Engaging Sir Isaac: An Inglewood Romance

by Britton, Sally

  Had he miscalculated?

  Lord Neil offered his arm to Miss Ashford, leaving Isaac to follow behind them, making him feel more the fool. No one to take his arm, no one to even walk alongside, put him at the rear of the entire party. Not that he particularly wished for the company of others, but he had rather hoped—

  It did not matter what he hoped. Though he had thought Millie regarded him at least as a friend, his company did not seem to suit her.

  Isaac finally started moving in the same direction as the others, to the castle he had seen a dozen times in his life. The structure no longer impressed him, even though he remembered well the story of the Orford Wild Man. It was a story he had meant to tell Millie as they walked about the ruins, to see what she made of it, to amuse her.

  Foolish of him, really. She had no wish to keep him company. He had misread all her friendliness of the bonfire night, all her jests from the dinner at his sister’s home.

  He walked through the crumbling stones that marked where the castle’s outer wall had once stood, following a well-trod path. He turned his eyes up to the tower, to the crumbling stone. What a waste. The Marquess of Hertford held ownership of the castle but had done little to maintain it, despite the castle’s usefulness as a location to signal ships at sea. From a purely military standpoint, the quiet port of Orford would provide a place for enemy ships to invade, and friendly ships to resupply in an emergency.

  Isaac shook his head at the stones, as though it was their fault his mind still turned to military strategies. If he did not leave behind that way of thinking, he would never rid himself of his nightmares. Burying the memories and training of war deep within had proven nearly impossible, but it was the only hope he had.

  Members of the party scattered throughout the ruins. Several ladies carried sketchbooks. Some walked about arm-in-arm. The servants had yet to arrive with the picnic. Isaac’s eyes wandered until they landed upon the waving green feathers of Millie’s bonnet. She was on the arm of a man he did not recognize.

  I am ten times a fool. Isaac swallowed back his disappointment and turned his attention to the hill. He would go to the top, enjoy the air and the view, and leave directly after the picnic. If Lord Neil insisted on using Isaac’s carriage rather than put additional people into the other vehicles, Isaac would ride back with the servants.

  He had no intention of spending an entire day in company with people who had no interest in him and his lack of connections. Millie had no need of him. She had made enough friends among the members of the house party to amuse herself.

  Perhaps Esther was right. Isaac did not need to save everyone. And not everyone needed saving.

  The servants arrived and took their baskets, blankets, and all the pieces of a table made especially for such an event, into the ruins near the castle. What must the villagers of Orford think of the nobility descending upon the ruins only to set up a dining room? Isaac stood up and brushed the grass from his trousers before starting down the hill at an easy pace.

  Footmen from the marquess’s household put together the cleverly constructed table, sliding slots together in the wood until four legs held up long boards. Two maids came next, tablecloth in hand, and in a matter of minutes had spread out a feast of cold meats, pastries, fruits, and every food that might be easily transported. Wine bottles appeared, too, along with shining goblets.

  More than a year before, Isaac had taken nearly all his meals out-of-doors, near a fire. Rations of dried bread, soups too thin with unidentifiable vegetables floating about, were often what the men ate. As an officer, Isaac’s meals were slightly better. He never went hungry, but he had certainly grown used to humble meals.

  “Sir Isaac?” a quiet voice asked near his elbow. Isaac looked down into the worried expression of a woman wearing an apron and cap that marked her position as a maid. Millie’s maid.

  “Yes.” He nodded slightly, encouraging her to speak. Perhaps she searched for her mistress. Isaac had seen Millie and her chosen escort watching another lady sketch the castle.

  “Forgive me, sir, but I have something I must tell you. In confidence.” She glanced to where the other servants continued their work, far enough from where Isaac stood. “I am concerned for my mistress. There are members of this party, people who aren’t—aren’t good people.” Her face went pale when Isaac frowned at her. “I mean no disrespect to my betters, sir. But I worry someone might do her harm. Miss Wedgewood—she says you’re a good man.”

