Although, thanks to the efficiency of his servants, Guy had settled in nicely at the Wren’s Nest, he was not opposed to the speed with which his next meeting with Isabella Stowe seemed about to occur. In truth, he had not expected her to discover what he’d done so quickly, but, given the size of the village in which she lived, he probably should have.
‘Of course. And Andrews…?’
‘Yes, my lord?’
‘More light, I think.’
‘Of course, my lord.’
As his valet lit candles, Guy felt his anticipation grow. He’d waited so long to find Isabella. He had begun to wonder during the past few days if his frustration with that search had played a role in the effect she had had on him. Even if it had—
‘Now, my lord?’
‘No title, if you please. The lady believes me to be Mr Wakefield.’
‘I see, my lord.’ Andrews’ tone made it clear he did not. ‘As you wish, my lord.’
As he turned to usher Isabella in, Guy smiled at his valet’s expression. Clearly the fact that he was hiding his position did not sit well with Andrews. He suspected it wasn’t the duplicity that annoyed him so much as it was the loss of the cachet Guy’s title would normally provide.
‘Mrs Stowe, my—sir.’
‘Thank you, Andrews. That will be all.’
Isabella waited until the valet had disappeared into the adjoining bedroom. Then she walked across the room, fingering a folded paper out of her reticule as she did so. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
Guy glanced down at the document thrust under his nose. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Stowe, but I assure you I have no idea what that is.’
‘You know very well what it is. It is a household account. One which has been paid. One which I did not pay.’
‘Ah.’
‘Do you still deny that you paid it?’
‘Although I am very loath to correct a lady, I don’t believe I have denied anything.’
‘You said you had no idea what it is.’
The becoming colour he’d noted in her cheeks seemed to be increasing. Of course she was standing very close to him in order to present her evidence. So close, in fact, that he could detect the faintest trace of the scent she wore. Something heady. And as unusual as she was.
‘I don’t. The damage to my eyes precludes me from being able to read, I’m afraid.’
Her mouth had opened to deliver what was intended to be her next accusation. When the sense of what he’d just said penetrated her anger she closed it again, swallowing hard against an emotion he had never before deliberately tried to evoke in another person. Indeed, he had spent the last five years trying not to evoke the sentiment he saw reflected in her eyes.
‘Forgive me. I didn’t know.’ She removed the paper she’d been holding in front of his face, stepping back to increase the distance between them. ‘That doesn’t, however, change what you have done.’
Her chin had come up again, he noted admiringly. And thankfully the fire was back in her eyes, replacing that flash of pity.
‘I merely wanted to express my gratitude for what you did for me.’
‘I gave you water—’ she began.
‘And hope,’ he interrupted. ‘A priceless commodity, I promise you, when one has none.’
Her mouth closed again as she considered her next words. ‘I did no more for you than for dozens of other men.’
‘And I have no doubt any one of them would wish to do as I have done. To thank you. I simply had both the opportunity and the means.’
She lowered her eyes to the bill she held in her gloved hand. ‘I never wanted your gratitude. I certainly don’t want your money.’
He wisely refrained from arguing that it had, in the end, cost him very little to secure her financial security. He reached into his pocket instead, pulling out the locket, brooch and ring he had carried there since he’d retrieved them from the Newark jeweller to whom she’d sold them.
‘You would rather give up these than allow me to express my thanks?’ He opened his palm, the gold glinting in the candlelight.
Her eyes studied the items a moment before they lifted to his face. ‘How did you—?’ The question faltered as she worked out exactly how he must have come by her possessions. ‘You followed me that day.’
It was clearly an accusation, and one he didn’t bother to deny. ‘By then I had begun to suspect that your circumstances were…’ He stopped, unable to find words that might not give more offence than his actions had already provoked. ‘The fact that you were willing to part with these simply confirmed my fears.’
‘Those were mine, Mr Wakefield. To dispose of as I saw fit.’
‘Despite their sentimental value?’
Her smile was bitter. ‘I discovered in Iberia that sentiment is a very unpalatable dish when people you care about are hungry. The choice to sell them was entirely mine. And none of your concern.’
‘I only wanted to help. To make things easier for you. As you say yourself, that is what one does when the people one cares about are suffering.’
‘I cannot prevent you from feeling whatever you profess to feel for me, but I have not given you the right to interfere in my affairs. A week ago I was a stranger to you—someone you had met briefly a very long time ago. During these last few days I have told you at every turn that I am not interested in furthering our relationship. Instead of abiding by my wishes you have humiliated me before people with whom I am forced to do business.’
‘Humiliated you? How can what I have done have—?’
‘What do you think those men believe is the reason you have laid out a goodly sum to pay my debts? Trust me, they have no doubt about your motives.’
‘That’s absurd—’ he began, only to be quickly interrupted.
‘Can you actually be so insulated by your wealth that you have no idea what a fertile field for gossip a village like this can be? I have little of value, Mr Wakefield, beyond my good name—which you, with your meddling, have now destroyed.’
