Love for all Seasons

by Knight-Catania, Jerrica

  Isabel shoved her nose in the air, refusing to look Lockwell in the eye. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You sound like a blathering idiot to me.”

  Lockwell seemed to choke on a laugh. “You’re not the first to say so, but I expected you to be a little more original in your assessment.”

  Was there ever a more infuriating man?

  “Come now, there’s no need for flaring nostrils. I’m not going to make a public announcement about your sister’s chicanery.”

  “Then why are you pressing the matter?”

  “Aha!” Lockwell stopped short and put one finger in the air. Isabel tugged on his arm, not wishing to draw attention. “So you admit there is a matter to press?” he said, falling in step beside her again.

  If she hadn’t been so afraid of Grandpapa’s wrath, Isabel would have jabbed Lockwell with the dull sword the decorative knight in the corridor wore. Grandpapa loved that blasted knight more than he loved his own progeny. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But I think you did,” Lockwell replied smugly. “Besides, I already know she did it. There is no question of that. I just want to know why.”

  They entered the dining room. Grandpapa was at the head of the table already, watching everyone as they crossed into the room. Isabel pasted on her most dignified expression—pleasant smile, chin even with the floor, eyes vacant—as she replied, “I wouldn’t tell you a thing about my sister’s intentions were you threatening to feed me to a den of hungry lions.”

  She dropped his arm with a sigh of relief and headed towards her usual seat at the table.

  “Isabel,” came her mother’s stern but quiet voice. “You will sit further down the table tonight to make room for Lord Heathfield.”

  “But, Mother—”

  Her mother quelled her with a look—the one that said she would be punished if she attempted to argue.

  Damn Lord Heathfield and his blackguard friend. And while she was at it, damn all the blasted cousins who had yet to arrive, but who would surely continue to turn her home upside down.

  “You will sit here, Isabel.” Her mother indicated a seat further down the table. “And Mr. Lockwell, perhaps you could sit here…next to Isabel.”

  Lockwell’s face lit up in a smile that said he knew both what Lady Norland was doing and how Isabel felt about what Lady Norland was doing. Hmph. Did he know everything? It was deuced annoying, that.

  “It would be my great honor to sit next to your lovely daughter this evening,” he said, and he never once took his eyes from Isabel.

  Isabel squirmed in her skin. There was that blasted feeling again. The one in the pit of her stomach that made her all flummoxed and confused. She frantically sought out her sister, only to find that she was already seated in her usual chair and engaged in deep conversation with that insipid Sir Thomas Mason. So much for sisterly support.

  If Damien had been in a more private setting, he would have been rolling about the floor, laughing like the hyenas of the African tundra. What a brilliant decision to join Heathfield here at Danby Castle. He’d only been here a few hours, and already he was having the time of his life. He wasn’t typically one for provincialities, but being in the country was proving to be a great deal of fun. Perhaps he’d start making a go of it more often.

  He bounded to Lady Isabel’s side and took his seat. Her body was tense, rigid, which made Damien crow inwardly. He loved to see a girl tied in knots over him.

  “Now,” he said quietly, “about those lions.”

  Lady Isabel closed her eyes, as if she were calling upon the strength of the good Lord above to get her through this dinner. “Please, Mr. Lockwell, I beg of you to let the subject be.”

  Beg? No, no. He hated when a woman begged. He wanted fire—he wanted a challenge. “No need to stoop to begging, Lady Isabel. I will harp on the subject either way. You’ll find I’m most tenacious.”

  “No, I’ve already found that out about you—you needn’t work so hard to prove it.”

  “But I think I must,” he replied, pounding his fist lightly on the table to drive home his point. “For you refuse me at every turn, Lady Isabel.”

  “You ask for information that is private.”

  “How can it be private when I have been dragged all the way to Yorkshire for Christmas? Away from my family at a most important time of year.”

  “If it is so important perhaps you should go back. I’m sure you’d make it back to—” she looked him up and down— “wherever you’re from in plenty of time.”