  Isaac’s insides twisted. Millie had bothered mentioning him to her maid?

  “What is it you expect me to do?” he asked the maid, keeping his voice soft. Her distress was real, and he had no intention of adding to it.

  “Maybe—maybe keep a lookout for her, sir? Make sure she stays safe.” The maid blushed terribly then and lowered her eyes. “I know I’ve no right to even speak to you—”

  “Have no fear. What is your name?” he asked gently.

  “Sarah Morton, sir.”

  “Sarah. Your concern for your mistress is a credit to you. I promise, I will do what I can to help, should Miss Wedgewood have need of it.”

  The maid’s shoulders drooped as though a burden fell from them. “Thank you, Sir Isaac.” She curtsied and hurried away without another word. Clearly, approaching him had taken a great deal of the maid’s courage. She was a kind-hearted girl. And he would keep his promise.

  Isaac took his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat, realizing he had hours to spend in the company he had wanted to leave minutes before.

  If Esther had been present, she would raise one eyebrow at him imperiously and say, “You cannot resist protecting people.”

  It was true. Defending others had always come naturally to him. It was his role in the club his dearest friends had formed in childhood. Silas led. Jacob made peace. Hope stirred them to adventure. Grace plotted their course. And Isaac looked out for all of them, until they grew up, and no one, not even his sister, had need of him anymore.

  Millie might need him, and that was enough to make him stay. He meant to spend the whole of the day in Orford, following her about.

  * * *

  If another man enjoyed hearing the sound of his own voice as much as Mr. Weston, Millie would be most surprised. The man prattled on and on through the meal, sometimes around mouthfuls of food.

  Once most of the group finished with the repast, Lady Alderton gave the party leave to explore the ruins or take themselves to the village for an hour, then they were to go to the beach and lighthouses.

  Millie simpered up at Mr. Weston, in a way that would suggest she hadn’t a single clever thought in her head. “Mr. Weston, I do hope you will take me about the village and show me the church. I am much inclined to hear what you think of the architecture.”

  “Of course, Miss Wedgewood. Have no fear. I will explain the whole of its construction to you.” He was certainly the sort of gentleman who counted upon women being less clever than he, which made Mrs. Vanderby’s desire to blackmail him almost understandable. His condescension grated upon Millie.

  But if spending time in his company would allow her to win her mother’s happiness and her father’s pride, she could be a vapid miss more interested in a man’s attention than her own pursuits.

  They began their walk as soon as they left the table; during the five minutes it took to arrive on the grounds of Saint Bartholomew’s, walking downhill from the castle, Mr. Weston told her a considerable amount about medieval church’s. Or at least, all of his thoughts about them.

  “Considerable waste of funds, if you ask me,” he said when the old graveyard came into sight. “This whole building ought to be torn down. Put something more economical in place. A mill or a workhouse.” He shook his head in some disgust and gestured to the ruins outside the building. “It is not even fit to hold services at present. Entire thing in disrepair.”

  The few others who had started to town, walking in groups of twos and threes, went elsewhere. To the bakery, to shops. No
one else, it seemed, had any interest in the historic nature of the church.

  Millie’s eyes drank in the ruins of what once was an impressive sight. Arches had fallen, the roof of the building had seen better decades, and the whole church had an air of abandonment about it.

  “I always find it rather sad when old places are left empty.” Millie stared up at the broken panes of glass. “It is as though the soul has gone out of them.”

  Mr. Weston snorted. “Very like a woman, to ascribe things like souls to an inanimate pile of stone. It is not sad. It is impractical.” Despite his disdain, he walked her about on a path along the side of the church, toward the rear of the building.

  “Might we go inside?” Millie asked, looking over her shoulder where the entrance lay.

  “The whole thing is unstable. Liable to collapse if someone sneezes upon it.” Mr. Weston chuckled at his own wit, and Millie buried her disappointment. He looked down upon her, his fair eyebrows drawing together. “We might get closer to the walls, however. If you wish.”

