly bored in a day or two. Everyone is in London.” She sighed and lay down on the bed. “We could go for a ride this morning, I suppose.”
Isobel agreed it would be a pleasant way to pass the morning and consoled herself with the thought that they would be back in London before two days had passed.
After lingering over a light breakfast of coffee and rolls, they went back to their rooms and changed to the obligatory blue riding habits. While they waited outside the stable for the groom to saddle their horses, Julia scratched the ears of a brown-and-white dog that was followed by a chubby brown puppy. It wasn’t long before the rest of the litter appeared and Isobel bent down to play with them. A black-and-white puppy bullied its way to her and she picked it up to hold it to her face. “What a little darling you are!” she said when it licked her face. She put it down reluctantly when the groom brought out the horses. He helped Isobel to mount a bay gelding named Boots, and she waited for Julia before trotting out toward the forest.
“Ashdown Grey has been standing since the crusades,” Julia told her. “The first marquess acquired the place when he was elevated from earl of Northern for some favor rendered to Henry the Eighth, though I understand the ‘favor’ was something along the line of a few thousand pounds. For some reason he never lived in it. My grandfather had the place remodeled. He added the south wing and was going to do the other side, too, but then he dismissed the architect and by the time he found another to suit him, he hadn’t the inclination anymore. My father added the north wing. He spent much more on the inside than out—and I’m afraid he let the lands go rather dreadfully. Hartforde has made them pay ten times what they paid under my father. He’s enclosed thousands more acres and now, I’m told, the lands turn a handsome profit. Sussex,” she continued after a pause, “is almost as lovely as Hartfordeshire. Someday you and I must visit there. I expect, though, you will have your fill of them both after you and Hartforde are married.”
“Married? To your brother?” She felt she ought to protest the idea, though she didn’t quite know why.
“Who else would he marry?”
Angelica Vincent, thought Isobel.
“You are the perfect wife for him.”
“But, would he be the perfect husband for me?”
“But, of course!”
“I don’t think your brother wants to marry anybody.” She remembered very well his warnings to her on the subject. “And, Julia, begging your pardon, I think your brother is an arrogant, self-important—”
“That must be why you like him so much!”
“Is it so obvious?” She felt herself blushing. “I’m afraid he has made it clear he does not like me. The thing is impossible. Surely you have noticed his affections are very much engaged?”
“If you want to think so.” At her ball, Hartforde had danced with Isobel twice, something he never did with any woman. He’d looked in Isobel’s direction several times throughout the evening, and, if that weren’t enough, Julia knew for a fact he hated the opera. And never before had she known him to take an interest in bedeviling one of her friends; yet, whenever he and Isobel were together, the atmosphere was positively thick! She felt quite sure her brother had met his match in Isobel St. James. All that was required was for her to continue her careful management of the situation. Nature would do the rest. “So,” she said, “tell me about Lord Strathemoore.”
“Lord Strathemoore? There isn’t anything to tell, Julia.”
“Why haven’t you told me he sends you roses every day? Everyone is talking about his terrible extravagance.”
“Surely not everyone!”
“Everyone.”
“He’s awfully nice.” That much was true. Lord Strathemoore was very nice to her. He had taken her twice to see a play and had escorted her to the Kensington Gardens one morning when she had wanted to avoid the crush at Hyde Park. “What about you, Julia? Have you made up your mind about Lord Burke?” She decided it would be best to change the subject to one less uncomfortable.
“Oh, I don’t know what to think! I am convinced he loves me, and I should not hesitate to accept him, but he is so restrained.” She sighed. “I’m positive the man is incapable of passion! But, then, he is so terribly attractive…I wish I knew what to do!” Julia kicked her horse into a gallop and Isobel took off after her, cursing under her breath when she nearly toppled off the animal’s back. She denigrated the sidesaddle for being a dangerous contraption designed for the sole purpose of discouraging women from getting any real enjoyment from riding.
II
The next night while they were having supper and Isobel was telling Julia about the progress she was making on her music, the butler announced Lord Hartforde’s arrival and his intent to join them at table. Isobel shook her head when Julia gave her a meaningful look.
“Hartforde! What are you doing here?” Julia asked when he joined them.
“Is it so unusual that I visit my own home?” he responded as he sat down at the head of the table, where a place was always kept set for him.
“Well, of course it is always a pleasure to see you, Hartforde. ’Tis only, we did not expect you.” Julia filled his glass with wine, trying to suppress a smile. “We were sure you were too busy thwarting the Tories to bother with us.”
“I needed to get away from London for a while. Besides, I have something to discuss with you, Julia.” He looked at Isobel, as if suddenly noticing her presence. “Good evening, Miss St. James.” He frowned because he had been telling himself he would not find her half as pretty as she had seemed in London, and now he saw that he’d been quite wrong. He clearly recalled a particular Tuesday night when she had distracted him so much he had been hard pressed to maintain his aloofness. He certainly did not think he ought to remember so well how soft the skin of her shoulder had felt when he had briefly touched her. He gave a little smile of triumph when a particularly long look succeeded in making her blush.
