Isobel handed back the letter Julia had given her to read. “I think Lord Burke is very much in love with you, Julia. But it tells me nothing I did not already know.”
“He spoke to Hartforde the very day we left London! Charles was absolutely certain I was going to marry Allryn. Can you imagine?” She laughed gaily at the thought of being in love with Allryn. “Charles asked permission to write to me, and Hartforde came to Ashdown Grey to deliver the letter personally. And such a letter! He is ten times more romantic than I ever thought possible!”
Alexander appeared just as Julia finished speaking, without apology for having kept them waiting. Isobel looked at him expectantly, but he gave her only the briefest glance before offering his arm to his sister and leading her into the dining room. Some people, she thought, were too enamored of themselves to admit their errors graciously. She stuck her tongue out at the back of his broad shoulders as he went through the door in front of her. At precisely the instant she was demonstrating her pique, Alexander turned to look over his shoulder at her. He arched one eyebrow and shook his head in the manner of one severely put upon.
“Is everything all right?” he asked softly when he saw her to her seat. “I feared for a moment you must have been taken ill. I can send for a doctor, if you think it necessary.”
“I am as well as possible, given the company, sir,” she retorted, feeling herself go scarlet. What an insufferable man!
“So, Hartforde, I have asked Miss St. James to help me plan my engagement ball when we return to London,” Julia said when he had taken his seat. She looked at Isobel and wondered at the high color on her cheeks.
“I’ve no doubt she is quite clever enough to make it a success,” he said sourly.
“Hartforde!”
“I believe, Julia, your brother is in a bad humor because he found he seriously misjudged me today.” She smiled a little smugly.
“Will you tell us, Miss St. James, how you learned the accountant’s trade?” He moved his head to one side as a footman placed a bowl of soup in front of him and glanced at Isobel before picking up his spoon.
“Is your memory so short that you’ve already forgotten I told you I did the accounts for my cousin Samuels?” Certain his voice held a note of amusement, she made an effort not to lose her temper. “Or did you think I told an untruth?”
He lifted one eyebrow, quite definitely suggesting she took herself far too seriously. “I believe I recall every word you uttered. If I seem incredulous, ‘tis only because one rarely finds a woman of such masculine accomplishment as yourself, Miss St. James.”
“Tell me, sir, is it your habit to be so insufferable when you lose a wager?”
Julia could only look on in amazement. She had never seen her brother in such a peculiar mood. He was always unfailingly polite to women, but here he was acting as though his fondest wish was to send Isobel into a rage. “Hartforde,” she cut in as he was preparing a retort, “what is Isobel talking about? Is it true you lost a wager to her?”
Isobel glared at him before looking back at Julia. “We wagered I could finish his accounts without error. And I have won, have I not, Lord Hartforde?”
“I have not yet finished checking your work, Miss St. James,” he said stiffly.
Julia decided it would be prudent to change the subject.
V
“Tell me about your brother’s wife,” Isobel said suddenly the next day when she and Julia were walking in the gardens before dinner.
“She’s dead.” Julia shrugged her shoulders.
“Yes, I know, but what was she like?” she persisted.
“She was blond, like you. And she had blue eyes, very light, not as dark as yours.”
“I saw her portrait. She was beautiful.”
“She was very beautiful.” Isobel’s heart dropped at Julia’s words. “Every man she wanted fell in love with her. I remember she had a lovely smile.”
“He must have loved her very much.”
“No. He didn’t. He might have at first. I was quite young when he married, so he might have loved her then; I don’t know. Lady Hartforde was a selfish and cruel woman who did her best to make Alexander miserable. She never loved anyone in her life except herself, and she certainly never loved Hartforde! I hated her! I was glad when she died!” There was a brief uncomfortable silence. Then Julia continued. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Isobel,” she said kindly. “What Hartforde needs is a woman who loves him. He was married to that witch for five years. What he needs is you.”
