A Love for All Seasons
Jerrica Knight-Catania
Smashwords Edition
This book is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the
author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to any event, locale or person,
living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Love for All Seasons
Copyright 2012 by Jerrica Knight-Catania
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.
Cover design by LFD Designs for Authors
Loving Mr. Lockwell
Originally from A Summon from the Duke
To my husband, Eric -- Thank you for knocking me up at just the right time to have a Christmas baby! Best present ever! I love you!
And to Ava Stone – You’re a wonderful friend, and collaborating with you has been one of the highlights of my writing career.
~ Jerrica
Lady Isabel Whitton despised a house party. But she particularly despised house parties that took place in her own house. It was unfortunate she didn’t have a say in the matter, being only nineteen years of age, and seeing that she sat rather low on the proverbial totem pole at Danby Castle. She had the unfortunate luck to have the heir to the dukedom for a father, which meant her family resided at the ducal estate. With the duke.
Oh, she loved her grandpapa, and her parents and siblings too, of course. She just wished it could always be just them. She didn’t care to see her home overrun with her multitude of cousins. They would surely try to occupy her favorite spots in the house and make it impossible for her to enjoy reading in peace and quiet.
Blast, but she hated distractions! They were not conducive to retaining the information one read within the pages of a book, and if there was one thing Isabel valued, it was knowledge. She absolutely relished knowing things. Things that most people didn’t know. It was such a great deal of fun to see the look on her sister’s face when she said things like, “Dear, sweet Emma. That ribbon is not simply yellow, it is jonquil. A flower from the genus Narcissus, though you might know it better as a daffodil—”
At which point her dear, sweet twin sister Emma, would usually cut her off with a grunt and a huff and say something like, “I didn’t ask for a horticulture lesson, Isabel.”
At which point Isabel would return the huff and leave the room, affronted and appalled that her sister did not share her love of knowledge. Not that Emma wasn’t smart. Quite the contrary. She always excelled in their lessons; she just didn’t care to go beyond their lessons, academically speaking. No, she believed in being “well-rounded.” Isabel did not, which probably explained why she failed miserably at things like the pianoforte, dancing and—God save her—needlepoint. Mama was forever chastising her for refusing to take her nose out of her books. She would tsk and shake her head. Isabel’s mother worried about her future state of matrimony based on the fact that she was completely tone deaf, lacked any sense of rhythm whatsoever, and couldn’t thread a needle properly if her life depended on it.
Isabel hated to disappoint, but if it came down to the choice between 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 brother’s 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 me 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?” 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, was sitting 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.
When Heathfield had received that bizarre letter from Andrew and insisted Damien join him in Yorkshire for Christmas, he had been under the impression that their old friend’s little sisters were, well…little. What a pleasant surprise to discover upon his arrival that the ladies in question were fully grown and of a consensual age. If he'd known such a thing, he might have suggested this little jaunt even before that strange letter from Drew.
Damien stepped into the hallway and glanced left and right. There was no sign of her. Her father, the Marquess of Norland, had said her mother requested an audience with the chit mere moments ago, and now she’d vanished into thin air.
He turned back towards the parlor. Lady Emma and Heathfield sat far too close to one another—it made Damien a little nauseated.
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 was hiding 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. Books lined the walls, end to end. He’d found the library. Excellent.
Isabel stepped into the corridor, doing her best to both hold her tongue and hold back her tears. Blast her mother! She knew she shouldn’t think such horrible things of the woman who’d given her life, but blast it, she was infuriating! Mother thought only of ridiculous and petty things. Who bloody cared if she had a nice singing voice or could poke a needle through a piece of cloth until it looked like a flower?
A sudden movement from further down the hall stemmed her internal tirade. The door to the library closed slowly and then latched shut, as if someone were trying to avoid being seen. And they’d chosen her most precious hideaway. This day was getting worse by the second.
First that blasted Heathfield had shown up with some stranger, who was most certainly a ne’er-do-well, if his unkempt hair and lackadaisical demeanor were any indication. And then Mother had reminded her, once again, that she was to perform like a lady this week while their guests were in residence. There were, after all, non-relations in attendance. Male non-relations, both of whom would make fine matches for she and Emma.
Well, Emma already appeared to have Heathfield in the palm of her hand. No doubt Mother would use that against Isabel somehow.
She started towards
the library, intent on somehow evicting its current occupant. She threw open the door and found just the person she expected to see. That blasted ne’er-do-well was in her library. Ha! It was probably the first time he’d seen the inside of one at all.
“You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?” she blurted out. No need to mince words or beat about the proverbial bush.
“Good afternoon to you too,” he returned with an infuriating smile. “Quite a collection the duke has here.”
“Yes, I’m sure it’s quite impressive to someone like you. They’re books, in case you were wondering.”
“Ah! So that’s what they are!” He pulled one off the shelf and flipped through it in mock amazement. “And here I’d thought to wipe my ass with them.”
Isabel nearly choked on her tongue, which she’d practically swallowed in her shock.
The scoundrel started towards her and stopped a scant two feet away. “You seem a bit stunned,” he said. “That’s called being speechless…In case you were wondering.”
Isabel had the distinct urge to slap the arrogant smile right off his face. “Were you or were you not eavesdropping, Mr. Lockwell, is it?”
“Indeed it is!” he said. “Grand memory you have. Now, on the subject of eavesdropping…would you mind giving me your definition of the word?”
Oh, good God. “Certainly. Eavesdropping: to listen secretly to a private conversation.”
“Ah, very good that I had you explain. For a moment I wondered if you might be referring to the droppings from the eaves.” He laughed at his own cleverness. “I assure you I was not dropping things from the eaves of your lovely home.”
Isabel’s nostrils flared. “I did not assume you were. But now that it’s been clarified, would you like to give me an answer?”
Lockwell leaned against the nearby wall and crossed one foot over the other. “No, actually. I would not like to give you an answer.”
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