Bile rose in Isabel’s throat.
“Lord Bertrand Montfort,” the Duchess bristled, “we donotspeak of such matters in public. Or at all, I dare say.”
Still, when the room fell silent for the second half of the musicale, the Duchess gave Isabel’s hand a light squeeze. Delight glittered in the other woman’s eye. The possibility of babies tended to spark such twinkles.
And Isabel thought she couldn’t sink any lower.
~ ~ ~
She crept into the dark butler’s room, chilled and damp with the night, and found the narrow bed, empty ofhim.
Isabel slipped beneath the meager blanket and curled onto her side. All that was left of him was his scent, already grown faint.
She pushed tomorrow away, closed her eyes, and tried to conjure yesterday. Of him, her, and Ariel, playing house.
Then, of him and her joined as one for a fleeting moment.
She would live in that moment forever, if she could.
How was it possible she’d known him for a week? How was it possible for one heart to become so inextricably twined with another in so short a time?
Tomorrow, she would be strong.
Tomorrow, she would do what was required of her.
Tonight, she would be weak.
Tonight, she would dream of yesterday.
Chapter 25
A breakfast that began at four of the clock. Whether in Spain or England, it was the aristocratic way. And, in all honesty, Isabel couldn’t help thinking it a delightful concept.
To break one’s fast this late in the day was an indulgence known only to those of the highest tiers of society. But today, at Gardencourt, all were welcome to enjoy a taste of aristocratic life.
In the conservatory, surrounded by orange, lemon, and lime trees recently denuded of their fruit for all manner of treats—lemon tarts, lemon cakes with strawberries and cream, lime punch, orange pudding—Isabel stood beside the Duchess, greeting villagers, exchanging pleasantries about the beauty of the weather—a cooling breeze holding off the summer heat—and encouraging all to enjoy themselves, which the large quantity of rum in the lime punch rather encouraged. Cook had even sung a rhyme while she stirred:
One of sour
Two of sweet
Three of strong
Four of weak
Truly, Gardencourt was at its finest. The townsfolk dressed in their Sunday best on a Saturday. Children racing across the verdant field on the other side of the ha-ha, Lord Exeter’s wild gaggle of boys leading the fray in a merry chase, big brother Hugh in tow. The town elders, along with the Duke and Lord Exeter, enjoying a light tea at tables set beneath the oaks beyond the terrace. Just a few steps from the conservatory splayed the large white tent where the dance would take place later along with an informal supper.
Earlier, Isabel had spotted Lucy and Miss Radclyffe overseeing those preparations and consulting with the string quartet brought in from London about the music list. Lively fiddle tunes were an absolute must, as the villagers, and the Duchess in particular, expected informal country dances. Lucy, however, had other dances in mind. Well, one dance—the waltz—which the musicians agreed to insert into the rotation every fourth song, Lucy had happily informed Isabel, who suspected a bit of additional coin was involved.
It was a jubilant day with every member of the Bretagne family doing his or her part. Even Lady Exeter was greeting visitors who couldn’t help being awe-struck by a lady of her elevation stooping so low as to offer them agood day, for she couldn’t help making one feel so.
All the Bretagnes save one.
Percy.
“Now, Isabel,” said the Duchess once a large group of women had moved along,ooo-ing andaah-ing over the exotic plants of the conservatory, “if you have half a brain in that pretty head of yours—and I believe you do—you will call this gathering the First Annual Citrus Day Breakfast and Dance and establish it as a yearly event for the village.”
“That is a splendid idea,” Isabel replied, voice carefully neutral. A splendid idea for a different future mistress of Gardencourt Manor. A true one.