  Never mind his family didn’t care a figgie pudding about Christmas. His mother had gone off to Bath to visit her sister, and Father was surely so deep in his cups, Damien doubted they even knew he was gone from the house.

  “Well, I’m from a very remote town…far in the south…of Wales.” Hm. The lie had gotten away from him, it seemed. “My hands are tied now. I either stay here, with your lovely family, or spend Christmas in a coaching inn. All alone.” He sighed and shook his head.

  “If you are searching for pity, sir, I recommend you seek out other company.”

  Damien couldn’t help but smile. “No, no,” he said, reaching for his wine, “you shall do just fine.”

  Lady Isabel rolled her eyes.

  “Ahem.”

  Damien looked up to see that Lady Norland was glaring daggers at her daughter. Apparently rolling one’s eyes was frowned upon at the dinner table. So Lady Isabel lowered hers to her soup, and Damien suddenly felt horrible.

  He shouldn’t have. The chit didn’t have to roll her eyes at him, no matter how annoying he might be. Still, he hated to be the cause of her mother’s wrath. Or disappointment. Whatever it was that Lady Norland held over her daughter’s head.

  Perhaps he should change the subject for the time being.

  “Do you go to London often, Lady Isabel?”

  She paused mid-bite and gave him a skeptical, sideways look.

  He leaned in close to whisper, “I do know how to make polite conversation, my lady. I just don’t care to do it very often.”

  She swallowed what was in her mouth and straightened up in her seat. “Well, thank you for indulging me, Mr. Lockwell.”

  He smiled. “My pleasure.”

  “And yes, we do get to London quite often. Father does his duty by Parliament, so we spend both the Season and the Little Season in Town.” She placed a morsel of bread on her tongue. “What about you, Mr. Lockwell? Are you able to break away from your Welsh estate to spend time in London?”

  Damien chuckled. “All right, I admit it. I’m not really from Wales. I’m from Birmingham, if you must know. And I prefer to spend as much time in London as I can.”

  “Your parents don’t miss you?”

  He couldn’t stop the undignified smirk that came to his lips. “Ah, no.” He meant to elaborate but then thought better of it. The pitying look Lady Isabel gave him at that simple no was enough pity to last him a lifetime. He despised pity.

  “She wrote it,” Isabel said on a whisper. “My sister. She wrote that letter.”

  However, it did seem to work wonders at loosening a lady’s tongue.

  “But that’s all I’ll say on the matter,” she continued. “To reveal more would be to betray my sister.”

  Damien narrowed his eyes and nodded his head. “Yes, yes, I know. You’ve said as much before, Lady Isabel. However…” He lowered his voice even further and leaned closer to Isabel. So close he could smell the tinge of wine on her breath and the lavender in her hair. Damn, but that was an arousing combination.

  “Mr. Lockwell?”

  He snapped quickly back to reality, his eyes locking with hers. “However,” he repeated. “I do wonder why she would send a letter to Heathfield, asking him to come to Danby Castle for Christmas, if all she planned to do was flirt with Sir Thomas all evening?”

  Isabel turned to see what Lockwell was talking about, and surely enough, Emma looked as though she might leap into Sir Thomas’s lap at any moment. What wa
s she doing? She was supposed to be charming Lord Heathfield, not playing simpering miss to the magistrate that had dinner with them at least once a week.

  Unless…

  Oh, bloody hell. She was trying to make him jealous, wasn’t she? So he would fall at her feet and promise to break off his engagement post haste? Sometimes Isabel wondered not just about her sister, but about the fairer sex in general. What was it about women that they had to play ridiculous games in order to capture a man’s attention? Though she was one of their ranks, there were some things she just didn’t understand.

  “Hmph.” She sat back against her chair, and then immediately straightened before her mother caught sight of her slouched position.

  “What? What is it?” Damien leaned in close again. She wished he would stop doing that—had he no regard for personal space?

  “I do think she’s attempting to make your friend jealous,” Isabel replied, trying not to breathe in while in such close proximity to Mr. Lockwell. She’d already made that mistake once, and the assault of oranges and balsam on her senses set her stomach to flip-flopping all over again.

