Love for all Seasons

by Knight-Catania, Jerrica

  Miss Mason huffed and her nose and mouth pinched into a very unbecoming expression. “She is having a word with Lord Heathfield…alone.”

  “A word?” she repeated, hardly able to believe it. “Whatever are they having a word about?”

  “Does it matter? Either way, it is highly improper.”

  “What is highly improper?”

  Isabel started, and whirled around on Sir Thomas. “Sneaking up on a person,” she replied testily.

  “I didn’t mean to startle, Lady Isabel.”

  “Nonetheless…”

  “Oh, look. Here comes your sister now.” Sir Thomas’s eyes landed on Emma and there they stayed.

  “Does she look well to you?” Miss Mason cocked her head sideways, as if to get a better view of Emma.

  In truth, Emma did not look well. She looked flushed and flustered. What the devil had Heathfield done to her?

  Isabel started for her sister, but Sir Thomas nearly knocked her down in order to get to Emma first.

  “Lady Emma,” he said, his soft voice grating on every nerve in Isabel’s body. “Might I ask you to show me your family’s portrait gallery? I’ve been meaning to ask for some time, but—”

  “Yes!” Emma blurted out. “I mean, that is if Papa approves.”

  Father made his way into the drawing room at that very moment, clearly having overheard the question. “Yes, of course, my dear. Your mother will accompany you.”

  Isabel lost interest in her sister’s game as Mr. Lockwell sauntered lazily into the drawing room behind her father. Her throat closed and her heart thumped, and there went her blasted stomach again. The thought that he was quite handsome when his mouth was shut crossed her mind briefly before she squelched it completely.

  Handsome. Ha! He was slovenly and lazy and…handsome.

  She pinched herself this time as punishment for thinking that thought about him. Repeatedly.

  As Emma and Sir Thomas disappeared with Mama in tow, Lockwell joined Isabel and Miss Mason near the fireplace. He gave Isabel a look that said, Your sister is up to something.

  That much Isabel already knew. However, they weren’t in a position to discuss it just then, and Isabel didn’t even want to discuss it. Discussions with Lockwell only made her want to throw herself from a cliff.

  “Can I interest you in a cup of wassail, Mr. Lockwell?” she asked, trying to remain as polite as possible under the circumstances.

  “I would love a cup, but please, allow me.” He left them for a moment, and Miss Mason grabbed her arm in his absence.

  “Isn’t he simply delectable?”

  Isabel started. Mostly because she’d never heard Miss Mason talk about any man, ever. But also because delectable was hardly a word one should use to describe another human being, let alone Mr. Lockwell. “Delectable?” she repeated. “You speak as if he’s sweetmeat on a platter.”

  Miss Mason giggled at that and her cheeks flushed pink. What simpering madness! Over Lockwell!

  “Here we are,” Lockwell said, handing over two cups of wassail and keeping one for himself. “A toast!”

  “To what, exactly?” Isabel asked. Her eyes narrowed on him.

  Lockwell gave her a look, silently accepting her challenge, and then said, “To Miss Mason. She is Christmas Cheer personified, don’t you think?”

  Miss Mason nearly melted into a puddle of titters and whimpers. “Oh, Mr. Lockwell, you flatter me.”

  Isabel wished she could have driven her fist right through his stomach. Instead, she lifted her glass and said, “To Miss Mason, Christmas Cheer herself.”

  They all drank and then Miss Mason’s smile faded suddenly. Isabel looked over her shoulder to see that Heathfield had entered the room. Clearly, Miss Mason was determined to hold her grudge against him.

  “It is a good thing my brother is so forgiving. Another man might not have been willing to overlook your sister’s indiscretion.”

  Isabel and Lockwell both snapped their heads to look at Miss Mason.

  “How do you mean, Miss Mason?” asked Isabel.

  Miss Mason smiled sweetly. “I mean, he is still willing to offer for your sister.”

  Silence fell over them as Papa greeted Heathfield. “Ah, Heathfield! We thought you must have gotten lost.”

  Heathfield gave a tight smile. “Just got distracted, sir. I, uh, was hoping to have a word with Lady Emma.”

