But Hadley had left earlier that morning—“a meeting with my solicitor and then a stop in at Brook’s”—and had yet to return.
When a door shut below them, Isolde held her breath, straining to hear her father’s heavy tread on the stairs. But only the murmuring sounds of the butler instructing a footman in some matter reached her ears.
“Lady Alderton asked if you are content to spend your honeymoon at their estate in Cornwall, Catriona.” Lady Hadley handed another rock to Isolde for inspection.
“Cornwall?!” Aghast, Mariah set down her book—a poetry collection by Nathaniel Hawthorne, an American writer Isolde had grown to love during her time in Massachusetts. “Barnie is taking ye taeCornwallfor your honeymoon? Not Paris or Italy?”
“That was rather Lady Alderton’s concern, as well,” Lady Hadley said dryly.
“Let me guess,” Mariah said, tone scathing. “Ye will be staying in aseaside hut. . . . one that comes with whistling wind and a resident sheep or three.”
Catriona continued to sew, entirely unperturbed. “You know I do not seek a flamboyant life, Mariah. I have no desire to go abroad. I am merely eager to marry my Barnie and begin our years together, whether that happens in Cornwall or Paris or the wilds of Nova Scotia, I truly do not care. As long as we are together, we are content.”
What would it be like, Isolde pondered, to be so sure of one’s love? To look into the eyes of a gentleman and think—You . . . I’ll take you.
“I am glad you are content then.” Lady Hadley smiled at her daughter. “You know your father and I only want your happiness. And you and Lord Barnaby seem particularly well-suited.”
Thankfully, Lady Hadley did not look at Isolde as she spoke.
Isolde’s own unmarried status worried her mother. For a brief window of time, Isolde had wondered if Stephen Jarvis might be her soulmate, but in that, she had been mistaken. And now, it had been years since a gentleman had inspired any sort of flutterings within her.
Unbidden, the image of Kendall sliced through her mind—the intensity of his dark eyes as he gazed at her from across the ballroom—
Snick.
Another door shut below.
Isolde tilted her head to listen to the low murmur of voices drifting up the stairwell, straining to hear her father’s bass.
But, no.
The dressmaker had arrived.
It took Isoldeuntil after dinner to finally corner her father in his study.
Lord Hadley looked up from his desk at theclickof the door latch.
Like his wife, Lord Hadley had aged with grace. Tall and broad-shouldered, his blue eyes—so like Isolde’s own—retained the mischief and humor of a much younger man.
He stood as she entered, a smile on his lips that quickly turned to a frown when he saw her expression.
“What is it, Izzy?” he asked.
Only her father called herIzzy, a nickname borne of late-night conversations and long cuddles on a winter’s afternoon.
It struck her anew—
How she adored this man!
She had loved him as a wee girl perched atop his shoulders as he went about business on the family estate in Scotland.
She had loved him when he readily agreed to support her studies at Broadhurst College, gruffly kissing her forehead and promising to write as she boarded a ship for America. And then, he had welcomed her home with celebration when she had returned from Boston two years before, heartsore and furious over Jarvis’s deception.
And she would love her father forever . . . in his steadfast devotion and readiness to defend her against critics of her age or education.
Perhaps that was why she had yet to marry. Simply put—every other man paled in comparison to Lord Hadley. And Isolde couldn’t bring herself to settle for less than the kindness and love that her parents shared.
Unbidden, tears welled in her eyes.