III
Isobel rose early the next day, and though she took her time getting ready, by the time she had dressed and finished with a not insubstantial breakfast, Julia was still asleep. Sleeping late was one habit to which Isobel could not accustom herself. She rarely stayed in bed past nine, and she could not understand how her friend managed to stay abed until well after noon. She sighed and decided to find the library so she could read until Julia joined her. She was exceedingly anxious to discover whether they were to return to London that day.
She opened the door to the library and sighed with happiness when she looked around. The room was large and books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The only wall not entirely taken up with shelves had a fireplace with an ornate marble mantel on which there sat a large ormulu clock. Confronted with so many titles, she was at a momentary loss to decide what to read, but at last she settled on a thick book called The London Spy. She had never heard of its author, but it sounded too promising to pass over.
Such a large room was not to her taste for reading in; it was tomblike in its musty silence. She preferred to read in a cozier drawing room or parlor. The library was in the section of the north wing nearest the center of the house, and because she remembered seeing a great many windows when she was in the rear gardens, she decided the back of the old section held the most promise for a pleasant place to read. In fact, she opened three doors before finding a room that looked inviting. This one had one wall taken up by windows overlooking the gardens. There was even a comfortable-looking sofa facing the view. The floor was covered by a red-and-gray Chinese rug that instantly reminded her of the carpet in her father’s study in Boston. She had loved to walk barefoot over it while he sat reading or writing out his correspondence.
The fireplace was dir
ectly opposite the windows, and above the gilt mantel was a huge Gainsborough portrait of an ethereally beautiful woman with light blond hair and a wistful smile. Isobel had been admiring the painting for some time before she realized it must be Lord Hartforde’s late wife. She stepped behind the desk to look at it more closely. He had to have been terribly in love with this woman. She was holding a lily in one tiny hand. Isobel was convinced there had been no need for Gainsborough to improve upon the looks of his model.
Taking up her book, she settled down on the sofa with a sigh. After only a few minutes she gave in to temptation and took off her shoes and stockings to wriggle her toes in the soft wool of the carpet. She opened the book and was soon absorbed in the story. There was rather more cursing than she thought might be proper; it reminded her very much of the kind of conversation she had heard bandied about of an evening when she had stayed to supper at Faircourt’s. She was nearly a quarter of the way through when her eyes began to feel heavy. She lay down on the sofa and continued to read until, finally, her lids drooped and did not open again.
She did not stir when the door opened and Lord Hartforde entered the room and seated himself at the mahogany desk. He opened one of the drawers and pulled out three heavy ledgers, and a stack of papers. He found a pen that satisfied him and, setting an inkhorn and plenty of extra paper by his elbow, he began sorting through the papers. Doing the estate’s accounts was a chore he did not particularly relish, and he was always in a bad humor when he could put it off no longer. It was a job he usually left to an overseer, but he knew it was foolish never to check the accounts himself. He had been engrossed in his work for several minutes when a muffled thump startled him. He jerked his head up and glowered when he saw a blond head appear above the top of the sofa.
“What the bloody—” He took a deep breath and began again. “What are you doing in here, Miss St. James?”
Isobel turned around and looked at him, eyebrows raised in an offended expression. “And how pleasant to see you, too, Lord Hartforde.” She stretched lazily. “I was reading, and I suppose I must have fallen asleep.”
“I’m the only one who ever comes in here.” He told himself he was irritated by her intrusion, but it also annoyed him to notice the breathless disarray of her hair. While she looked at him, clearly affronted at his sharp tone, it was especially infuriating that he could not tell if her eyes were blue or if there really was a purplish cast to them.
“If the library wasn’t such a mausoleum, I confess I could have stayed in there all day.”
“Indeed, you could have.” He scowled when Isobel’s head disappeared from sight while she bent to pick up her book.
“You have my most abject apologies for disturbing you, my lord, though I shall refrain from pointing out that I was here first.” She brushed a few wisps of hair from her face.
“Do forgive me if I have disturbed your invasion of my privacy.” He tapped his pen impatiently on the stack of papers before him. When she sighed and began to stand up, he said snidely, “Oh, don’t go on my account!” He pulled out his penknife and focused his attention on recutting his pen.
“Why, thank you, sir. How uncommonly kind of you!” Her intention of leaving him to his work dissolved in the face of his unbearable rudeness, and she sat back down. “I do appreciate your letting me enjoy the view. ’Tis a lovely morning.” She turned her back to him and opened her book. Her heart was pounding from the way those green eyes had made her stomach flutter in spite of her resolve not to let his extraordinary looks disturb her in the least. She frowned when she could make no sense of the words before her, and she turned the volume right-side up before she could find her place.
After a few minutes he threw down his penknife in exasperation. It was impossible to concentrate with her in the room.
“Am I turning the pages too loudly, my Lord Hartforde?” Isobel asked sweetly, turning around to find his attention focused on the point of the pen that he was attempting to recut a second time.
“Your sarcasm is wasted on me, Miss St. James.” He glanced at her for an instant before turning back to his pen.
