“Your smile is more radiant than the chandeliers, Isobel.” Westcott stood by her side and admired the woman while she admired the room.
“Really, Westcott. Do woman truly fall for such fawning adulation?” said a scornful voice from behind.
“It is not fawning when it is true, Lord Saybrooke,” Westcott countered and turned to the man. Isobel turned also, scowling at Saybrooke. “Miss Kennilworth’s smile is delightful and truly does light up a room.”
“Lord Saybrooke,” came a high-pitched voice at Saybrooke’s elbow. “The orchestra is starting up and you promised me the first dance.” Miss Hyde-Price wore a white gown bedecked with spangles and an unfortunate number of flounces. Isobel firmly believed that plump women should limit or even eliminate flounces.
Lord Saybrooke bowed to Isobel and Westcott and led his partner onto the dance floor.
“Isobel, I regret that I am constrained to dance the first dance with Lady Cynthia. But I beg you to save the first waltz for me, for I have something of vital importance that I wish to discuss with you.” Isobel’s heart fluttered and it took everything within her to maintain her composure.
“Certainly, Lord Westcott…”
“Jeremy,” Lord Westcott interrupted.
“Jeremy. I look forward to it.”
“As do I. Till then, my dear.”
Isobel was immediately claimed by Mr. Collins and was pleasantly surprised that he only trod on her foot once. Isobel partnered Lord Pelton next and then Lord Mercer. There were still a few more dances to be endured before the waltz with Jeremy.
When Lord Mercer returned Isobel to the side lines, Lady Joanna, dragging Miss Parrish, hurried up to Isobel in a rush of youthful excitement. “You will never guess what has happened!” Lady Joanna gushed.
“Lord Pelton has proposed,” said Isobel calmly.
Lady Joanna’s face was a study in horror. “What? No. Good heavens, no. Lady Mercer has helped me convince Mrs. Parrish and my mama to allow Mary to come to us in London for the rest of the season! Is that not wonderful news!”
“Indeed, it is,” answered Isobel dutifully. “But what of your parents’ plans for you and Mr. Collins, Miss Parrish?”
“They were put off by his behavior toward Lady Cynthia,” Miss Parrish explained.
“And they were not pleased that he snubbed Mary so dreadfully,” added Lady Joanna.
“Well, at any rate, I am glad for you, Miss Parrish. I hope you enjoy London. I am sure Lady Joanna looks forward to your company,” Isobel said sincerely.
“Indeed! With Mary there at Grosvenor Square, mama cannot be so overbearing.” Isobel looked pointedly at Joanna and frowned. Joanna understood Isobel’s reproof at her own insensitive words and hurried to amend her statement. “But, most of all I am over the moon about having someone I can really talk to. We get along quite famously, do we not Mary?”
“It is nice to have a friend,” admitted Miss Parrish, though she did not seem quite as thrilled with the idea of going to London as Lady Joanna.
“We wanted you to be the first to know, except of course for our mothers and Lady Mercer. Come, Mary, we must tell Captain Danvers. He will be so pleased.” Mary looked horrified at the idea of informing the Captain, but she was pulled along in Joanna’s wake quite helpless against her enthusiasm.
Saybrooke approached Isobel for the next dance. She looked skeptically at him before she answered.
“It is a reel, Izzy. There will be little to no opportunity to speak,” assured Lord Saybrooke, the corners of his mouth turning up into a gradual smile. She smiled back and they went arm in arm onto the dance floor.
Saybrooke admitted to himself that he just wanted to be near her, to touch her. It was good that the dance did not permit conversation, for he could not be trusted to speak to her without making a mull of it. They concluded their dance and Saybrooke guided her to the side of the room. No one came to claim Isobel for the next dance and Saybrooke was loathe to leave her side. He began a conversation.
“What do you hear from your brother, Geoffrey?”
“Very little. But Imogen writes to bar me from the doors of The Glen. It seems she is afraid that my little scandal will affect her standing in the eyes of the ton and she hopes to distance herself from me.”