  Somewhat surprised at this small consideration, Millie brightened. He took her to the corner of the church, to inspect the place where the west wall met the southern. She put her hand to the old stone and could not hold back a wistful sigh.

  “Think of all these stones have born witness to, Mr. Weston. They have been here since the time of King Henry the Second.”

  His hand caught hers, and he drew her around the corner of the wall where they were hidden from the road. Mr. Weston had put on quite a different expression. An intense, knowing look in his eye and a smirk upon his lips startled her. Millie took a step back, bumping into the wall. His arms came up, one on either side of her.

  “Now then, Miss Wedgewood. We come to the point.”

  Millie sucked in a breath and tightened her hands into fists. She had given her parasol into Sarah’s care, planning to retrieve it before they went to the beach. Now she wished she had it at hand. Her hat pin was out of reach, with how closely Mr. Weston had her trapped.

  “What point, sir?” She kept the tremble from her voice. “Your behavior is too forward, Mr. Weston.” It was better to sound coy, to bat her lashes at him and smile.

  His smirk grew until she saw the flash of his teeth. “Am I? You have made certain I am aware of your interest, Miss Wedgewood. Your attention has been mine since the moment we were introduced last evening. Every excuse to be near me has been made. I was rather surprised you did not manage to find a way into my coach.”

  He came closer, lowering his voice. “Perhaps you might find your way into my quarters tonight.”

  Millie’s head went back, her bonnet crushed against the stone. “You are mistaken, sir. My interest in you was not at all inappropriate—”

  “What else would it be?” he asked, his much larger body growing closer to hers. “I could never court you. Everyone knows about your family. But if you wish for my favor—”

  Millie was much smaller than he was. She often detested her stature, but it occurred to her to drop when he bent with the intention of kissing her. She did not even lose her balance, hardly having to duck to get beneath the cage of his arms.

  Mr. Weston stumbled in his surprise, his face hitting the stone wall. He snarled, and Millie turned to flee, but he caught her arm. “Little vixen, full of tricks. That is what you remind me of, with that hair of yours. Shall we play at fox hunt?” He drew her against his chest, and Millie sucked in a breath in preparation to scream.

  Would anyone hear her?

  Would anyone bother to come if they did?

  “I enjoy a good fox hunt.” The words, calmly spoken, came from behind Millie. But she recognized the voice. She knew it at once. That wry tone, the rich timbre. Sir Isaac Fox. “Of course, it is the wrong season for it.”

  Mr. Weston slowly released Millie and stepped back, his eyes fixed on a point over her shoulder where Sir Isaac stood. “Have you a reason to skulk about here, Fox?”

  “I do.” He paused, the silence heavy with unspoken words. Was he glaring at Mr. Weston as she imagined? Millie longed to turn, to rush directly into him, where she might tuck herself against his side and find safety. But she kept still. Like a true fox. No sudden movements.

  Apparently, Mr. Weston took Isaac’s measure and determined he had no wish to test the baronet’s reasons for appearing so suddenly. His eyes flickered briefly to Millie’s, the heat in them greatly diminished. “Perhaps we will discuss medieval churches another time, Miss Wedgewood.”

  Though she wished to slap his conceited face, to snarl at him, or to kick him as hard as possible upon his shins, Millie answered him with nothing more than a tight nod. He did not even bow before vanishing from her sight.

  Millie shuddered and went to the wall again, leaning against it for support, and keeping her back to her rescuer. How humiliating, for him to find her in such a compromising position. For the second time in her life, Millie had faced the attack of a man and only escaped by someone else’s arrival in time to save her. The first time, when Lord Carning had come at her in anger, insisting she give him what her sister denied him, it had been Sarah who had saved her.

  “Foolish,” she whispered, wiping the perspiration from her hairline with her glove.

  “I agree,” Isaac said from behind her. “Completely foolish. What were you thinking, going off alone with a man of Weston’s reputation?”