“Alas!” She stood up and walked over to the desk, still holding the book in her hand.
“Perhaps you’d care to do the accounts, then!” he suggested facetiously when she stood behind him and peered over his shoulder.
“I’d be delighted.” She continued to lean over him.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked after a moment.
“Don’t be absurd! Nobody could do figures that quickly.” She reached around him and ran a slim finger down the columns of sums. “You’re off one pound ten. Are these to be reconciled?” She pointed to the papers strewn about the desk. When he nodded, she put down her book to pick up the papers and, after neatly arranging them in a pile, began to sort through them.
“Perhaps you’d care for my chair?” But Isobel was oblivious to his sharp tone. She simply nodded and sat down in the chair he vacated for her. He looked at her book. “Ned Ward?”
“So?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He shrugged, looking as though he were having trouble keeping a smile from his face. “But he was a Tory, you know.”
“Even a Tory may write a book.” She picked up his pen and chewed on the feathers of the tip before posing it on the page to enter a figure in the ledger. “Have you another pen? This one seems to be cut down rather too far,” she said with perfect innocence, thanking him without the slightest change in expression when he opened a drawer and handed her another.
He watched her for a few minutes before his temper got the better of him. “This has gone quite far enough.” He put a hand on the page. “It isn’t necessary to pretend any further. I apologize for my rudeness. So be it if I am forced to change my habits in my own home. I promise I shall no longer do the accounts in my study. From now on, I shall do them in the scullery, where, I pray it, you are least likely to disturb me.”
“I assure you, sir, I know what I am doing. I am quite good at mathematics. When I lived in New York, I always did the accounts for my cousin Samuels.”
“I’ve no doubt you Americans excel at sums,” he said.
Isobel regarded Alexander coolly. “Perhaps you’d care to wager?” Really, she said to herself, he is infuriating! Does he think me some empty-headed young thing? It did not occur to her he might think her offer an obvious attempt to get his attention. All things considered, it was well for him that it did not.
He was about to refuse the wager but thought the better of it; it might be amusing to humor her. “What have you in mind?” Imagine her insisting she could do accounts! He smiled when he heard the amount she was willing to give up on his behalf.
“A hundred pounds that I finish without an error.”
“Done.” He took the hand she held out for him. “On your honor as a gentleman, Miss St. James?”
“Indeed, sir.” She turned back to the ledgers and took up the pen. She worked quietly, only rarely using paper to do a figure. Alexander pulled up another chair and sat down to watch her work. She wrote a fine hand, filling the page with neat columns of figures. It vexed him as he watched her that he should notice how she chewed on her bottom hp, which only called attention to the soft curve of her mouth. From where he was sitting, her skin looked perfectly smooth and her waist impossibly small, though, he thought, perhaps ‘twas only because she appeared to have a tantalizingly well-shaped bosom.
She put down the quill and leaned back to stretch. “Julia was right. Ashdown Grey pays a tidy income.” She was disconcerted to see him staring at the floor with an amused expression, and she followed his gaze to see what he found so humorous. She had stretched out her legs and her bare feet were sticking out from under the hem of her dress. Their eyes met when she said, “Don’t tell me a worldly man such as yourself is overcome by the sight of two bare feet?”
“And pretty feet they are, Miss St. James,” he remarked.
“’Tis fortunate I did not expose my ankles, or
you should even now be my slave!” She flicked her skirts over her feet as she spoke, trying to hide her embarrassment behind light words.
“Do tell me, Miss St. James, how came you to lose your slippers?”
“I took them off to walk on the rug.”
“It would have been quite all right to walk on it with your shoes.” He smiled at the flush rising to her cheeks.
“I know that”—she gave him a stern glance—“but it reminded me so much of home and my father and how I used to walk barefoot in his study. It made me want to feel the…it looked just as soft as I remembered the rug in Boston,” she finished in a low voice, feeling completely ridiculous.
“And was it?”
“Yes.” She cursed herself for letting him fluster her and she directed her attention to the papers on the desk. “I’m finished.” She stood up. “Do you mind if I take the book with me?”
“By all means, Miss St. James, do.” He watched her go over to the sofa to pick up her slippers and stockings.
“I shall expect prompt payment on our wager as soon as you determine you have lost,” she said tardy as she walked out, draping her stockings over the crook of her elbow and wondering if there was even the most remote chance she might appear dignified.
Alexander stared at the door after she had gone out. Miss St. James was exceedingly unladylike, and if she acted that way with her father it was a wonder he did not take her to task for such forwardness. The infuriating little thing was apparently incapable of dissimulation, for most women possessing even half her wit were at great pains to hide the fact. He looked down at the neat columns of figures filling the pages of the ledger. He suspected it would be a waste of time to check her work. He shook his head. Ned Ward, indeed! If he wasn’t careful, he thought, he would end by liking her a great deal more than was good for him.
IV
“Well,” Julia said with a radiant smile, while she and Isobel waited for Alexander to come down and escort them to supper, “what do you think of it?”
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