“Julia, your brother doesn’t even like me. Believe me!”
Julia only smiled in return.
VI
Three days passed without Isobel’s seeing Alexander, except during dinner, when he was infuriatingly polite while he tried, generally with great success, to bait her on one subject or another. She finally mentioned to Julia that it was high time her friend return to Lord Burke before he despaired of her acceptance, but Julia merely gave a satisfied smile and refused to leave while things were going so splendidly.
On the fourth day, Isobel awoke well before seven. She lay in bed for several minutes staring at the canopy, annoyed that she was unable to fall back to sleep. She threw the covers back and dressed quietly. A ride in the fresh air was what she needed. After leaving word for Julia on the chance she was out of bed before she got back, she headed toward the stable, and while the groom saddled Boots for her, she played with the puppies. Her heart had gone out to the black-and-white one; it was by far the cutest of the litter. She liked it best because it was the biggest. She had a time convincing the groom to let her go out alone, but what she needed was the peace of solitude. Another groom helped her to mount and under a foggy gray sky she trotted sedately until she was well out of sight of the stable. The sidesaddle was uncomfortable and she was positive she would never get over the fear of losing her balance. “I’ll be dashed if I continue to use this thing!” she said crossly to herself. When she reached a low fence of piled-up rocks, she pulled Boots to a stop. It was but the work of a moment to dismount and unfasten the hated contraption. Once she had the saddle off, it remained only to get back on the horse. But the voluminous skirt of her riding habit made remounting the patient animal impossible. She did the only thing she could do, short of taking off the habit (a solution to which she gave only the briefest of consideration); she pulled the back of the skirt between her legs and drew it up under the front of her belt. She managed to remount by climbing on a fence of piled-up rocks. The sensation of having her legs exposed to the air made her uncomfortable; she could well appreciate the practicality of a pair of breeches and she wished she’d thought to bring a pair with her. The thought that still someone might come along worried her until a good twenty minutes had passed, during which she did not see so much as a squirrel.
She kicked Boots into a gallop and whooped with exhilaration as the horse responded. When she finally drew up, both she and the horse were breathing hard. She reached down to pat his neck. “Do you need a rest, old boy?” she asked breathlessly. She slid off his back and stood looking at the fields. The rolling land stretching out as far as she could see was an intense verdant green lost at the horizon in a misty fog, and the flowers dotting the fields made patches of color in an otherwise solid green carpet. The sky was a gray dome above her and it gave her the eerie sensation she was the only person in the world, and that the world existed solely of these fields and the low gray sky. She let her skirt down and, because she wanted to feel the grass under her feet, she pulled off her boots. After stuffing her stockings inside the toes, she threw them down to walk down to a meadow where bluebells stood out from the green. The grass was cold but only a little damp between her toes. It tickled her ankles as she walked. She sat down in the middle of the meadow and at last began to understand why her mother had so loved the flower and why the man she would always think of as her father had wanted to cultivate it. She lay on her back, knees bent to face the cool sky, and stared at the flowers aro
und her. Her life had changed so much since she had left New York, and she shuddered to think what might have happened if she were still slaving away for Samuels. Philip would have accosted her again, and she doubted there would have been anyone to stop him a second time. Now, she had a father who, even if he didn’t exactly love her, was at least unabashedly spoiling her. And all she had to do to secure her future was marry some nobleman who was sure to measure the depth of his love by the size of her fortune. She sighed and closed her eyes, forcing herself to think of something else, anything else, besides being married to someone who didn’t love her and whom she didn’t love either. She began humming a tune, adding instruments as, in her mind, the refrain developed. She began waving her hands in the air, conducting the orchestra that was even now performing her symphony. Just when the music had reached a crescendo and she was exulting at her triumphant symphonic debut, she was startled to hear someone calling her name.
