“I would be delighted.” Lord Poole glanced about the empty room with obvious interest. “No doubt Saunders is already outside mucking about the estate. I shall enjoy having you to myself this morning.”
Isabella’s smile disappeared. “The earl has been called away on business.”
“Wonderful. I hope he will be gone a long time.” Lord Poole removed the bread rack from the sideboard and placed it on the dining room table. He retrieved the butter dish and jam pot, set them cozily on the table, and then held out a chair expectantly. “Sit down, Miss Browning. I will ring for coffee. Or would you prefer chocolate?”
“Coffee will be fine.”
A stone-faced Mrs. Amberly answered Lord Poole’s summons, and Isabella watched in amazement as he charmed the housekeeper with a few softly spoken words and a dimpled grin. Leaving the room with a broad smile, Mrs. Amberly returned quickly with a steaming pot of coffee and a large dish of coddled eggs that actually looked appetizing.
Isabella selected a piece of bread, declining the offer of eggs. She sipped her coffee quietly and studied Lord Poole openly as he ate his breakfast. He seemed a man accustomed to being in the company of women, and he possessed an effective manner for dealing with them. She assumed he was unmarried since Damien had never mentioned a Lady Poole. Isabella strongly suspected Lord Poole was a favorite with the unattached ladies of the ton due to his pleasant face and polished manner, not to mention his wealth and title.
“You are rather quiet this morning, Miss Browning. I trust you slept well?”
“Fine,” Isabella said. Swirling the dregs of her coffee in her porcelain cup, Isabella suddenly felt nervous and uncertain. “Actually, that is a lie, Lord Poole. I did not sleep well last night. And we both know why.”
Lord Poole’s expression was unruffled. He forked in a final bite of egg, then carefully placed his cutlery on his dish. “I upset you last evening with my outburst. I deeply regret any discomfort I inadvertently caused you.”
“You showed little interest in my feelings last night. I was given the impression your words were meant for Damien, not for me, my lord,” Isabella said. She glanced at him suspiciously, but his placid expression revealed nothing. “I wonder even now if you spoke the truth about your family.”
“Of course I told you the truth.” Lord Poole pressed Isabella’s forearm urgently. “I would never lie about something this important.”
“Then I suppose I must consider the possibilities.” A nervous fluttering began in Isabella’s stomach. “My mother died when I was eight years old, and I discovered the day I left my home that the man who married my mother was not my natural father. Perhaps we are related.”
“I feel certain you are my sister,” Lord Poole responded quickly.
“I find this difficult to accept, without proof of paternity. My resemblance to Emmeline coupled with my name could be a unique coincidence, Lord Poole.”
“Please, call me Thomas. And I shall feel honored if you will allow me to address you as Isabella.” He smiled broadly at her slight nod of acceptance, and Isabella felt the tension ease from his grip. “I require no additional verification of your identity, but naturally I shall pursue the matter if you wish. My father passed on ten years ago; my mother preceded him by a year. There was no reference to a child in any of his papers. Had I known of your existence, I would have moved heaven and earth to find you.”
“Thank you.” Isabella took a deep breath and released it slowly, realizing that the anger she had felt toward him last night was fading. It was difficult to remain aloof from him when he demonstrated such concern.
Lord Poole’s glance shifted to his empty coffee cup. “I would like to know more about you, Isabella. What was your mother like? Your childhood? And how did you ever end up here, working for the earl?”
It was a strange and unusual sensation for Isabella to be the focus of such intense interest. She had rarely spoken about herself or her life with anyone. No one had ever cared enough to ask. Except Damien.
To her annoyance, Isabella’s first inclination was to invent a cozy, carefree childhood and a gay, frivolous adolescence. Shaking off the impulse, she slowly refilled Lord Poole’s coffee cup and her own before speaking.
“I’ve led a rather quiet life, Thomas. I have no doubt you will find it dull and uninspired.”
Lord Poole made no reply. And because he didn’t press her, or ply her with cloying sympathy and insincere soothing words, Isabella gradually revealed the circumstances of her youth.
