Secrets of a Viscount (11 page)

Sebastian nodded. It was all he could ask for.

Chapter Sixteen

In the week that passed leading up to the house party, Isabelle could hardly sit still. Not for her own titter and excitement, mind you. It was Mrs. Finch who was all aflutter making plans and running errands in preparation for Lady Cosgrove’s house party.

If anyone, whether ladies or gentlemen, had come by to call upon them they truly had not been at home.

Finally, they were on their way to Telford and Isabelle could breathe.

The only thing that would make it slightly better was if it was fresh air she was inhaling, but the air of the stuffy carriage would have to do. It was far better than being turned into a pincushion for the modiste.

“I think you’ll find your husband this week,” Mrs. Finch said.

Isabelle offered the older woman her best attempt at a smile. Because of the tardiness of the invitation, she hadn’t had a chance to speak to Simon Appleton again before leaving this morning, but if he were there as she expected, then yes, Mrs. Finch was right. She turned her attention out the window at the passing trees and fields. Was the prospect of marriage to Simon so bad? With his light brown hair and sparkling green eyes, he was undeniably handsome, if not a bit taller than most. If he aged like his father had, he’d still be devilishly handsome even when they were half a century old.

But what of his personality? He was nice enough. All right, perhaps a bit
too
nice. Not that that was a bad thing necessarily. It was just odd. Yes. Odd. He was odd. Almost like Giles Goddard, Lord Norcourt. She almost choked on a giggle. Now
that
man was odd. But once again, not in a bad way. Just in a way that made her feel uncertain. There was no denying their family connection.

The carriage jerked, jarring Isabelle from her thoughts. When she’d regained her composure, she stared across the carriage at Mrs. Finch and a small wave of sadness came over her. They’d kept each other company for five years now. If she married, Mrs. Finch wouldn’t have anyone. Her heart clenched and instinctively she reached across the carriage for Mrs. Finch’s wrinkled hand. “Would you like me to read to you?”

Mrs. Finch put her free hand over top of Isabelle’s, a twinkle in her eyes. “Depends on the author.”

Isabelle bit the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. In recent years there was a particular author who’d become all the rage. All the rage to everyone except Mrs. Finch who’d once claimed novels written from the pen of (name withheld due to threat of being murdered by an old woman yielding a cane) were the most droll claptrap ever scribbled. “How about
Where Art My Love
by Michael Foxtrot?”

Mrs. Finch nodded her approval. “That’s acceptable.” She narrowed her eyes. “But if you try to sneak in a passage by that Dreadfully Droll Busybody, I’ll take it from your pay.”

“Ah, but I am an heiress now,” Isabelle teased.

“
Then I shall allow you to only go on walks with the oldest gentlemen in attendance at this party.”

Isabelle grinned. She’d never been able to have such lighthearted exchange with anyone. A bubble of emotion suddenly formed in her throat. “Mrs. Finch, just because I have a fortune doesn’t mean I have to marry.”

“Yes, you do,” Mrs. Finch said matter-of-factly. Her tone and face softened. “I won’t live much longer and from what I hear it’s not considered polite by the
ton’s
standards for a young girl to be a companion to a gravesite.”

Despite herself, Isabelle smiled. “I know. But it just all seems so...sudden and definite. You offered me a post when I had nowhere else to go and I feel as if I’m abandoning you.”

“Abandon me, dear,” Mrs. Finch said with a wide smile. “While I enjoy your company well enough, I believe you’ll enjoy the company of a husband more than that of an old prune of a woman.”

Isabelle tried not to giggle. “But, how do I know which one is the right one to choose?”

“That, I cannot tell you, but you’ll know.”

Isabelle wasn’t so certain. The two who’d shown any interest in her beyond her money were not quite right. Edmund was old and his interest was friendly at best. Simon was just the opposite. Very enthusiastic about his interest. She exhaled and reclined against the squabs. Was that such a bad thing? It was certainly better than the cool interest of Edmund or the utter disinterest from Sebastian. She scowled. Why had he even entered her thoughts? Their last disagreement had firmly put an end to any sort of relationship, friendship or otherwise, they might have ever had. Which was absolutely for the best. A cynical tyrant like him was the last person she wanted to be around while looking for a husband.

“He’s the one,” Mrs. Finch said, ripping Isabelle from her thoughts.

