The Duchess gave Isabel a magnanimous nod. “I am pleased to have given you the idea. Now, pray tell, where is that husband of yours?”
Isabel attempted a light laugh that soared with all the lift of a deflated air balloon. “Oh, you know Percy. He is at the stable, showing the men the future of Gardencourt’s racing stock.” How naturally the lies flowed from her mouth these days. Her view of herself as an honest person might have to change.
“That boy is horse mad, always has been.” The Duchess released the length of pearls she’d been twining round her fingers. “I suggest you go and find your husband. Then explain to him that it is his God-given duty as a scandalous and dashing man to give our female villagers a thrill by showing his handsome face.” It was clear the Duchess’s suggestion was, in fact, a command.
Isabel took her leave of the ladies and entered the happy tide of the festivities, a gaiety to which she was immune. Since last night, a numbing shell had hardened around her, allowing no emotions to penetrate. For if she let herself feel, it wouldn’t be joy she experienced. Quite the opposite, in fact.
’Twas better to feel nothing.
In the distance, she spotted Tilly and Nell, dressed in their remade finery, garlands in their hair, strolling arm in arm across the close-cropped lawn, four would-be swains at their heels, each vying for a pretty smile and an encouraging word. While Nell appeared overwhelmed by the attention, the same couldn’t be said for Tilly, who understood the power of a saucy smile and a bold rejoinder over a young man. Or five young men, as the case now was.
Isabel continued her scan of the grounds and discovered no trace of Eva. The old Eva wouldn’t have missed these festivities for the world, but the new Eva was different, more measured in her choices. The new Eva worried Isabel, for she couldn’t feel that Eva was truly being herself, save one glimmer of hope: Eva was with her son. Eva had, at last, formed a bond with Ariel, and Isabel’s heart, which felt achy, bruised, and sore, experienced a swell of happiness for this one bit of good.
The feeling lasted but a moment, for her feet continued moving toward the stable, towardhim.
Although she was doing the Duchess’s bidding now, there would be a time today—in five minutes or five hours—when she would be serving Montfort. She’d seen him, sitting beneath a sprawling oak with the other men, looking like the most English Englishman who ever walked the earth, red-faced with jollity, secure in the position of wealth and privilege the accident of birth had afforded him in life.
Montfort, however, hadn’t yet given her the scantest bit of his attention. She was nothing to him until it was time to move her pawn on the board.
Isabel’s gaze caught on the thin form of a serving girl, weaving through the festivities, bent on one task or another. Dressed in the same garb as every other servant, there was no reason for Isabel’s eye to follow the girl, except that she felt the compulsion. There was something familiar . . .
It struck her: the servant was the woman from that first night, from the carriage.Hortense, Percy’s friend. Well,friendmight be stretching the matter. Associate seemed more appropriate. Hortense knew Percy was the Savior of St. Giles and had assisted him. The fact that she washere—today—meant she could have been here . . .last night.
It could explain Percy’s coldness. Perhaps Hortense had uncovered information in London . . . Information about Isabel. An echo of last night’s chill traced through her.
The fact that Hortense was here today meant more: she and Percy were anticipating action.
Isabel should run to Montfort and tell him, but she wouldn’t. With Hortense here, Percy might have a fighting chance against Montfort. Although it went against her interests, her spirits experienced a slight lift.
She stepped inside the grand stable and stopped, inhaling deeply of horse, sweat, hay, and earth. For all the raucous festivity outside, this place was its opposite. Dim and cool and quiet, except for the odd rustle and whicker of a horse. The stable lads must have been enjoying the day with everyone else. But Percy was here, she knew it.
She ventured down the wide center aisle, on the alert for any sign of him. At last, she heard it: from the gable end of the stable came a murmurous susurration ofshoosh, sloosh. . .shoosh, sloosh. . . Isabel lifted her gaze and found the hay loft.
Up the ladder, she followed the sound. Her head poked above the loft floor, and all the breath whooshed from her lungs at the sight greeting her eyes. Some twenty feet away, Percy was sorting through horse provender with a pitchfork. But it wasn’t his task that held her transfixed, rather the lean, muscled length of his body in motion.
Her eyes roved across his form from knee-high boots, to thighs bunched beneath well-fitted trousers, to shirt undone and open nearly to navel, revealing chest muscles that flexed and released with his labor. Sweat sheened every inch of visible skin.Dios mío, the man was a damned devastating sight.
He rested his pitchfork against the wall and swiped his hand across his brow. Isabel cleared her throat. His gaze swung to meet hers and held. Time did that funny thing it always did when she looked into his eyes. It fell away.
Nothing relevant existed outside what existed between them.
His mouth twisted with irony, and he spoke the one word that could bring her back to reality. “Wife.”
She blinked. She swallowed. She wished it was true.
She gave herself a mental shake.
It was too late for wishes.
“Husband.” She finished her climb and stood facing him, her stance a mirror of his. “Your presence is requested in the conservatory.”
The man, whose eyes burned and continued to hold hers, shrugged.
“By the Duchess.” Isabel spoke the title like it was a trump card.
He shrugged again, the gesture telling her in no uncertain terms that she would have to do better.
She glanced about the loft flooded by afternoon light from windows at either end and populated by all the usual animal provisions and implements. Except in the corner stood a narrow, tidily made bed, a lantern atop a short, three-legged stool beside it. “Is this where you’re sleeping?”