‘I cannot believe your neighbours are so low-minded. But if you do, there is an easy remedy for your concerns.’
‘Oh? Pray tell me what that is?’
‘Marry me.’
‘Mr Wakefield!’
The tone with which she said his name was not one he would have wished to evoke with his proposal, but Guy ploughed on, beginning to realise only now what a botch he had made of this. He had gone about achieving what he wanted—what he had genuinely believed would be to Isabella’s advantage—with the same heedless single-mindedness he had too often displayed in his youth.
‘I know that I’ve offended you, and for that I am deeply sorry, but I assure you that was never my intent. I simply want to take care of you. That was my only motivation, believe me.’
‘I did not give you the right to “take care of” me. Nor do I need to be taken care of.’
‘Then give me the right to love you instead.’
That gave her pause. Her mouth opened and then closed. And for a moment he dared to hope. A hope that was quickly dashed by her response.
‘I see that you will not be reasoned with. Please send me a list of the other tradesmen you have given money to in my name, and the amounts you have paid them. I shall see to it that whatever outlay you have made on my behalf is repaid as soon as possible.’
She pushed the bill she had tried to show him back into her bag as she stalked towards the door. She turned before she reached it. ‘I do not wish to see you again, Mr Wakefield. If you truly feel any gratitude for what passed between us in France, please do not call upon me before you leave.’
‘Isabella.’
Her head came up at his use of her name. ‘I have not given you permission to address me so familiarly, and I will not. Please do not do that again. Good day, Mr Wakefield.’ She reached out to open the door, finding Andrews standing guard in the hallway.
‘Excuse me, please,’ she said to him, her voice breaking.
The valet looked t
owards Guy, his brows lifted in question. ‘My lord?’
With those words Isabella turned, her eyes full of disbelief which quickly changed to anger. ‘Has there been anything in our dealings in which you have not been deceitful?’
She turned back to push past the servant, who by now had realised the extent of his mistake.
‘There is no deceit in how I feel about you,’ Guy said, raising his voice to carry to her as she disappeared into the darkness of the hall.
‘I—am so sorry, my lord,’ Andrews stuttered. ‘Shall I go after her?’
Knowing there was no point, Guy shook his head, looking down on the pieces of jewellery he still held in his hand. He closed his fist around them and brought them hard against his body.
He had done exactly what he always did. He had ridden roughshod over any and every obstacle that had been placed in his path, convinced that what he wanted could be obtained if only he pursued it as vigorously as he could. That boundless determination had stood him in good stead so many times in his life, but it had obviously been the wrong tactic in winning Isabella Stowe.
She had every right to be angry. He had deceived her in regards to his identity. And it had not even once crossed his mind to consider what effect his satisfying her debts might have on her reputation.
He had been arrogant, bull-headed, and incredibly stupid. In the process he had hurt the woman he loved.
And now, despite all his regrets, he had no idea how to undo the unthinking damage he had done.
Chapter Six
Isabella could not have explained what had brought her back to this spot so soon. It was a place that should be filled with nothing but painful memories now, but as the rising sun touched the land below with gilt, she remembered only a man who had been able to feel here what she had always felt.
There are those who would see no magic in this.
Not if they had ever been unable to see.
Was she the one who’d been blind? Would it be such a curse if someone wanted to love and protect her?
If those things came at the cost of my independence.
And will your independence see to Hannah and Ned in their old age? Or fill the lonely days and lonelier nights of the rest of your life?
The last was a question for which she’d not yet given an affirmative answer. Not one she herself could be convinced by.
Her further contemplation of the sunrise was shattered by the sound of a horse being ridden hard up the slope behind her. She turned, watching as its rider directed the animal to the place where she stood.
As horse and rider drew nearer, whatever fleeting doubts she had had as to the identity of the man mounted on the black steed disappeared. She had asked that Guy not call on her before he left. She supposed that in seeking her here he had obeyed the letter of her request, if not its spirit. The fact that he would come to this place, a favourite that she had shared with him in the spirit of friendship, angered her anew.
The stallion’s breath clouded the air as he was drawn up beside her. Guy removed his hat and inclined his head in greeting.
The sun was high enough now that it gleamed on his bare head and cruelly exposed the scars on his cheek. The wind ruffled his hair, making him look almost as young as he had on that Christmas Day in France.
‘My apologies for disturbing your solitude,’ he said.
‘You may easily rectify your intrusion.’ Deliberately, she turned back to the vista she had come here to enjoy.
Even as she did so, she was very conscious of him. The creak of leather that indicated he was dismounting. The now-familiar fragrance of sandalwood and starch and clean linen as he moved to stand beside her.
She didn’t look at him, determined to hold onto her indignation and her sense of being wronged. She knew that if she didn’t…
Unconsciously she shook her head, denying what might happen if she didn’t remember that this man had both lied to her and opened her up to ridicule from her neighbours.