“
No, he’s not,” Isabelle said quickly. “Wait. H-how did you know who I was thinking about?”

“
Well, I don’t know specifically,” Mrs. Finch allowed. “But whoever it is who can put that sparkle in your eyes—even as defiant as it might be—is the right one.”

“
No, he’s not,” Isabelle said flatly. “He just—” she gripped her hands into two tight fists and gritted her teeth, searching for the right words— “Sebastian, he just—”

“
Brings out your passion?” Mrs. Finch suggested at the same time that Isabelle said, “Infuriates me.”

Isabelle frowned. “If he strikes any passion, it’s not the good kind.”

Mrs. Finch harrumphed. “Passion is passion, my dear. It’s all in what you do with it.”

“
I see. I suppose then you’d like for me to read—” Isabelle shuffled through her reticule for a novel by the author who shall remain nameless and flashed the cover in Mrs. Finch’s direction then shrugged. “It does illicit a certain passion in you.”

“
Passion that makes me want to rip someone apart,” Mrs. Finch retorted.

“
Ah, and my passion for Sebastian is about the same.”

“
No, my passion makes me want to rip the author apart, your passion makes you want to rip his clothes off. There’s a difference, dear.”

Isabelle’s jaw dropped.

“Now, are you going to read to me or do you need to be further scandalized into submission?” Mrs. Finch asked with a wink, looking rather pleased with herself.

“
I suppose you and Mr. Finch were a love match,” Isabelle mumbled as she numbly thumbed through the book to find where she’d left off yesterday.

“
Actually, no, but I had more than enough lovers in my time—”

“‘
Sophie crept down the stairs...’”
Isabelle read almost loud enough to drown out Mrs. Finch’s half-chuckle, half-cackle.

Isabelle read that blasted book until the sun was so low that she couldn’t decipher the words on the page. Not even bothering to stop when the coachmen stopped to change horses.

“Either your feelings are stronger for him than you wish to admit or your sensibilities are overly sensitive,” Mrs. Finch said with a yawn. “Not to worry. Once you marry that strapping lad, you’ll enjoy such scandalous remarks—especially when they’re quickly followed up by putting words into actions.”

Isabelle doubted that. Moreover, she doubted she’d ever see him again after their parting words. Which was just fine with her.

***

Sebastian stared at the blazing fire that filled the hearth in his study. A week had passed since Giles had left for Telford and no invitation had arrived. He closed his eyes. Perhaps it was better this way. No, no it wasn’t. He surged to his feet. House parties were not good places for scandal-prone young ladies such as Belle. He scrubbed his hands over his face. She was only involved in a scandal when he was present. The thought shook him to the core. It was true. The only time her name had ever appeared in the scandal sheets was when he’d provoked her or had in some other way been involved.

He flopped back into the chair he’d recently vacated and steepled his hands in front of his lips. A million thoughts raced through his mind—most of which supported his earlier revelation:
he
was Belle’s biggest provoker.

Perhaps she was right and she’d be better off without him there...

Chapter Seventeen

Isabelle stretched her lips into the biggest smile she could muster and walked into the breakfast room. She needed to make an honest effort with Simon—starting with breakfast.

“Good to see you this morning, Isabelle,” Simon said with a low bow and a wink, presumably because of his display of regard for her.

“
It’s good to see you this morning, too.” She allowed him to lead her to the sideboard. Mrs. Finch’s coach had arrived in Telford just after dinner yesterday evening and she hadn’t a chance yet to greet any of the guests. They’d have been their earlier had it not been for a sudden lightning storm that had forced them to seek shelter at a nearby inn. No matter. She’d allow Simon to take her around to make the acquaintance of all the guests today.

“
Grapes?”

Isabelle started. “Oh, of course.” She held her plate still while Simon put a small cluster of green grapes in the center for her. When he was done, she allowed him to give her a serving of coddled eggs and kippers.

“Where shall we sit?”

Isabelle scanned the table. It was long enough to seat no less than forty guests. And yet, she noticed that there were only two other people in the entire room with them?  “I—I don’t want to disturb Mr. Mason as he reads so—”

“We’d best sit alone, then,” Simon finished for her, winking.

Isabelle forced a smile at his logical jest. He was right though. Not only would they disturb Mr. Mason if they sat next to him and chatted, but they’d disturb him if they sat at the other end of the table and had to yell for Lord Wycoff to hear them.