  Miss Mason snorted. Did she really think Emma would marry her sycophantic brother?

  “Sir Thomas offered to escort her to the portrait gallery just a moment ago,” Papa said, and Isabel could see Heathfield’s hands clench into tight fists at his sides. Was it possible he already returned Emma’s feelings?

  “But I’m certain she’ll be back soon,” the marquess continued.

  Damien crossed to where they stood and clapped his hand on Heathfield’s back. “Yes. Lady Norland insisted she accompany them as well.”

  Damien gave Heathfield a warning look, and Isabel found it endearing that he was looking out for his friend. She’d pegged him for a selfish prig.

  “I see. Perhaps I’ll just find their little party then,” Heathfield said.

  “Is something wrong?” Papa asked, his smile turning into a frown.

  “Of course not.” Heath gave a little chuckle. “I simply remembered something Drew penned in his letter that he wanted me to relay to Lady Emma.”

  Isabel sputtered and choked on her wassail. Bugger it all, they both knew about the letter. Perhaps that was why Heathfield was so bent on a private audience with her—he meant to chastise Emma for dragging him to Yorkshire at Christmas.

  “Isabel, are you all right?” Papa asked.

  She nodded, trying her best to compose herself. “Just surprised Drew would send a message to Emma in such a circuitous fashion.” She shifted her gaze to Heathfield. “I’m certain she’d love to know whatever message our dear brother sends. Do you know where the gallery is, my lord?” At least she could send him in to hopefully put a stop to the impending proposal from Sir Thomas. It was one thing to have him as a neighbor—it would be quite another to have him for a brother-in-law.

  “Indeed, I do.”

  Damien wasn’t exactly certain what was going on anymore, but he had a strange feeling anyway. Something was afoot, and now neither he nor Isabel seemed to know about it. It drove him mad, so he was sure Isabel was ready to leap from her skin.

  “Lady Isabel,” he said, coming to the back of the settee where she sat, and leaning over her shoulder. “Might I have a word?” He looked pointedly at Miss Mason, and added, “Privately.”

  It was clear Miss Mason wasn’t certain how she felt about his wanting a private word with Lady Isabel. Her expression seemed to flip-flop between disappointment and disapproval.

  “Certainly, Mr. Lockwell.” Isabel made no hesitation as she put down her wassail cup and stood to follow him. However, he had no idea where to go.

  “You may follow me,” she said, taking the lead.

  “Won’t your father object to your leaving unchaperoned?”

  She whispered back, “He probably won’t even notice, but if he does, I’ll tell him that I’m leading you to the library and coming right back.”

  “And when you don’t come right back?”

  Lady Isabel shrugged. “I’ll send one of the maids back to say I’ve gone to bed.”

  Damien’s eyes narrowed on her as they emerged into the hallway. “You sound as if you’ve done this before.”

  A loud snort escaped Lady Isabel. “Evasion tactics are necessary when you don’t care much for the more traditional pastimes. But I’ve never done it, er…with a man.”

  Something about that made Damien smile. “Well, I’m honored to be the first,” he said, and the double entrendre was not lost on him.

  Apparently it wasn’t lost on Lady Isabel, either, if her reddening cheeks were any indication.

  They reached the doors to an abandoned parlor, and Lady Isabel pushed through, allowed him entry,
then closed the doors behind them. There was a warm fire in the grate and a few sconces lit around the room, but mostly it was dark. Damien turned to look at Lady Isabel and sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of her. Her chestnut hair looked far more luxurious in this light, and her small nose and long lashes seemed so dainty in silhouette.

  “Perhaps I should light more candles,” she said, and for the first time, Damien detected a hint of trepidation in her voice. Was it possible he made her nervous?

  “Don’t bother on my account,” he said. “I rather like it this way.”

  Lady Isabel paused with her hand on the tinder box then took it away before moving to a chair on the very far side of the room.

  “Well, then,” she practically yelled. “Will you finally tell me what information you have? I fear my sister may make a huge mistake, if she hasn’t already. Perhaps your information could help her.”

