me. Isabella—"
"How dare you?" Angry tears welled up, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.
"I'm sorry I upset you. You must forgive me, Isabella. Here." He offered his handkerchief, which she angrily thrust away.
"Your m-manners leave a great deal to be desired."
"But my darling Isabella, I warned you I was not to be trusted. I told you I was perfectly dreadful. Even my aunt told you. Therefore, it is entirely your fault—"
"My fault?" He made her head spin. "You must be mad, and I madder still to stand here listening to your nonsense. And I am certainly not your darling," she snapped. "You may address me as 'Miss Latham'—if there is any occasion in future when I should be so idiotic as to permit you to address me at all."
"What you permit me to say aloud has no bearing on what I say in my heart. You are my darling. And my darling Isabella, you must compose yourself, for here comes your unreliable Polly, who has not drowned in the pond after all, and you don't wish to scandalise her."
Suspecting that the embrace had left physical evidence, she hastily endeavoured to restore herself to rights, and hoped that Lucy's enthusiasm would satisfy the abigail's curiosity as explanation for Isabella's disheveled appearance. As she gathered her belongings and began to move away, he stopped her once more.
"You must say you forgive me, Isabella—"
"You are mad—"
"—for if you do not, I shall kiss you again, in full view of Polly."
Worried that Polly may already have had the pair in her sights, Isabella nodded, and struggled to break free of his grasp. He smiled as he released her, and watched as she hurried away.
The perfidious Polly was subjected to a scolding which left her as red-eyed as her mistress by the time they reached home. Declaring that she would see to her own hooks and buttons, and had too frightful a headache to eat luncheon, Isabella slammed the bedroom door on her maid, flung herself on the bed, and burst into tears.
What a horrid, horrid man! To leap upon her the moment they were alone—as though she were one of his ladybirds. Oh, she knew he had them. He had probably come direct from a tryst with one of them. And what had she been thinking of, to allow him to kiss her? Of course she knew it would be no polite peck on the cheek. What a perfect idiot she was! What if they had been seen?
Her face feeling as though it were in flames, she got up from the bed and went to the washstand to bathe her eyes and burning cheeks. The cool water helped calm her. As she forced herself to look into the minor, she knew why she had not prevented his embrace. Madame Vernisse may have been a worker of miracles, but even her powers could not render Isabella Latham beautiful. Or even unusually pretty. There was nothing uncommon about her blue eyes. They were not violet, like those of the infamous Lady Delmont. And while the right light— or the right frock—might enhance their colour, they had no real depth, no real mystery. And it was highly improbable that they were "that deep blue of the Ionian sea, wherein a man might choose to drown himself," as Basil had recently assured her. If only he would drown himself , she thought crossly. But in doing so, he would drown the only romance that had ever had or would ever enter her life. She stared critically at her reflection as she angrily yanked the comb through her hair.
She was twenty-six years old. And until this poetically inclined fortune hunter had come along, no man had ever looked twice at her. Not, of course, that she'd had much contact with young men; first poverty, and then the work she was so happy to do for Uncle Henry, had kept her from socializing. Still, her own father had barely noticed when she was in the same room. And now, though a small army of men had besieged her, not one except Basil had so much as hinted, in look or word, that she (as opposed to her income) was desirable. Oh, they had flattered her, but not with hidden suggestion, as
"How dare you?" Angry tears welled up, and she had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.
"I'm sorry I upset you. You must forgive me, Isabella. Here." He offered his handkerchief, which she angrily thrust away.
"Your m-manners leave a great deal to be desired."
"But my darling Isabella, I warned you I was not to be trusted. I told you I was perfectly dreadful. Even my aunt told you. Therefore, it is entirely your fault—"
"My fault?" He made her head spin. "You must be mad, and I madder still to stand here listening to your nonsense. And I am certainly not your darling," she snapped. "You may address me as 'Miss Latham'—if there is any occasion in future when I should be so idiotic as to permit you to address me at all."
"What you permit me to say aloud has no bearing on what I say in my heart. You are my darling. And my darling Isabella, you must compose yourself, for here comes your unreliable Polly, who has not drowned in the pond after all, and you don't wish to scandalise her."
Suspecting that the embrace had left physical evidence, she hastily endeavoured to restore herself to rights, and hoped that Lucy's enthusiasm would satisfy the abigail's curiosity as explanation for Isabella's disheveled appearance. As she gathered her belongings and began to move away, he stopped her once more.
"You must say you forgive me, Isabella—"
"You are mad—"
"—for if you do not, I shall kiss you again, in full view of Polly."
Worried that Polly may already have had the pair in her sights, Isabella nodded, and struggled to break free of his grasp. He smiled as he released her, and watched as she hurried away.
The perfidious Polly was subjected to a scolding which left her as red-eyed as her mistress by the time they reached home. Declaring that she would see to her own hooks and buttons, and had too frightful a headache to eat luncheon, Isabella slammed the bedroom door on her maid, flung herself on the bed, and burst into tears.
What a horrid, horrid man! To leap upon her the moment they were alone—as though she were one of his ladybirds. Oh, she knew he had them. He had probably come direct from a tryst with one of them. And what had she been thinking of, to allow him to kiss her? Of course she knew it would be no polite peck on the cheek. What a perfect idiot she was! What if they had been seen?
Her face feeling as though it were in flames, she got up from the bed and went to the washstand to bathe her eyes and burning cheeks. The cool water helped calm her. As she forced herself to look into the minor, she knew why she had not prevented his embrace. Madame Vernisse may have been a worker of miracles, but even her powers could not render Isabella Latham beautiful. Or even unusually pretty. There was nothing uncommon about her blue eyes. They were not violet, like those of the infamous Lady Delmont. And while the right light— or the right frock—might enhance their colour, they had no real depth, no real mystery. And it was highly improbable that they were "that deep blue of the Ionian sea, wherein a man might choose to drown himself," as Basil had recently assured her. If only he would drown himself , she thought crossly. But in doing so, he would drown the only romance that had ever had or would ever enter her life. She stared critically at her reflection as she angrily yanked the comb through her hair.
She was twenty-six years old. And until this poetically inclined fortune hunter had come along, no man had ever looked twice at her. Not, of course, that she'd had much contact with young men; first poverty, and then the work she was so happy to do for Uncle Henry, had kept her from socializing. Still, her own father had barely noticed when she was in the same room. And now, though a small army of men had besieged her, not one except Basil had so much as hinted, in look or word, that she (as opposed to her income) was desirable. Oh, they had flattered her, but not with hidden suggestion, as
Similar Books