Simon led her to the middle of the table. “How is this?”

“
Most excellent.” She allowed him to pull her chair out, then sat and let him push her up to the table.

Wordlessly, he took a seat next to her. “I heard about your unfortunate delay.” He shifted in his seat. “I hope you don’t mind that I asked Ophelia if we could make use of her stables for a picnic today.”

Isabelle raised her eyebrows. “Ophelia?”

“
Lady Cosgrove sounds too impersonal for my mother’s dearest friend and I detest using the word ‘Auntie’,” Simon said with a grimace.

A genuine smile curved Isabelle’s lips. “I see, and do you call her Ophelia to her face?”

He flushed. “No. She’d order me a birching.”

Isabelle would have laughed if not for the sudden change in Simon’s posture. She followed his gaze to where Giles Goddard had just entered the room. “We can leave if you’d like,” she whispered.

He shook his head and swallowed. “No. You finish.”

A hush fell over the room as Isabelle started eating her breakfast a little faster than was polite and Simon watched his half-brother fill his plate.

Isabelle sucked in a breath of anticipation. Where would Giles sit? Would he be so bold as to sit with them? Or would he be made to sit alone? A small weight lowered itself into her stomach. Following her accident, she’d been left alone so much she couldn’t stop the pang of sympathy she felt for Giles at being made to eat alone and before she could stop herself, blurted, “If you’d like to join us, that spot is free.”

Giles’ eyes widened and Simon bristled. Isabelle cast him an apologetic look. “I couldn’t
not
invite him,” she whispered.

Simon nodded tersely; his jaw clamped so tightly a muscle in his cheek ticked.

“Miss Knight, Mr. Appleton,” Giles greeted, taking the vacant seat directly across from Isabelle. He avoided eye contact with either of them and went about placing his napkin in his lap and setting his silver to rights.

“
What are your plans for the day?” Isabelle asked in hopes of dissolving the thick tension that had engulfed them.

Giles’ head snapped up. “Mine?” he asked, pointing his index finger into the center of his chest. At her nod, he said, “Avoid Lady Cosgrove at all costs.”

Isabelle wanted to giggle, but the serious expression on his face told her he wasn’t trying to be humorous. “Isn’t she the hostess?”

Giles took a bite of his coddled eggs. “She thinks I need a wife.”

It was odd really, but just then Isabelle felt some sort of kinship to him. Lady Cosgrove thought he needed a wife and everyone in Society thought she needed a husband. She could certainly understand his frustrations with the woman and desire to avoid her matchmaking schemes.

“
Well, you’re not going to find one here,” Simon said unapologetically, giving a pointed look at Isabelle.

Giles shrugged. “She’s already taken.”

“Yes, she is,” Simon agreed. He drummed his fingers on the table, likely to remind himself not to reach for her possessively.

Which was a good thing because just then if he’d tried to publicly claim her as his future wife, Isabelle just might snap. She took a deep breath. She needed to stay calm. She was allowing him to court her with the possibility of marriage, wasn’t she? Isabelle dabbed her mouth with her napkin and studied her plate as they continued their meal in an uncomfortable silence broken a few minutes later by another unwanted distraction: Edmund with an older lady she wasn’t familiar with on his left arm.

With an air of confidence she’d never seen before, he swaggered, yes,
swaggered
, into the room and led his companion to the sideboard.

Isabelle had rarely felt jealous of anyone, and she certainly didn’t have any jealousy right now, it was more curiosity. What was it about the greying woman wearing the crimson gown that made him become so...so...excited?

From the corner of her eye, she watched the two as they chatted then went to the sideboard to fill their plates.

They turned from the food and Edmund froze, his eyes growing as big as Mrs. Finch’s tea saucers. “Isabelle,” he said with a wide smile. He carefully put his plate on the table and straightened his coat.  “I’d like you to meet Lady Vessey. Lady Vessey, this is my friend, Miss Isabelle Knight.”

Lady Vessey lifted her brows and murmured a greeting that dripped with sickening sugar, then turned her curious brown eyes toward Edmund, a silent message passing between them.

“
Shall we join you?” Edmund asked.

“
Actually we were about to go outside to play a round of pall mall,” Simon announced.

Unfortunately for Simon, and Isabelle if she were to be honest, Simon’s words were punctuated with a heavy rumble of thunder that all but shook the house.