  Damien had almost completely forgotten about Lady Emma and Heathfield. Who bloody cared about the two of them when Lady Isabel sat before him…or at least in the same room as him. Damn it, this was foolish. He crossed the room and took the chair opposite her.

  “Not too close,” she warned. “If we were discovered…”

  “I thought you had thought this through.”

  “Perhaps not thoroughly enough.” She stood to go, clearly unnerved, which Damien counted as one of his greatest victories of all time. “We should go back.”

  Damien caught her hand. Lady Isabel stopped and stared down at her wrist, clasped tightly in his grasp. “Please. I will tell you what I know. I promise.”

  His touch was searing. Even through her satin gloves, she could feel the heat of his hand. And blast it all, she liked it. At least, she thought she liked it. Her stomach churned and her whole body trembled as if she were coming down with a fever. Yet somehow it felt…good. It didn’t seem possible–not logical at all. As a matter of fact, it was complete and utter nonsense when she thought more clearly about it.

  She shook her head and withdrew her wrist from his grasp. There. Much better. “I’m not certain you know anything at all, Mr. Lockwell.”

  His brows rose, and he genuinely looked surprised at her accusation. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Perhaps this is all a ploy to get me alone. To…to steal my virtue.”

  “Do you want it to be stolen?”

  Now it was Isabel’s turn to be surprised. What an odd question. Did she want to have her virtue stolen? The logical answer would have been absolutely not! Then why wouldn’t the words make their way to her lips?

  “Wh-why would you ask such a question?” she asked instead.

  Lockwell shrugged. “It’s just that you’re the one who brought me here to the library…where you knew we’d be alone.”

  “You promised to tell me what you knew of Lord Heathfield,” she said, trying to sound affronted, but knowing he had a point, and still somewhat flustered by the fact that she couldn’t actually say no to his original question.

  His blue eyes blinked up at her, the reflection of the fire in the fireplace making it seem as if they burned…for her. “Heathfield is not betrothed,” he said finally.

  “He’s— you mean he lied?”

  “You ought not to sound so self-righteous about it. Your sister lied, too.”

  Isabel nodded. “Yes, I know.” She sighed and plopped into the chair beside Lockwell. “It just seems so silly. These games they are playing.”

  “You don’t enjoy games, Lady Isabel?” He gave her a sly smile. Clearly, he enjoyed playing games.

  She shook her head. “I can’t imagine games are any fun when one’s heart is at stake.”

  He leaned forwards. “How would you know if you’ve never played?”

  Isabel’s heart beat an erratic pattern with every inch that Lockwell moved closer to her. She hated the idea of games, she really did. But tonight—just this once—she thought she might actually want to play.

  So when Lockwell moved so close that his lips were but a hairsbreadth away, Isabel didn’t pull back. She didn’t run, like her head yelled at her to do. She didn’t slap him across the cheek simply for moving closer to her. She didn’t chastise him for dragging her into his game. She just waited.

  And then, as quickly as he’d invaded her senses and gotten her in a position of wanting, he leaned back in his chair, and said, “It’s really quite fun. You should try it sometime.”

  There was a small part—a very miniscule piece of Damien—that felt bad for teasing Lady Isabel. But most of him truly loved dragging her into his game.

  The truth of the matter was that he really wanted to kiss her in that moment. His longing was bulging beneath his trousers, as a matter of fact. However, he knew that oftentimes the anticipation of the kiss—or whatever debaucheries one chose to partake in—made it that much sweeter when one finally did engage in the kiss.

  Besides, the look on her face was priceless. Her mouth opened and closed like a guppy fish, and her lashes batted with her surprise.

  “Well,” he said when it became evident that she was speechless. “You know what you needed to know. Shall we head back before we’re missed?”

  “Ehm, well…yes, I suppose we should.” She smoothed her skirts over her knees, perhaps in an effort to collect herself.

  Damien didn’t move a muscle. He just sat there, smiling at her, waiting for her to notice.

  She finally looked up. Their eyes locked. She took a breath and held it, her already ample chest puffed out like a bird.