She spoke of her mother’s death and her childhood fears. She told him of her grandfather’s indifference, her great aunt’s cruelty, her longing for a warm and loving family. She related tales from her life as a governess and revealed the bizarre events that had brought her to Whatley Grange.
Isabella nearly spoke of her love for Damien, yet managed to hold back at the last moment. She knew Lord Poole would be displeased, and she did not want to jeopardize the fragile bond she was forging with him.
“Life has treated you unfairly, Isabella.”
“There are many poor souls in this world that have suffered far more than I have,” Isabella said, disliking the edge of pity she heard in Lord Poole’s voice.
“Yes. But those unfortunate creatures are not my sister,” he replied very quietly. “I know I cannot change the past, but I will do everything in my power to guarantee that your future holds the fulfillment of all your dreams.”
Isabella’s violet eyes widened. “That is a bold promise, sir,” she said breathlessly.
Lord Poole laughed. “You will soon learn I follow through on all my promises.” He stood up. “Come along,” he said, extending an arm to her. “I know just where we shall start.”
Isabella rose to her feet. “Where are we going?” she asked as they entered the foyer, her mind whirling.
“To the village. To buy you a new frock,” Lord Poole said.
“Oh, no.” Isabella pulled up short. “I have far too many things to do today. And I must look after Catherine and Ian.”
“They may accompany us.”
Isabella shook her head vehemently. “No.” She offered no further explanation. As much as she would dearly love a fashionable new gown, Isabella felt decidedly uncomfortable at the suggestion. It was far too intimate a gesture. Besides, Damien would be furious.
Lord Poole accepted her refusal, but Isabella could tell by his hardened expression that he was not pleased. To his credit, he did not press the matter and escorted her up the main staircase, his voice and manner extremely polite.
They rounded the second story landing, but instead of proceding up to the third floor, Lord Poole pulled Isabella down a dark hallway. She had never previously ventured into this part of the house, but Lord Poole appeared confident of his destination. Eventually he stopped in the middle of the hall and stood silently before a closed door. Isabella could feel the trembling of his arm through his thick cloth jacket.
“Is something wrong, Thomas?”
“This was Emmeline’s room,” he whispered reverently.
He reached up, and with the tip of his finger gently caressed the intricate wood carving in the center of the door. Isabella placed a hand on his shoulder, offering silent comfort, but Lord Poole ignored her and continued staring at the door, his expression morose.
“The children are waiting,” Isabella finally said.
The sound of her quiet voice appeared to awaken him from his catatonic state and Lord Poole jerked forward suddenly, thrusting open the door.
With a startled cry of surprise, Isabella followed him inside. The room was huge and cold and held a faint, though not unpleasant odor. Lord Poole took slow, even steps as he walked to the center of the room, his demeanor pious and somber.
“Everything appears to be as it was,” he whispered softly.
Strolling about the room with a glazed expression, he touched each piece of furniture, dipping his fingertips into the layers of dust as if it were holy water. Stopping in
front of the large mahogany armoire, Lord Poole yanked hard on the delicate knob. Isabella gasped when the door opened, and she caught a glimpse of frothing colors. The wardrobe was literally stuffed with women’s clothing. Lord Poole pulled out a silver ball gown, his hands trembling visibly. Several other dresses fell out of the wardrobe onto the dusty carpet.
Drawn toward the amazing sight, Isabella ventured closer. She had never seen so many beautiful dresses. There were low-necked gowns of silk and satin with puffed sleeves and decorated hems, muslin dresses embroidered with small flowers and frilly flounces, and walking dresses of stiff cotton in vibrant patterns trimmed with buttons, lace, and bows. The colors were as varied as the styles and materials, shades of blue, silver, gold, green, red, and yellow.
Lord Poole continued riffling through the garments and several more dresses fell to the rug. He disregarded them.
“I don’t recognize these gowns,” he said in dismay. His movements grew frenzied as he searched among the clothing. “I cannot recall seeing Emmeline dressed in any of these garments.”