“Good Lord. What a horror that woman is. What was Geoff thinking when he married her?”
“Money,” replied Isobel simply. “It seems to run in the family.
Saybrooke looked uncomfortable and Isobel took pity on him. “How is your mother?”
“As much of a tartar as ever. She has extracted a promise from me to participate in the season. She is pressuring me to marry. It is why I am here, languishing at this social affair.”
“I have neglected to say how sorry I am about Lionel,” she said with true sadness.
“Thank you. Losing my brother was quite a shock.” They were both quiet for a moment until Isobel broke the silence.
“Shall I wish you and Miss Hyde-Price happy?” asked Isobel with a wicked grin.
“You shall not! I would rather be boiled in oil,” Saybrooke said, aghast. “What about you, Izzy, will you marry?”
Isobel did not answer, for the orchestra had begun the strains of a waltz and Saybrooke saw Isobel’s breathing start to quicken, her eyes scanning the floor. Then Westcott strode up to them. “This is my dance, I believe, Miss Kennilworth.”
“It is, My Lord,” she answered breathlessly. Saybrooke reluctantly released Isobel into Westcott’s keeping. He watched them with sorrow as they took the floor.
Isobel remembered Lord Westcott as a good dancer, but tonight she truly felt as if they were one as they glided across the floor. “Isobel,” he began, whispering into her ear. “You must know how I feel about you. I am enchanted, enamored. I love you.”
Isobel’s heart hammered in her breast. She could not speak, she could barely breathe. But surely he would not propose to her in the middle of a waltz?
“Would you do the honor of…?” He is going to ask me to marry him, thought Isobel, now! She held her breath. “…taking a turn with me on the balcony after this dance, for I have something important to ask you.”
“With pleasure, Jeremy,” Isobel managed to whisper.
They continued the dance in silence, but complete accord. Isobel’s heart was singing with happiness. The dance finally came to an end and Westcott led her from the floor. Without speaking they walked out onto the large balcony overlooking the rose garden, blissfully alone.
“Isobel, may I kiss you?” Lord Westcott asked, pulling her close.
“I was hoping you would ask, Jeremy.”
The kiss was searing, for Lord Wescott had wanted to claim her lips the second that he saw her again at the beginning of the house party. She returned his kiss with a fervor that spurred him on to deepen the kiss and then his hands began to explore; her back, her neck, her breast. Her sharp intake of breath served to stop him in his tracks.
“Forgive me; I have wanted to do that for so long. And I would enjoy continuing to do it. But first we must settle our future. Isobel, I do love you so. Dare I hope that you care for me as well?”
“I do,” was all that she could manage.
“You would make me the happiest of men if you would share my bed, share my life.”
An odd way to put it, she thought, but Isobel was about to agree when he went on.
“It will be a trifle awkward tonight when the engagement announcement is made; I just want you to know that it is you I love.”
Isobel stopped breathing. She felt as if she had been punched. She wanted to speak, to ask what he meant, but no words came out. Westcott noticed her pained expression and continued to speak.
“It is a marriage of convenience that is all. My heart lies with you, not Lady Cynthia.”
“Lady Cynthia?” The words came out in rasp. “You want me to be…your…” she could not say it.
He could. “My mistress, yes. What is the matter? Are you crying?”
Lord Westcott tried to pull Isobel into an embrace, but she fought him. “Isobel, dearest, you did not think…you could not possibly have thought that I meant to marry you? You know that is quite impossible, thanks to Warwick. Damn him.”
She had to get away. She was going to be sick. Tears blinded her as she pushed past Westcott and rushed headlong into the ballroom. She had only gone a few steps when Westcott caught up with her.
“Isobel, listen to me.” He grabbed for her arm. She swung around and with all the pent up anger and disappointment surging through her, slapped his face. The sound resounded through the ballroom. A collective gasp from the bystanders caused the orchestra to stop playing. Isobel turned to face the crowd that had gathered and without a word she ran from the ballroom.
Lord Saybrooke followed in Isobel’s hurried footsteps from the ballroom and caught her up just before she reached the stairs.
