Read Online To Sin With A Stranger by Kathryn Caskie - Free Book Online
Authors: Kathryn Caskie
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choice for a modest yet fashionable miss, Isobel belatedly learned it prevented a young lady from noticing the approach of her father from the side.
He set his knuckles on his hips and rocked onto his toes before slamming down loudly on his heels, in the event, she supposed, that she hadn’t already realized his foul disposition.
“Good afternoon, Father,” she said meekly. “I did not expect you at home so soon.”
She decided to smile and say nothing more. Though she could not yet see it on his face, she was sure that his irritation with her over her latest
disappointment
was bubbling up inside and would spill over at any minute like a pot of milk left too long over the cooking fire.
The seam of her father’s mouth stretched thin, and had he had any visible lips, she would have said that he was actually smiling. But this was not possible. He never smiled.
Could it be that he hasn’t yet heard of the wager?
“Isobel.” The nod of his head was spirited, not at all resembling the perfunctory manner he usually reserved for addressing her.
She was certain now. He had
not
heard.
If she didn’t know better, she would say he was almost…jubilant. A hard-won victory in the House of Commons, that was all that could explain his cheer this day.
Yes, that must be it
.
She drew a deep breath in relief as she set her bonnet and mantle to their hooks, then edged past her oddly cheerful father and absently tossed the packet of ribbon she’d purchased during her outing on the small beech wood table in the passage.
Her father raised his hawkish gray eyebrows. “I see you have been shopping.”
Isobel’s fingers scrabbled for the packet. “It is nothing, really. Just a bit of ribbon for my bonnet, nothing extravagant. Only cost a penny or two…truly.”
Her father focused on the packet and then grimaced. He raised his eyes to hers. “I’ll not have my daughter scrimping on clothing or adornments. Tell me what you need and I will see to it that you have it.”
Is he actually telling me to spend more money? Who is this man, and where, pray, is my true father?
A sense of unease coursed through her body. He must be delirious with fever. Nothing else could explain his behavior just now. “Father”—hesitantly she reached out and touched his lapel—“are you…feeling completely well?”
He took her hand and, drawing it from his coat, gave it a quick, insincere squeeze. He cleared his throat, then rubbed his nose as though it itched fiercely. “Why would you ask such a thing, Isobel? Is it so impossible to believe that a father would wish to see his young daughter dressed in a way that accentuates her beauty?” He pulled her into his library, then let go of her hand and hurried around to his desk drawer. “Tell me, Isobel, how much would a new gown cost me? Something grand…silk or satin, perhaps?” He looked up at her as if the answer would be poised on her tongue.
But how was she to know? Since her mother died, she had made do by altering and remaking her mother’s frocks, splurging on a run of lace or ribbon from time to time to fashion a more stylish look. The rest of the small portion her father provided her went to the charity she had founded for the widows of Corunna.
She shrugged her shoulders sheepishly.
His mouth puckered and his brow furrowed, carving four deep creases across his forehead. “Well then”—he snatched up one his cards and handed it to her—“have the dressmaker send the request for payment to me. Probably for the best anyway. Can’t have you giving your clothing allowance away this time, can I?” He shook the card toward her.
When, in her shock, she did not reach for it, he circled back around the desk and pressed it into her hand.
Isobel eyed him speculatively. He’d never acted this way. Never even pretended to be so generous.
“Oh, dear.” He gave a decidedly ingenuous smile again. “Be sure to expedite the creation of the gown, won’t you? You will need it in
He set his knuckles on his hips and rocked onto his toes before slamming down loudly on his heels, in the event, she supposed, that she hadn’t already realized his foul disposition.
“Good afternoon, Father,” she said meekly. “I did not expect you at home so soon.”
She decided to smile and say nothing more. Though she could not yet see it on his face, she was sure that his irritation with her over her latest
disappointment
was bubbling up inside and would spill over at any minute like a pot of milk left too long over the cooking fire.
The seam of her father’s mouth stretched thin, and had he had any visible lips, she would have said that he was actually smiling. But this was not possible. He never smiled.
Could it be that he hasn’t yet heard of the wager?
“Isobel.” The nod of his head was spirited, not at all resembling the perfunctory manner he usually reserved for addressing her.
She was certain now. He had
not
heard.
If she didn’t know better, she would say he was almost…jubilant. A hard-won victory in the House of Commons, that was all that could explain his cheer this day.
Yes, that must be it
.
She drew a deep breath in relief as she set her bonnet and mantle to their hooks, then edged past her oddly cheerful father and absently tossed the packet of ribbon she’d purchased during her outing on the small beech wood table in the passage.
Her father raised his hawkish gray eyebrows. “I see you have been shopping.”
Isobel’s fingers scrabbled for the packet. “It is nothing, really. Just a bit of ribbon for my bonnet, nothing extravagant. Only cost a penny or two…truly.”
Her father focused on the packet and then grimaced. He raised his eyes to hers. “I’ll not have my daughter scrimping on clothing or adornments. Tell me what you need and I will see to it that you have it.”
Is he actually telling me to spend more money? Who is this man, and where, pray, is my true father?
A sense of unease coursed through her body. He must be delirious with fever. Nothing else could explain his behavior just now. “Father”—hesitantly she reached out and touched his lapel—“are you…feeling completely well?”
He took her hand and, drawing it from his coat, gave it a quick, insincere squeeze. He cleared his throat, then rubbed his nose as though it itched fiercely. “Why would you ask such a thing, Isobel? Is it so impossible to believe that a father would wish to see his young daughter dressed in a way that accentuates her beauty?” He pulled her into his library, then let go of her hand and hurried around to his desk drawer. “Tell me, Isobel, how much would a new gown cost me? Something grand…silk or satin, perhaps?” He looked up at her as if the answer would be poised on her tongue.
But how was she to know? Since her mother died, she had made do by altering and remaking her mother’s frocks, splurging on a run of lace or ribbon from time to time to fashion a more stylish look. The rest of the small portion her father provided her went to the charity she had founded for the widows of Corunna.
She shrugged her shoulders sheepishly.
His mouth puckered and his brow furrowed, carving four deep creases across his forehead. “Well then”—he snatched up one his cards and handed it to her—“have the dressmaker send the request for payment to me. Probably for the best anyway. Can’t have you giving your clothing allowance away this time, can I?” He shook the card toward her.
When, in her shock, she did not reach for it, he circled back around the desk and pressed it into her hand.
Isobel eyed him speculatively. He’d never acted this way. Never even pretended to be so generous.
“Oh, dear.” He gave a decidedly ingenuous smile again. “Be sure to expedite the creation of the gown, won’t you? You will need it in
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