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Authors: Anne Brear
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her. His golden brown eyes narrowed as his gaze swept over her from head to foot. ‘Good day, Madam.’
She inclined her head and found she couldn’t stop staring at him. He held his head at an angle, looking superior. Something hit her between the ribs, robbing her of breath. Her skin tingled, blood pounded in her ears. ‘H...How do you do.’
‘My name is Ethan Harrington. Is Farrell about?’ Harrington glanced around the yard before pinning her with another bold stare.
She sounded his name in her mind, liking it. He was no John or Jim or Tom. His eyes were the colour of brandy, a warm brown highlighted with gold flecks. The fine hair on her nape prickled. He wore fawn corduroy trousers with a darker brown riding jacket. His black boots shone even in the dull light from the overcast day.
Isabelle was suddenly aware of her own worn dusty skirt and blouse. Shame tinged her cheeks with colour. The beating drum of her heart alarmed her. ‘No, he isn’t here. He’s out…gathering wood.’
He frowned and flicked the reins as if undecided what to do next. ‘Will he be gone long?’
‘Not certain… a half hour maybe.’ She cursed inwardly at her abrupt inability to talk coherently. What was it about him that made her so aware of him? She absorbed the regal way he sat his horse, and how the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he squinted into the distance. Lord, what was the matter with her?
‘Who are you?’
His question made her falter. Unexpectedly, she didn’t want to reveal to this fine gentleman that she was married to a man like Farrell. Her cheeks grew hotter. Guilt and embarrassment rendered her mute.
He peered down at her, arrogant and proud. ‘Have you no answer?’
She raised her chin, remembering from long ago her father’s words. Never be ashamed of who you are, for the time might come when the only person you can rely on is yourself. ‘My name is Isabelle Farrell, formerly Gibson.’
‘You are a relative visiting Farrell for a time then.’ He made it a statement not a question.
‘I live here permanently now.’ She straightened her shoulders. He wasn’t the only one who could be proud. Her grandfather had been a respected vicar, her mother a lady’s companion before marrying Aaron Gibson, a distant and poor relative to the Gibson’s of Greenwood Lee. Adele Gibson had instilled in her daughters the same degree of dignity she had conducted herself with until the day she died. How glad Isabelle was now of her mother’s insistence that they learnt that. ‘I apologise for my lack of manners, Mr Harrington. Would you care to come inside and wait? Or, if you prefer, I can inform my husband that you visited and have him call on you tomorrow?’
Harrington’s eyes widened. ‘You are his wife?’
Isabelle tried to ignore the note of incredulity in his voice and quickly dampened down the spark of irritation it caused. What was the matter with him? Did she not look like a wife? At the workhouse she had gained a reputation for having a wild temper and outspoken tongue – such a contrast to her mother and sister. As a married woman she must now rise above such temptations to shout like a fishwife at anything that failed to please her. ‘Indeed, sir, as of ten weeks ago.’
‘I was not informed.’
‘Is it a requirement, Mr Harrington?’ She raised her eyebrows, his manner squashing the appeal she originally felt towards him.
He clenched his jaw. His chiselled face seemed as hard as the granite outcrops that littered the moor. ‘Obviously, you did not set your standards very high when you chose Farrell.’
‘I doubt very much that concerns you, Mr Harrington.’ She flicked her skirts aside as though she wore the finest silk and his company sullied them. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall be about my business.’
‘Your husband, Madam, is not a man to be trusted. Unless you want to be walking the streets carrying all you possess, I suggest you make him change his
She inclined her head and found she couldn’t stop staring at him. He held his head at an angle, looking superior. Something hit her between the ribs, robbing her of breath. Her skin tingled, blood pounded in her ears. ‘H...How do you do.’
‘My name is Ethan Harrington. Is Farrell about?’ Harrington glanced around the yard before pinning her with another bold stare.
She sounded his name in her mind, liking it. He was no John or Jim or Tom. His eyes were the colour of brandy, a warm brown highlighted with gold flecks. The fine hair on her nape prickled. He wore fawn corduroy trousers with a darker brown riding jacket. His black boots shone even in the dull light from the overcast day.
Isabelle was suddenly aware of her own worn dusty skirt and blouse. Shame tinged her cheeks with colour. The beating drum of her heart alarmed her. ‘No, he isn’t here. He’s out…gathering wood.’
He frowned and flicked the reins as if undecided what to do next. ‘Will he be gone long?’
‘Not certain… a half hour maybe.’ She cursed inwardly at her abrupt inability to talk coherently. What was it about him that made her so aware of him? She absorbed the regal way he sat his horse, and how the fine lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he squinted into the distance. Lord, what was the matter with her?
‘Who are you?’
His question made her falter. Unexpectedly, she didn’t want to reveal to this fine gentleman that she was married to a man like Farrell. Her cheeks grew hotter. Guilt and embarrassment rendered her mute.
He peered down at her, arrogant and proud. ‘Have you no answer?’
She raised her chin, remembering from long ago her father’s words. Never be ashamed of who you are, for the time might come when the only person you can rely on is yourself. ‘My name is Isabelle Farrell, formerly Gibson.’
‘You are a relative visiting Farrell for a time then.’ He made it a statement not a question.
‘I live here permanently now.’ She straightened her shoulders. He wasn’t the only one who could be proud. Her grandfather had been a respected vicar, her mother a lady’s companion before marrying Aaron Gibson, a distant and poor relative to the Gibson’s of Greenwood Lee. Adele Gibson had instilled in her daughters the same degree of dignity she had conducted herself with until the day she died. How glad Isabelle was now of her mother’s insistence that they learnt that. ‘I apologise for my lack of manners, Mr Harrington. Would you care to come inside and wait? Or, if you prefer, I can inform my husband that you visited and have him call on you tomorrow?’
Harrington’s eyes widened. ‘You are his wife?’
Isabelle tried to ignore the note of incredulity in his voice and quickly dampened down the spark of irritation it caused. What was the matter with him? Did she not look like a wife? At the workhouse she had gained a reputation for having a wild temper and outspoken tongue – such a contrast to her mother and sister. As a married woman she must now rise above such temptations to shout like a fishwife at anything that failed to please her. ‘Indeed, sir, as of ten weeks ago.’
‘I was not informed.’
‘Is it a requirement, Mr Harrington?’ She raised her eyebrows, his manner squashing the appeal she originally felt towards him.
He clenched his jaw. His chiselled face seemed as hard as the granite outcrops that littered the moor. ‘Obviously, you did not set your standards very high when you chose Farrell.’
‘I doubt very much that concerns you, Mr Harrington.’ She flicked her skirts aside as though she wore the finest silk and his company sullied them. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall be about my business.’
‘Your husband, Madam, is not a man to be trusted. Unless you want to be walking the streets carrying all you possess, I suggest you make him change his
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