  “Hm,” said Lockwell. “I wonder why she would do such a thing.”

  When Isabel turned to look at Lockwell, he was leaning lazily against his chair back, his left eyebrow raised as if to say, There’s nowhere to run now, sweetheart.

  How dare he call her sweetheart? Even if it was only in her own head.

  “All right, fine. Emma sent the letter because she fancies herself in love with your friend.” Her words were hushed and rapid. “She thought if Andrew invited him to the estate, he might actually come, and then she’d have an opportunity to…woo him.”

  Lockwell made an obvious attempt at trying to hold back his laughter. “She wishes to woo Heathfield? Why?”

  Isabel leveled him with the look she gave a person when they were being thickheaded. “How should I know? I don’t even pretend to be as featherbrained as my sister. I have no idea what she sees in the man…or any man for that matter.”

  Lockwell’s lips tightened. “Yes, yes, of course. Not featherbrained at all, are you?”

  “Don’t poke fun at me.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.” Lockwell took another sip of wine. “But my question is this: why would she bring Heathfield all the way here in order to woo him, and then make up a fake fiancé and flirt shamelessly with another man in front of Heathfield himself? Perhaps it would have been best for you and your sister to share the featherbrainedness, but it seems as though she got all of it and you got none.”

  “Featherbrainedness is not a word, Mr. Lockwell.”

  “You would know better than I,” he said with a shrug. “I’m sure you adore a rainy day when you can curl up with your dictionary.”

  “It keeps me almost as warm as a trollop keeps you, I’m sure.”

  “Touché, Lady Isabel.”

  Isabel couldn’t stop the smile that came to her lips. She did love having the last word.

  But then again, did that mean he was admitting to having trollops in his bed? Why did that bother her so? Bugger it all, it bothered her that it bothered her. And now she was just…bothered.

  “At any rate,” she said, trying to move the conversation back to Emma and Heathfield and away from Mr. Lockwell’s bed. “I assume this all has to do with the discovery she made this afternoon about Heathfield’s betrothed.”

  Lockwell nodded his head thoughtfully as he chewed on his beef. “Interesting. Very interesting, indeed.”

  Isabel stared at him, aghast. “What is that supposed to mean, Mr. Lockwell? Know you something that you’re not telling me?”

  That mischievous smile crept onto his lips and continued upwards until it lit his eyes. He leaned in close again—closer than ever—and whispered, “Maddening, isn’t it?”

  Playing with Lady Isabel was simply too much fun. He barely knew her, and yet, he somehow understood how to stoke her ire. He knew he was playing with fire, but he just couldn’t stop himself.

  Lady Isabel pasted on a smile that wasn’t really a smile at all, but rather a natural result of her grinding her teeth together. “What do you know?” she asked through tight lips.

  Damien shrugged, knowing it would make her positively furious. “A little of this, a little of that. Though I’m sure I don’t know nearly as much as you do. You seem to be quite a learned woman, Lady Isabel.”

  Her nostrils flared and her chest moved up and down with every breath. Never mind that her chest was covered in dark fabric—he couldn’t take his eyes away. Had she always had such ample breasts? He didn’t remember that being the case earlier, when they were in the library.

  “Would you please stop staring at me like that?” she asked, and Damien finally looked up to realize she’d gone rather red in the cheeks.

  “Only if you stop breathing so heavily.”

  Lady Isabel looked away, clearly embarrassed and probably praying that no one was paying them any attention. “If you have information that could help my sister,” she said at last, “I would greatly appreciate your sharing it with me.”

  “Yes, yes,” Damien said, blotting his lips with his napkin. “I’m sure you would. But what fun would that be if I just gave you the information?”

  “I’m not looking to have fun, Mr. Lockwell. I’m looking to help my sister find love.”

  Damien burst into laughter, but seeing that he’d drawn the attention of the entire table, he sought to quell his mirth. Isabel looked as if she wanted to slide right off her chair and under the mahogany table.

  “You are too rude by half,” she said, her tone icy.