  “Are you certain you want to go?” he asked her, keeping his voice quiet on purpose.

  He expected her to stick her nose in the air and say something to the effect of, “Of course I am, you blackguard!” But she didn’t. Instead, she shook her head, very slowly, as if she didn’t want to shake it but some invisible force was making her do it.

  “What is it that you want, Isabel?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she stammered.

  “A smart girl like you? I think you do know. You always know.”

  She nodded, her eyes still locked with his.

  “All you have to do is ask.”

  She opened her mouth, ready to speak, when loud voices came from the corridor, breaking the spell he’d had over her.

  Her eyes shot to the door. “That’s father. What is going on?” Isabel rose from her seat and crossed the room. With her hand on the doorknob, she turned back to Damien. “Please, wait a few minutes, will you?”

  Damien nodded and then watched as Isabel left the room and closed the door behind her, wishing he had taken the opportunity to kiss her when he had it.

  “Father?” Isabel emerged into the corridor, praying with all her might that Lockwell would stay put until they were gone. “What’s happened?”

  Emma and Heathfield stood behind him, both looking like the cats that had swallowed the canaries.

  “Never mind, Isabel. What were you doing in there when we have a houseful of guests?”

  “Reading, of course,” she lied absently, trying to read her sister’s lips at the same time.

  Father sighed and looked from her to Emma, then back to her again. “Your brothers never caused such trouble.”

  Isabel highly doubted that. Andrew had been exiled from the country and Phillip had attempted to hang himself. The worst she had done was read a book…or so her father thought. What Emma had done, though, she couldn’t say yet. Emma was dreadful at mouthing words. She looked like a puppy with a mouthful of lard.

  “Come,” he said, turning and heading down the corridor again, expecting all of them to follow. “Your uncle and Louisa await.”

  Isabel’s heart stopped. “The vicar?” She couldn’t prevent the horror from creeping into her tone. “Emma?”

  Emma remained tight-lipped. Her own twin sister wouldn’t tell her what the devil was happening.

  She turned to Heathfield, hoping he might have a bit more gumption, but he didn’t. He merely pressed his lips together and swallowed.<
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  A million questions swirled around in her head, but asking any of them would be futile. She would just have to wait until they arrived in the drawing room to find out what was going on.

  Cousin Louisa and Uncle Henry stood by the fireplace, warming themselves with cups of wassail. Miss Mason held Louisa engaged in conversation while Mother whispered something to Uncle Henry. Isabel did not like the look of this one bit.

  “Henry,” Father said, clapping a hand to his brother’s back. “I’m surprised the weather didn’t keep you away.”

  “It’s not so bad, Freddie. Wouldn’t want to miss Christmas with my favorite brother.”

  “Indeed?”

  It wasn’t much of a secret that Father and his brother Henry didn’t always get along, though they seemed to find common ground in the fact they didn’t like one another.

  “Ah, good, you’re here!” Grandpapa lumbered into the room. “Let us retire to my study. Heathfield, you will join us.”

  The men followed Grandpapa out the door, but not before Heathfield gave the barest of smiles to Emma. Isabel had had enough. She grabbed her sister by the wrist and dragged her to a secluded corner of the drawing room.

  “You must tell me what is happening,” she demanded.

  Emma stared back at her with wide eyes that brimmed slightly with tears. “Oh, Izzy…I am to be married.”

  Isabel felt as if someone had delivered a staggering blow to her stomach. “Wha–what are you talking about?” she asked once she recovered her tongue.

  A smile cracked on Emma’s lips and she moved closer to Isabel, grabbing her hands and squeezing tightly. “To Heathfield. He wasn’t engaged after all.”

  “Yes, I know, but…I still don’t understand. You barely know each other, Emma. Don’t you think you should wait?”

  Emma gave a little laugh. “For what, Izzy? I’ve been in love with Heathfield since I was in leading strings.”

  “But does he love you?”

  Someone began playing the pianoforte on the other side of the room. She glanced in that direction briefly then turned back to Emma. Until it registered in her mind what she’d just seen. Blast it all, Lockwell played the pianoforte?