“Izzy, stop!” he urged as he placed a gentle hand on her elbow.
“Please, Drew. I know you mean to comfort me, but I am convinced you will assault me with a host of recriminations before two minutes pass. I cannot bear it.” She wrenched her arm away and fled up the stairs, gulping back sobs as she ran. Saybrooke stood and watched her, feeling helpless and angry. He went in search of Westcott.
Reaching the ballroom, he saw that Lord Stoughton had tried to minimize damages by choosing that moment to announce the engagement of his daughter to Lord Westcott. The scoundrel! With Isobel’s palm print still visible on his face, Westcott smiled at the crowd and accepted congratulations from the many well-wishers. Lady Cynthia gloated.
His rage barely suppressed, Saybrooke strode up to the group surrounding the newly betrothed couple and barked into the crowd, “Westcott, I want a word.”
Lord Westcott recognized rage when he saw it, and knew what the outcome of a word with Saybrooke would mean. “Perhaps a bit later, Saybrooke, if you do not mind. I have promised my affianced bride the next dance,” he said trying to avoid another scene.
“Ah, but I do mind. It cannot wait.”
The crowd parted and Westcott sighed and bowed over Lady Cynthia’s hand. “I beg your pardon, my dear.” Lady Cynthia smiled serenely at Lord Westcott and nodded her assent, as if it were needed.
The two men, both agitated, exited together onto the balcony. Fortunately, no would-be lovers lurked in the moonlight.
“You have behaved unspeakably toward Miss Kennilworth!” hissed Saybrooke through clenched teeth.
“You wrong me, Saybrooke, I love Miss Kennilworth. You know as well as I do that I cannot marry her. It is not done! She is ruined, and I know that it is through no fault of her own, but nonetheless, it is impossible. I offered her the only possibility open to us. I would love and cherish her; it would simply be without the benefit of a marriage license.” Westcott was sincere and Saybrooke knew it, but it changed nothing.
“And she would be your mistress and therefore beyond the pale as far as society is concerned.”
“She is already beyond the pale thanks to Reginald Aiken, the snake,” Westcott spat out. “I would kill him, if he was not already dead. He has done her irreparable damage.”
“And yet you belittle her even further by offering her a slip on the shoulder. With time she might have been able to overcome the business with Warwick. But this?” Saybrooke stood face to face with Westcott, his eyes flashing. “You have dishonored a lady of the highest caliber. You, sir, are no gentleman.” Before Westcott could blink, he was on the floor, his nose gushing blood.
“I would call you out for that, Saybrooke.” Westcott pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and attempted to stop the flow of blood.
“I feel certain you would, but it matters not, for I do not duel,” Saybrooke said with a sneer.
“I thought you were a gentleman of honor?” goaded Westcott, now standing face to face with Saybrooke.
”I hope I am. But I am also a man of intelligence and conviction. It is illegal to duel and what is more, it is foolish,” countered Saybrooke.
Westcott looked at Saybrooke with wry amusement. “I would ask you why you feel compelled to protect Isobel, since you are neither related to her nor legally responsible for her, but any fool could see that you are in love with her.”
“That explains why you have seen it, then.”
Ignoring his gibe, Westcott continued, ““You say you are concerned for her reputation, Saybrooke, but given the chance you would make the same offer as I did.”
“I would never treat Isobel so shabbily!”
“Do not pretend that you would marry her,” Westcott sneered. “Now that you are Viscount Saybrooke, you know what is due your position. Marrying Isobel would sully the noble name of Saybrooke.”
Saybrooke’s face suffused with anger, yet he could not speak. Westcott’s words, though reprehensible, troubled him. As much as he loved Isobel, would he be able to turn his back on his duty, on the promise he had made to his mother? His doubt and guilt angered him even further.
“But this is all moot, for I will not give her up, Saybrooke. I believe in time, she will agree to my terms.”
“You will have her over my dead body,” growled Saybrooke, his fury consuming him.