“Perhaps this afternoon,” Edmund said, grinning. He took a seat on the other side of Isabelle and Lady Vessey took the place opposite of him to the left of Giles. The only way this arrangement could get any less comfortable would be if Sebastian walked in and planted himself in the chair on the other side of Giles.

Blessedly that did not happen.

Instead, Isabelle had to pick at her food under the watchful gazes of Edmund, Simon and Lady Vessey while Giles seemed completely unaffected by the awkwardness of the situation and made a comment every now and then about how runny the coddled eggs were or something about the hardness of the kippers.

A grander breakfast she couldn’t have possibly imagined.

An hour later Isabelle was still sitting in her quiet torment when Mrs. Finch breezed into the room. “There you are!” she said, beaming in Isabelle’s direction.

“
Good morning, Mrs. Finch.”

“
Good morning to you, too.” She looked at the crowd gathered around Isabelle and pursed her lips. “I see you have already met Lady Vessey.”

“
Of course we’ve met and we’re on our way to becoming the dearest of friends,” Lady Vessey declared, smiling up at Mrs. Finch.

Mrs. Finch didn’t look moved. “Edmund dear, would you be a sweetheart and escort me to the sideboard?”

Edmund was off his seat in less than a second and helping his aunt.

“
Are you ready to go?” Simon whispered.

Actually, she was. And from the looks of it, Giles was, too. She knew Simon wouldn’t like it, but she extended him the invitation to join them in the drawing room where game tables had been set up. After a brief moment of confusion, complete with a blank stare and an extended blink, Giles accepted.

“I’d suggest we play a game, but I don’t know any that can be played with three.”

“
I won’t play,” Giles said. He pulled a slim book and a pencil from the breast pocket of his bottle green coat and made his way to a chaise near the big window.

Simon shrugged and pulled a chair out for Isabelle. “Chess or draughts?”

“Draughts.”

Simon took his seat and pulled out the drawer in the side of the table. “Here you are.” He pushed the ivory draughts over to her side of the table then started setting out his.

She took her time to line them up in a perfect order. With the storm raging outside there was no reason to hurry. “Shall I go first?”

“
Of course.”

She slid her first draught forward.

“Hmm,” Simon said as if he’d just been given a vexing mathematical equation and told to solve it. A moment later, he slid his piece forward.

Without nearly as much thought, she moved another of hers and waited for him to move one of his.

“Are you enjoying the party thus far?” he asked, pushing one of his draughts to an empty square.

“
Oh, yes, the hour and fifteen minutes I’ve been out of my room have been heavenly.”

Simon choked on his laughter, blushing. “I suppose it is a little early to be asking that, isn’t it?”

“Just a little.” She moved her piece, not really sure if it was her turn or not.

He didn’t contradict her and jumped one of her pieces. He smiled at her, his eyes fixed just beyond her left shoulder.

“Aha,” she said, jumping not one but two of his men.

“
How the—” He snapped his fingers. “I see what you did there. I’ll have to watch you more carefully now.”

“
That might be wise,”
and not just for this game.
Though she was able to keep the last part of her comment contained, it didn’t make it any less true. His not-so-discreet glances over her shoulder to where Giles appeared to be drawing was most bizarre.

“
Your turn,” Simon said with an amused smile playing on his lips.

Isabelle took her turn and watched his tense face from below her lashes. Something about Giles really upset him. “I’ve moved,” she said a moment later.

He started. “Indeed.” He lowered his fingers to the board and moved another of his draughts with decidedly less interest than before.

“
Perhaps we should go to the blue salon and see if Lady Cosgrove is organizing any games?”

“
Brilliant idea, Isabelle.” Grinning, Simon abruptly stood and helped Isabelle to her feet. “Sorry we couldn’t finish our game,” he said when they were outside of the card room.

“
It’s all right.”

He lowered his voice to such a low whisper she thought she might strain herself to hear it. “I just don’t know what to make of him.”

She gave his arm a gentle squeeze that seemed to surprise him. Ignoring the look of shock on his face, she said, “Then perhaps you should talk to him.”

Simon swallowed audibly. “I don’t think so. We have nothing to say to one another.”

“I think you might.” Perhaps once they spoke, Simon would be a little less distracted. As it was, she wasn’t sure which was worse: his being overly eager to court her or his distracted demeanor. Neither endeared her to him the way it should.