Isabella watched in confusion while Lord Poole picked up the silver ball gown, held it close to his nose, and inhaled deeply. His eyes were sorrowful when he solemnly proclaimed, “Emmeline never wore this dress. I do not smell the sweet floral perfume she favored.”
He quickly retrieved another gown from the pile on the floor and repeated the process.
“I don’t believe she ever wore any of these dresses,” he said, after sniffing several more.
“They are all so beautiful,” Isabella said, fingering the smooth satin of a jade green ball gown. “And very costly.”
“Naturally. Emmeline always had the best, the most expensive of everything. It was no less than she deserved.”
“The earl was very generous,” Isabella said dryly.
“I paid for these dresses!” Lord Poole’s voice was harsh. “That pitiful excuse for a monthly allowance that Saunders gave Emmeline wouldn’t have kept her in new gloves. I handled all of Emmeline’s personal finances. All the tradesmen sent their bills directly to me for payment. It was I who cared enough to make certain that Emmeline was given everything she desired, not her husband.”
Isabella nodded her head silently, unsure how to respond. Turning away from the grief and passion in Lord Poole’s eyes, she began retrieving the dresses from the floor and carefully returned them to the wardrobe.
Eventually Lord Poole joined her. He lifted a white muslin dress embroidered with small blue-and-red flowers and held it toward Isabella.
“Try it on,” he urged.
“I couldn’t!”
“Please, Isabella. For my sake. Try on the dress.”
Isabella glanced at the lovely frock with misgivings. She had never worn such a delicate, fashionable garment. The high-waisted gown had long sleeves with ornamental ruches at the wrists and a blue velvet band that crossed beneath the breasts. Isabella thought the simple, elegant style was romantic without being too fussy. Lord Poole pressed the gown into her reluctant arms.
Isabella felt her resolve falter as she clutched the dress. She was being silly. What harm would it do to merely try the dress on? It seemed such a little thing to make him happy.
“I’ll be back in a few moments.”
Once in her own room, Isabella changed quickly, the front fastenings in the bodice of the gown enabling her to dress unassisted. After closing the tiny pearl buttons at her wrists, Isabella anxiously turned to view herself in the cheval mirror. The high neckline enhanced the slender column of her neck and the soft white muslin brought out the natural pink tones of her high cheekbones. Eyes sparkling with delight, Isabella modestly admitted the dress looked good on her. Smiling, she left to show Lord Poole.
He brightened visibly when she reentered the room and rushed forward to greet her. Isabella felt the coldness in his hand when he touched her fingertips.
Still clutching her hand, he stepped back and studied her closely, his eyes narrowed. “You look charming, Isabella, yet something is not quite right.” Lord Poole dropped Isabella’s hand and circled her slowly, stroking his chin. “It’s your hair. Emmeline always wore her hair down.”
Without asking permission, Lord Poole yanked a pin from Isabella’s tightly bound chignon. She was startled by the action, but when he reached for a second pin, Isabella threw her arm up in defense and grasped his wrist firmly.
“I am not Emmeline,” she whispered softly.
Lord Poole stared at her long and hard. His pleasant features tightened in annoyance and his blue eyes darkened, deep and fathomless. Isabella shivered.
“Forgive me,” he said finally.
“Miss Browning! Miss Browning! Where are you?”
Catherine appeared unexpectedly in the open doorway. “Ah-ha, I have found you. Ian and I are having a contest, and now I have won.”
Isabella released her grip on Lord Poole’s arm and backed away from him. His expression was once again kind and pleasant, but Isabella could not easily dismiss his former anger.
“If you have found me, Catherine, then Ian is still searching. We must go and tell him that the game is over,” Isabella said, trying to keep her voice from giving away her confused emotions.
“May Uncle Thomas come also?” Catherine asked.
“He will join us in the schoolroom this afternoon,” Isabella said. Composing her face into an expressionless mask, she addressed Lord Poole, “We all look forward to seeing you later, Thomas.”
Lord Poole’s eyes clashed with Isabella’s, but he said nothing as she and Catherine escaped into the hall.