Her eyes flew open to see the tall shape of a man standing a few feet away. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, her initial reaction to be annoyed that Lord Hartforde had interrupted her symphony. He was standing with his weight on one leg, hands crossed over his chest, with something—she couldn’t ascertain what—clasped in one hand and a sardonic expression on his perfect features. She glared at him, but as she took in how the lean muscles of his legs were accentuated by his close- fitting riding breeches, it was hard to stop the rush of warmth that so often afflicted her when she looked at him.
“I was just trying to decide whose boots I had found.” He held up the offending footwear. “I should have guessed it was you. Don’t you ever wear shoes?”
His disparaging tone made her want to cringe, but she returned his cool stare. “What you think no longer concerns me, sir, and if I choose not to wear my shoes, ‘tis no business of yours.” She sat up and crossed her arms over her knees. “Here.” She was thinking of New York and had half forgot Alexander was there. “I am free to do whatever I like. I don’t have to work for anyone except myself! And ‘tis so beautiful”—she waved an arm—“I could not help myself.” Belatedly, she realized she must sound like a complete ninny. She looked away and told herself this arrogant, unpleasant, and unrelentingly handsome aristocrat would never think of her as anything but an annoying and brainless female.
“I am gratified you find my estate beautiful, Miss St. James. However, you might have hurt yourself, and I should hardly care to be responsible for any misfortune of yours.” He walked down to where she was sitting and threw the boots at her feet. “Put them on,” he demanded.
“But I don’t want to,” she said, and just to be perverse, she lifted a foot and wiggled her toes at him. “Though I must say your concern touches me deeply.” She lay back down. “It’s such a lovely day, do you not agree?” His eyes were very near the color of the grass.
“Put them on.” He sounded distinctly annoyed.
“Look around you, Lord Hartforde! Does it not calm your soul to be surrounded by such beauty? Don’t you ever want to feel the earth under your feet?” She realized her panegyric was having absolutely no effect on him, and she reddened. “How did you get to be such an old fogey?” she asked angrily. She snatched up her boots and told herself he probably knew full well how handsome he looked in his riding clothes. “You can’t be so much older than I.” She smiled as she said these last words, but it did not appear to improve his mood. Deciding, wisely, she thought, not to bother with her stockings, she pulled them out of the toes of her boots and surreptitiously let them fall to the ground away from his view.
“I’m thirty-one,” he said finally, staring down at her with a look that told her she had better be quick about putting on her boots.
“Even such an advanced age as that shouldn’t mean one cannot appreciate the beauty around him.” She looked pointedly at him and started to pull on one of the boots. “You’d best look away if you do not want to see my ankles, sir. Remember, I warned you once before.” Shrugging when he refused to look away, she pulled on the other boot.
“This old fogey seems to have escaped your siren call,” he said wryly when she stood up.
“Well, I’m sure I’ve spoiled you for other women now.” She saw he was smiling and she smiled back at him. Was it too much to hope he might actually be courteous for a change?
“Don’t forget your stockings,” he said. “You seem to have dropped them over there.” He pointed.
Isobel glowered at him and stalked over to pick them up. “Just what do you expect me to do with them? I haven’t any pockets!”
“I shan’t be indelicate enough to suggest you put them on, so perhaps you had best give them to me.” He held out a hand. “I’ll see they are returned to you.”
She thrust them into his outstretched hand and he folded them with a great show of delicacy before stuffing them into his pocket.
“Do you mind if I inquire about your saddle?” he said as he walked alongside her up the slight incline to where his horse was standing next to Boots.
“Oh. Well. It was in the way,” she explained, wondering just how she might explain it without convincing him she was indeed the fool he thought her to be.
“Yes, but where did you leave it?”
“Over that way.” She pointed vaguely in the direction from which she had ridden. “Have you seen Julia this morning?” she asked in the hopes it would divert his attention from the subject of the saddle, being fairly certain he was already not too pleased with her.
