The moment Lord Richard cleared his throat, she knew he was about to say something that would only serve to annoy her. Gritting her teeth, she tried to gather her armor around herself and remember the way she was supposedto act.
“When we are married, you’ll have to get used to rising and starting your day much earlier,” Lord Richard said with a languid smile. “As the lady of the house, you’ll have responsibilities.”
Isobel suddenly yawned, which was fortuitous because she probably would have said something that was impolite otherwise. She blamed her inability to fully take on the correct mannerisms and the art of respectful communication on the fact that she’d had such a bizarre evening.
Luckily, it was Henry who responded with a rare instance of tolerance. “Isobel has always been like this. Some nights she’ll be in her room reading by candlelight long into the evening, only to wake up late the next morning. Father always chastised her, but that never bothered her much,” he said with a smile. He always smiled when he remembered their youth. What little of it they shared. He was fifteen years older than Isobel. By the time she could really understand the world, he had already been molded into the family’s legacy.
She wondered if being young and under the tutelage of their father had been an easier time for him, too.
“I fear I’m guilty of just that,” Isobel replied. “I was reading the most interesting book, and the night got away from me.” Returning Henry’s soft smile, she flicked her gaze to find her betrothed frowning.
“What’s the title of the book?” Lord Richard asked, though his tone held no true curiosity.
“I doubt it’s anything you have read, Lord Richard. You are probably much too busy with the more refined and political works.”
The smug curl of his lips caused something to roil in her stomach. “Is it one of those mawkish novels that masquerades as a commentary on society?”
Because, of course, that could be the only thing a woman would read. Though Isobel enjoyed romance novels, that didn’t make her anyless well-read. In fact, the novels were something much greater than silly stories. They were freedom, they were arevolution.
It took great effort for Isobel to answer simply with, “Something of that nature.” She turned away from him, hoping the conversation would be done with. Besides Clara’s caller prattling on, silence gathered. Then Henry and Lord Richard mercifully went back to their previous conversation, leaving her to her thoughts.
Curling up as comfortably as she dared to get in the overstuffed chair, she couldn’t help but look at the forest. From here, there were no signs that something had crashed there last evening. Had the strange man gone? Had he really been there at all? Why had he not killed her? And if he was the one to bring her home, how had he known which room was hers? The questions took her deep within herself as she stared into the distance, as if she would miraculously find the answers tucked away in the gray clouds or between the towering trees.
Lord Richard’s voice broke through her reverie once again. “You truly are an interesting woman, Isobel. Is your head always in the clouds?”
No matter how he phrased his observations and questions, it always felt like he was trying to wound her. She couldn’t shake that feeling. Like he was hiding an insult beneath polite conversation. It was a gift, actually—the ability to disguise a weapon as connection. She wanted to believe he wasn’t entirely conscious of it, but something told her he knew exactly what he was doing.
And another thing, she’d never given him permission to call her by her first name.
Must you always be here?was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it down. Besides, she knew his presence had little to do with her. Richard and Henry had been best friends long before she was ever considered an option for himto marry.
Isobel supposed she should be grateful for his friendship to her brother. Her sister-in-law Hetty had died giving birth to Clara. It’d been hard on her brother, losing his wife and being the sole parent to Elizabeth, his eldest daughter, and Clara. Even though it’d been nineteen years ago, she thought he could do well with being surrounded by people who cared for him. There were times she caught glimpses of him still and swore she saw the loss fresh on his face. It just so happened that Lord Richard intimately knew the pain of losing a wife as well.
“I prefer the clouds,” she finally muttered.
“Me, too,” Clara said, then added in a grumble, “Clouds are far preferable to dance lessons and memorizing poetry.”
“Better to be well-educated than not. You should be grateful,” Henry scolded gently.
“Yes, Papa,” Clara said with practiced ease, but she winked at Isobel while her newest suitor hid a laugh with a smothered cough.
Isobel hadn’t even registered that Clara’s first caller had come and gone. Mr. Colin Briggsly was the gentleman currently sitting at the other end of the sofa, and Clara looked as if she’d rather be talking about dirt again. Though she doubted anyone else could tell as much—her niece knew exactly how to act in polite company.
When Briggsly departed soon after, Clara moved to a seat across from Isobel, bringing her lily scent with her. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. In a hushed tone, she asked, “Where were you last night?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“After we arrived home, I came to tell you all about the soiree, but you weren’t in bed. Reading or otherwise,” she said conspiratorially as she smoothed the fabric of her yellow day dress. “I must know what adventure you were up to. I’m sure it was something far more exciting than what I had to endure.”
“I was merely lost in thought in the lavender fields,” Isobel whispered. She hated lying, but over the years it had become necessary for survival.
Clara narrowed her eyes at her, expecting something more. It was strange, even for Isobel, to be out so late. Despite the fact that Clara was Henry’s youngest daughter and seven years younger than her, the girl was more like her sister than her niece. And, like any good sister, she knew when Isobel wasn’t being entirely truthful.
“The lavender fields, hm?” Leaning forward, Clara plucked something out of Isobel’s hair and handed it to her.
It was a muddy leaf.
With a quirked brow and a sly smile, she continued, “Well, at least you weren’t forced to sit through not one reading, butthree, of that awful poet who writes dreary sonnets about every woman he meets.”