“That can be arranged!” roared back Lord Westcott. The two men were nose to nose and Westcott took the first punch. Fists flew, blood spattered and bones cracked before the fight was broken up.
“I will have satisfaction, Saybrooke. And I will have Isobel!” Westcott’s voice was low, but full of venom.
“It is a funny thing about ones’ convictions, Westcott,” Saybrooke said through clenched teeth, blood trickling from his split lip. “They are all too easily overruled by extenuating circumstances. I will meet you. I suddenly have an urge to blow your brains out.”
Suddenly the barbarism of moments before dissipated, and the two men coolly planned their coming duel. Westcott promised that his seconds would call on Saybrooke’s in two days’ time in London, not wanting to abuse the hospitality of Lord and Lady Mercer any further. Nodding, Saybrooke took his leave of Westcott, strode into the ballroom, then without making eye contact with a single soul, and strode out of the ballroom, down the corridor and into the library. Miss Hyde-Price watched him go with annoyance. On the balcony, Lord Westcott held his blood soaked handkerchief to his battered nose and tried to calm himself in the cool night air.
Chapter 7
The carriage rumbled along the well-worn road to London and Isobel stared out of the window, her eyes seeing nothing of the countryside. The horrifying events of the night before played before her eyes over and over. Manning dozed in the corner, the previous night involving very little sleep. Between Isobel’s bouts of weeping and nausea, there was little time left for slumber. Isobel had tried to dismiss Manning, but the lady’s maid had steadfastly refused, being truly concerned for her mistress.
They had been travelling for close to two hours and the sun was now high in the sky. Isobel had ordered the coach to be brought around at first light, hoping to leave before anyone had risen. She had been out of luck. Henrietta knocked on her door just as Manning closed the last portmanteau.
“Isobel,” she called from the other side of the closed door. “I know you do not feel like talking, but please let me in. I am so sorry for what happened. Please, dearest, open the door.”
Isobel gestured for Manning to do so. Henrietta had said nothing, but rushed to Isobel and embraced her and the two friends wept together. Isobel dismissed Manning to tell the coachman that they would be leaving within the hour.
After a few minutes of crying, Henrietta led Isobel to the settee in her sitting area. “Isobel, I cannot tell you how dreadful I feel that this has occurred in my home!”
“I am the one who is to blame, Henrietta. I should not have come. I should not have been such a fool about Westcott.” Isobel could not keep the despair out of her voice. On hearing these words from her friend, Lady Mercer rose from her seat and began to pace.
“
You? Goodness gracious, how could you have known? Westcott was so solicitous, so particular. He was barely polite to Lady Cynthia. Nonetheless, I should have known. Had Mercer been here he would have and I could have warned you. But I was preoccupied with the guests and the baby and I did not notice the self-satisfied smirk on Lord Stoughton’s face. Well, I did notice, but I thought it did not signify anything in particular. Evidently marriage negotiations were held under my own roof and I was none the wiser!”
“You must not blame yourself, Hen. I must come to grips with the reality that I am no longer, and evidently never was an acceptable wife for any man. I am destined either for a life of tedium as spinster or a life of debauchery in the demi-monde.” Her voice was weary from her lack of sleep and complete misery.
“Certainly, it is not that dire?” said Lady Mercer, more out of hope than conviction.
“I have no dowry and no reputation, or at least a soiled one. Who would marry me? If I were a man, I would not marry me lest I be condemned by society and shame my family.”
“If you were a man, you would tell the Beau Monde to go to hell!” exclaimed Henrietta with passion.
“Perhaps I will as Miss Kennilworth,” replied Isobel with the first sign of spirit since the previous night.
“Good for you! We can tell them all today. Stay and stare them all in their aristocratic faces and condemn them to Hades!”
“I cannot, Hen. I am not ready to face Westcott. I am not sure I ever will be. I need to go home and lick my wounds. You must understand, I need time,” said Isobel, what little energy she had, spent.
“I do understand, my dear. Just remember, if you lick your wounds for too long, they will never heal.”
Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) Page 9