He shook his head. “Miss St. James, your attempt to change the subject is pitifully transparent. I shall not be so easily diverted from learning why you decided to ride without the benefit of a saddle. Did it break?”
“No.” They had reached the horses and Isobel stopped next to Boots. “Well,” she said, “I hope you have a pleasant ride.”
He wrinkled his forehead and sighed. “I have no intention of letting you continue to ride alone. Perhaps in the colonies you were permitted to ride unescorted. Such is not the case here. You shall please do me the kindness of accompanying me to the stable.”
“I wouldn’t dream of burdening you with my presence,” she said, anxious for him to leave and increasingly doubtful he intended to do any such thing. “I’ll be just fine, I assure you!”
“You are, without any doubt, the most difficult young lady I have ever had the displeasure of knowing,” he said, bending to offer her his hand up. Isobel stared at him and he sighed and straightened up. “What is the matter?”
“I’d much prefer to ride back alone,” she said, trying to think of some way of convincing him to let her ride back without him.
“Miss St. James, if you do not get on that horse this very instant, I shall put you there myself.” He glared at her. “Have I made myself clear?”
“I rode astride,” she said. She felt herself go scarlet when she realized there was no way she was going to avoid his seeing her legs dreadfully exposed as soon as she got on the horse.
“That is an inescapable conclusion, even to one as dim as myself.” He cupped his hands and bent again. “What is the trouble?” He straightened.
“I won’t do it!”
“Get on the damned horse, if you please!”
“No!”
“Then I’ll put you on myself.” He took a step toward her and his hand actually closed on her arm before she shook him off.
“All right, all right!” she snapped.
His expression changed to surprise as she turned her back on him and bent to pull her skirt between her legs and tucked the hem into the front of her belt. “What in the good Lord’s name are you doing?”
“How else do you think I could get on?” she snapped.
“You never cease to amaze me,” he said, bending once more to offer his cupped hands.
“Not so hard!” she cried as he heaved her upward. She would have fallen off if he hadn’t suddenly grabbed her leg and steadied her. Her skin was burning where his hand grasped her thigh. She looked down at the f
ingers pressed into her stockingless skin; they were long and slender, and the nails looked freshly manicured. Her skin was tingling where he touched her and her stomach suddenly felt as though it were dipping over. A slow warmth spread over her as his hand lingered on her. His touch was—almost—a caress. When he lifted his hand she saw hooded green eyes that brought back the fluttering in her stomach in its full disturbing force.
“Your legs quite live up to the promise of your ankles, take it from an old fogey who should know,” he said, running a finger lightly down the line of her leg. His mouth lifted at one corner when he saw her shiver at the contact. He turned away and she stared at his back, watching the play of muscles through his clothes as he mounted his horse in one fluid motion.
She kicked Boots into a gallop as soon as he was up. She had to do something to take her mind off the way she was still tingling from his touch. Alexander’s bigger horse had no trouble keeping up as they galloped over the fields. She heard him shout when they reached the fence where she had left her saddle, but she ignored him and jumped the gelding easily over it.
“I didn’t think I could stay on when he jumped! That was so exciting!” she cried as he rode up to where she sat on Boots. “I can’t wait to do that again!” She was on the point of turning her horse around to do just that when he stopped her by reaching over to snatch the reins from her hands.
“Didn’t it bother you that you might have broken your neck, you little fool?” he snapped as he dismounted and held up his hands to help her down.
“It never occurred to me.” She laughed, swinging her leg over the horse’s back.
His hands tightened around her as he lifted her down and they lingered there, nearly circling her waist. His eyes suddenly darkened and, for a brief heart-pounding moment, Isobel thought he meant to kiss her. Her eyelids fluttered downward in anticipation, but he suddenly let her go. He grabbed the reins of her horse and walked quickly to where her saddle lay on top of the fence. While Isobel rearranged her skirts, he resaddled Boots. Then, with a deliberately expressionless face, he helped her back up.
Passion's Song Page 12