‘I have done what I can to make amends for my stupidity,’ he said, almost as if he had read her thoughts.
She kept her eyes resolutely forward, wondering what he thought he could possibly do that would change the situation he had set into motion.
‘I have explained to those who might need explanation for my actions that I am indebted to your late husband for events that took place on the Continent and wished to show my gratitude to his widow. I assure you the story was well received. No one seemed to feel that my settling your accounts in any way reflected badly on you or your character.’
‘Did you ask for your money back?’
‘If I had, I believe it should have made a mockery of my carefully conceived story.’
‘Surely not, my lord? I’m sure you, such an experienced liar, could have managed it. After all, your lies are so believable. To those who are gullible, at least.’
‘I apologise for deceiving you as to my title. Your housekeeper asked for my name. I told her Wakefield. When you repeated it, I saw no reason to correct you, thinking…’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure what I was thinking. I suppose at the time I thought it wouldn’t matter what you called me. I had intended only to express my gratitude and be on my way.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Go on my way? I think you know the answer to that.’
She laughed, the sound bitter to her own ears. ‘Whatever the answer—and I’m sure you could couch that, too, in very reasonable terms—I can’t think that it is of any importance now. We have said all that is to be said between us. I wish you a pleasant journey home, my lord.’
‘Actually, you wish me to the devil. And I don’t know what to do about that.’
‘Accept it.’ She looked at him then, which was almost her undoing.
His eyes, very blue in the morning light, were filled with something that made her catch her breath. Not desire—at least not the raw, physical kind she had glimpsed there before—but something very different. Something she had sometimes seen in William’s when she handed him a steaming cup of tea or pulled off his boots at the end of a long day.
‘It seems I have no choice but to accept it. I had hoped…’ He shook his head, his gaze now on the scene before them. ‘It doesn’t matter what I had hoped, I suppose.’
A muscle tightened in his jaw. Then, before she could turn away, he looked down into her eyes.
Despite everything he had done, despite her anger and her humiliation, she could not turn away.
And when she didn’t something changed in his face. He grasped her hand, which she did not pull from his grasp.
‘I know I’ve done everything wrong. Ridden roughshod over your objections and your requests. Courted you when you told me quite plainly you did not wish to entertain my suit. And yet…’
He paused, giving her the opportunity to tell him all that again. She stood mute instead, mesmerised by what she saw in his face.
‘And yet for some reason I continue to hope,’ he finished, still holding her eyes.
He was too young, she told herself. Too fine. Too rich. Too everything that she was not.
‘It will not do,’ she managed.
‘Why not?’
Apparently emboldened by the fact that she had not removed her hand, he tightened his fingers around hers. She could feel the warmth of them despite the gloves they both wore. And there was no doubting the strength of their hold.
‘How old are you, my lord?’
‘Twenty-eight,’ he said readily.
But then this was familiar territory to him. An argument that had been made and rejected.
‘And I am thirty-one.’
In truth she had thought the difference would be more, but then she had believed him a boy that night in France. By that point in the war they had all seemed too young for what fate held in store.
‘How old would your husband be now, Mrs Stowe?’
‘My husband? What can that possibly matter?’
‘If he had lived, what would be y
our husband’s age today?’
It shocked her that she had to think about the answer. ‘Thirty-five. Thirty-five next month.’
‘That is almost the same difference as in our ages.’
She laughed at the implausibility of his argument. ‘Convention decrees a husband should be older than his wife.’
‘In order to guide her in the way she should go. Do you feel the need of having someone to guide you, Mrs Stowe?’
Only his eyes were smiling. And she had forgotten how attractive that could be.
‘Do you?’ she asked tartly, and realised too late the trap she had fallen into.
‘Apparently so. I realise that directing my path may seem a thankless task, but it is one for which, if you would see fit to undertake it, I should be eternally grateful.’
‘We are back to that, it seems.’
‘Gratitude? Do you honestly believe that is the primary emotion I feel for you?’
She didn’t, she realised. Despite his deceit, she did not doubt the sincerity of his avowal. And had not doubted it from the first.
Because I have never in my life felt about a woman as I feel about you.
‘Age is not the only impediment, my lord. What would your family think of my background?’
‘I know not. Nor do I care.’
‘Ah, but you would. And you would care what your friends think as well. I should stand out like a bramble among the delicate English roses of your circle.’
‘Or like a wildflower.’ This time his lips curved with his smile. ‘But then you are already aware of my fondness for those. Believe me, my dearest Mrs Stowe, as my wife you may be as unusual as you wish. London will worship at your feet. The ton enjoys nothing more than the eccentric. Especially if there is a romance involved.’
‘And what would your family feel if the woman you choose to take as your wife is unable to give you children?’
Because she had been watching for it, she read quite clearly the surprise in his eyes. When he offered no ready answer to what she had just asked, her chin rose challengingly.
‘You have a title, my lord. Surely that signifies the need for an heir to pass it on to?’
Regency Christmas Proposals Page 5