Lord Poole remained standing in the center of the empty room. His head felt light and he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to massage away the tension. He tried to focus on the events of the last few minutes, but random images of Emmeline flittered in and out of his mind.
A deep, terrible yearning filled his body. His chest hurt and his lungs burned. Slowly he released the breath he’d been holding. A ghost of a smile lit his mouth.
He was making progress, of that he felt certain. Yet he must be more careful in the future. Isabella had clearly been frightened when he tried to arrange her hair. He was sorry for that, but the excitement of seeing her dressed in a gown made for Emmeline had overwhelmed him.
How very much alike the two women were! The softness of their skin, the sparkle of their eyes, even the lilt of their voices were the same. Thomas closed his eyes, savoring the memory.
The images in his head were jumbled and confused, and they meshed and merged before a clear picture of Emmeline floated into his mind. He clung to it. It was a miracle, truly a gift from God. The fates had smiled upon him and he was grateful. He had found his beloved Emmeline. And he vowed never again to lose her.
Chapter Nineteen
“His lordship has consented to a brief audience.”
Damien glanced up at the stone-faced butler and scowled darkly. After riding hard for two days, he had been kept waiting for nearly three hours in the Earl of Barton’s great hall, with its painted and gilded dome, wide, sweeping staircase and richly appointed, uncomfortable furniture. His temper was stretched taut, yet he had managed to hold it in check by sheer force of will and alternatively pacing in front of the huge fireplace and sitting straight-backed on the edge of a wooden chair.
Damien now drew himself up to his full height and glowered at the butler, releasing some of his inner tension. The servant never flinched, but pivoted on his heel and silently led the way from the hall. Good Lord, Damien thought, the man’s face would surely shatter if he ever did anything so frivolous as smile.
Eyes pinned firmly on the thinning patch of hair on the crown of the butler’s head, Damien followed the servant from the room, his booted feet echoing on the black-and-white marble tiles.
He was ushered into a formal salon, vast in size, and furnished with impressive and expensive antiques. The Earl of Barton was seated on a large sofa near an open window, but he rose expectantly to his feet w
hen Damien entered the room.
“Damien St. Lawrence, the Earl of Saunders,” the butler announced, closing the door soundlessly as he left.
“Now that I’ve set eyes on you,” Barton greeted him, “I’m certain I don’t know you. What do you want?”
“Good afternoon.” Though he was far too acquainted with adversity, even Damien was surprised by the openly hostile greeting. Deciding to counter the attack with overt politeness, he executed an exaggerated bow and said, “Thank you for seeing me so promptly, sir.”
The older man stiffened. “State your business. And be quick about it.” He resumed his seat on the sofa and airily waved his hand in the direction of a chair.
Damien surmised that half-hearted gesture constituted an invitation to be seated. He remained standing.
“I’ve come about your granddaughter, Isabella Browning.”
“Gotten herself into trouble again, has she? She always was a high-spirited miss. Well, out with it boy. What’s she done this time?”
“She hasn’t done anything, sir. Isabella is currently employed as governess to my children and doing an excellent job.”
“An excellent job, you say?” The earl lifted his gray eyebrows. “You arrive at my home uninvited and unannounced and wait three hours to see me. Judging by the mud spattered on your boots, you’ve traveled a fair distance. Do you mean to say you went to all that bother just to tell me that Isabella is a competent employee? I think not. I may be old, but I’ve still got my wits about me. What’s she done? Has she gone and ruined herself like her witless mother?”
Damien felt his face flush. He took a deep breath and moved slowly toward the edge of the room, determined not to be bested by his own temper or this disagreeable old man. Stalling for time, Damien set himself near the fireplace and casually perched an elbow upon the mantel.
“I want to know who Isabella’s natural father was.”
The earl made no reply. Damien caught a glimpse of the older man’s reflection in the gilt-edged mirror at the opposite side of the room. His stoic facade had not cracked, but his face had become a hollow shade of ash.
His Wicked Embrace Page 22