  “I’ve never understood that phrase. Am I too rude, or am I simply half rude? You can see my confusion, can’t you?”

  “I can see you keep trying to change the subject.”

  “Ah, yes. Helping the sister find love.” He fought another chuckle and continued. “I’m surprised at you, Lady Isabel. I wouldn’t imagine someone of your great sense and intelligence would believe in love.”

  “I don’t…” She looked at her sister and then looked back at him. “But my sister does. And I do love her.”

  “Such sisterly devotion,” he said with mock reverence.

  Isabel had had enough of Mr. Lockwell and his teasing. “Enough of this nonsense. If you’re simply going to mock me then I’d rather not share your company. Actually, I’d prefer to forget about you altogether.”

  “Well, I’m not a very forgettable person, Lady Isabel.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “What color are my eyes?”

  “Blue,” she said without hesitation and without even needing to look. Damn him.

  “See? The color of my eyes is already emblazoned upon your memory.”

  It was true. Infuriating, but true.

  Her mother stood from the table finally, signaling the end of dinner. The women would make their escape to the drawing room for tea, while (blessedly) the men stayed behind for port and cigars.

  “It’s been a great pleasure dining with you, Lady Isabel,” Lockwell said, loudly enough for the rest of the party to hear.

  Isabel had no choice to but answer him politely. She pasted on a smile, and replied in syrupy tones, “Oh, no, Mr. Lockwell, the pleasure was all mine.”

  Damien didn’t really care to stay behind for port, especially since Heathfield took off out of the room, chasing the skirts of the conniving little Lady Emma. It seemed her little game of Make Heathfield Jealous was working splendidly. He would be eating out of her hand in no time. And as soon as Emma found out he wasn’t really betrothed, he was certain wedding bells would be chiming loudly throughout the land. It was only a matter of time.

  “I say, Mr. Lockwell, what the devil were you whispering to my granddaughter all through dinner?”

  Damien looked up at the Duke of Danby, expecting to see anger in his eyes, but rather there was a twinkle of mischief there, as if he knew exactly what they were talking about.

  “Your grandd
aughter seems to know quite a bit about animal husbandry,” he said, falling into the lie very easily. “She was apprising me of the necessities of cross-breeding.”

  The duke laughed and took a puff of his cigar. “She’s too damned smart for her own good,” he grumbled. “Which is why she’s my favorite of all my grandchildren.” Danby winked at Damien. “Never had to talk about ribbons or petticoats with that one, even when she was small. ‘Read to me from this book, Grandpapa,’ she would say, and then she’d crawl into my lap with an encyclopedia. The Rs were her favorites, don’t ask me why.”

  Damien could easily imagine a five-year-old version of Lady Isabel, insisting to be read to from an encyclopedia. No fairy tales for that one.

  “I assume you speak of my Isabel?” Lord Norland joined the conversation after a short discourse with a footman.

  “Who else?” asked Danby.

  Norland sat with a heavy sigh. “Her mother fears she will never find a husband, and I think her fears are founded. What man wants to be wed to a woman who will recite scientific dictionaries to him while he sips his brandy?”

  “A scientist, perhaps?” suggested Damien.

  “God help us if Isabel marries beneath her station,” Norland said with a shudder. “Her mother would have an apoplexy for certain.”

  “Or perhaps a man who simply appreciates a healthy yearning for knowledge.” Damien wondered if Norland would challenge him on the idea of a yearning for knowledge being healthy.

  But it was Danby who answered. “Here, here, Mr. Lockwell!” He raised his glass and then downed his port in one, swift movement. “Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I fear the witching hour is nigh.”

  “Shall we join the ladies, then, Lockwell?” Norland asked, and Damien was grateful he wouldn’t have to sit alone in the dining room with the marquess. The man was rather formidable.

  “I would love nothing more,” he replied, his mind turning to Lady Isabel once again. The world seemed rather dull now when she wasn’t nearby. How strange.

  “Where is my sister?” Isabel asked when Miss Mason crossed the threshold into the drawing room alone. “The two of you were arm-in-arm a moment ago.”