  Millie turned, her back against the stone. Isaac stood a handful of steps away and glared at her from beneath the brim of his hat, his jaw tight.

  “I did not know his reputation,” she admitted. “And I had my reasons.”

  “Did you? I am intensely curious as to what they could be.” She noted his hand had curled into a fist at his side, as though he still readied for a fight.

  “It is none of your affair, Sir Isaac,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Then Millie tipped her chin upward, tired of her place as victim. “I had the situation quite under control. The man only meant to take a kiss. Many a lady gives her kisses away without thought.”

  “Are you such a lady?” he asked, one eyebrow arching upward.

  “Have you ever stolen a kiss?”

  A laugh escaped him, deep and short. “Never, Miss Wedgewood. Though I have accepted a few that were freely given. That did not appear to be the case here.”

  “Perhaps it was,” she said airily, pushing herself from the wall. “Perhaps I meant to let him have the kiss, and I meant to make him think he must take it.”

  Rather than appear frustrated, or defeated, Sir Isaac’s expression fell into something like sorrow. “Then you do not know the first thing about giving or receiving affection, Miss Wedgewood.”

  Her throat closed, and it took Millie several swallows before she trusted herself to speak. “I know enough. I certainly know how to kiss.” She bit her tongue.

  Sir Isaac’s lips quirked and he leaned closer to her to whisper, “‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’”

  “You are a horrid man,” she whispered back, glaring at him.

  “I thought we were friends.” He came closer, so the distance between them was less than what was acceptable in a ballroom. “But perhaps not. Perhaps, instead, I ought to join the fox hunt. Since you are so liberal with your kisses, Miss Wedgewood, might you give one to me?”

  Millie’s cheeks filled with heat. She stared up into his warm brown eyes, which had turned darker in his approach. They glowed like embers, causing a slow, simmering warmth to grow in her chest and creep upward to color her cheeks.

  His gaze lowered, perhaps to her lips, then up to her eyes again. It was a challenge. He meant to call her bluff. That was all it could be. He did not think she knew the first thing about kisses.

  And she did not. But Millie would not let him know that truth.

  “Of course, Sir Isaac. Come and claim it.” She could call his bluff as well as he called hers. The man was too honorable. He would never kiss her. And she positively would not think upon how much th
at thought disappointed her.

  Millie pulled in a sharp breath the moment Sir Isaac’s hand brushed her waist. But he did not settle his fingers just above her hip, as she might have expected. No, he meant to make a point of the farce, it would seem. His hand slid from the curve of her waist around to the small of her back, his palm flat against her gown. He drew her closer with no more than a gentle press, and the heat from his hand melted through her dress.

  Her hands raised of their own accord and she placed them flat against his chest, her lungs constricting and her throat closing. She ought to push him away. Back out of the dare. But he already bent down, his head tilted just so. His thumb rubbed the back of her gown where her sash tied, and the emotions trapped inside of her swirled riotously.

  She was not afraid. He moved slowly enough that she might withdraw. Might stop him.

  Millie had no wish to end a moment she instinctively knew she would revisit in her dreams.

  His lips brushed hers in the gentlest of caresses, and her eyes fluttered closed at the moment of connection. She returned the kiss, her lips pressing against his, and one of her hands slid up to the back of his neck. His arm tightened at her waist as his kiss deepened, causing every inch of her to feel as though she stood beside a roaring fire rather than pressed against a man of flesh and bone.

  The kiss ended. He pulled back, and she followed him, standing on her toes to prolong the connection. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before, and she did not want it to stop. She wanted more. Needed more.

  The man chuckled, and her eyes flew open, meeting his, seeing those lips that had kissed her so thoroughly turn upward in a smirk.

  “There now, Miss Wedgewood.” His voice was the low growl of a wolf, causing a shiver half fearful and half delightful to run down her spine.

  She was nothing more than a helpless little fox. A foolish creature who thought herself clever and crafty.

  His voice was low and rough. “We have both proven ourselves capable of exchanging a kiss which means absolutely nothing to either of us.”