CHAPTER1
AUTUMN, 1886
Izzy supposed it was only fitting that, after two years of endless love letters exchanged between herself and the Honorable Mr. Arthur Penhurst, he had chosen to end their betrothal in the same fashion he had conducted much of their courtship. But the familiarity of his masculine scrawl, slanted upon the page in measured, precise penmanship, provided precious little comfort. True, many of the letters had become hopelessly obliterated by the profusion of tears which had rained upon the ink over the weeks since she had received it. However, much of the terrible, soul-crushing sentences remained perfectly intact.
Darling Isolde,
I regret to say that I have found myself drawn in a different direction. It would seem that the time of preparation for our wedding, deemed far too lengthy by yourself, was instead a boon. For it granted me the opportunity to realize I harbor feelings for Miss Harcourt that I cannot in good conscience either deny or ignore…
Miss Alice Harcourt.
An American heiress who had been attending Cowes Week, where Arthur had also been spending his time. He had been taking in the sea air to aid his lungs at the urging of his physician. And apparently attending balls. And falling in love with someone else.
Betrayingher.
His reticence concerning their marriage had made bitter, terrible sense when August had come to an end, then September as well, and he had made no effort to return. Instead, he had written to her, suggesting they delay their nuptials until nearly Whitsuntide.
Now, she knew why.
Was it worse that he had referred to her as his darling in the salutation? Of course it was. He might have called her anything else.Dearwould have sufficed. A simpleLady Isoldewould have stood as well.
“Oh Izzy, you are not reading that despicable letter again, are you?”
Isolde gave a guilty start and stuffed the hated epistle into the book she had been pretending to read before slamming it closed. She looked up in time to see her beloved sister Ellie, now the Duchess of Wycombe, crossing the threshold with a knowing expression on her face.
Sisters could always sense each other’s misery. Izzy was certain it was an innate skill they had all been born with.
“Of course not,” she lied anyway, forcing a pleasant smile for Ellie’s benefit. “I was merely reading some Shakespeare.”
“Hmm. That rather looks like a compendium of the London Society of Electricity’s journal for the year 1884,” Ellie pointed out shrewdly.
Izzy glanced down at the leather-bound volume and discovered that her sister was correct.Drat.Of all the tomes she could have plucked from the shelf, feigning an interest in this poor choice most certainly gave her away. It was the sort of nonsense only Ellie, with her love of engineering and electricity, would read. If only she had chosen a history treatise instead, her guise would have been far more convincing.
“Oh yes!” Izzy aimed for a bright, cheerful note, but it was difficult indeed when her heart was broken into a million irreparable shards and she was discreetly sniffling to keep the snot from running out of her nose.
Her vision was blurry.
She blinked furiously to chase away the fresh wave of stubborn tears pooling in her eyes. Tears she would not shed. Enough had fallen for Arthur Penhurst already. She would not allow another to—
It slid down her cheek, hot and quick, then landed with a splat on the top of her hand.
“That was a tear,” Ellie observed, settling next to her on the divan. “And your nose is rather red, my love.”
“How dreadful of you to notice,” she muttered.
“It is dripping as well.”
“My nose does not drip,” she denied.
But the snot she had been trying her utmost to withhold made a liar of her, escaping her left nostril, and then gliding down her philtrum before pooling in the seam of her lips. It was humiliating and disgusting all at once.
Ellie extracted a handkerchief and dabbed at Izzy’s nose and mouth in motherly fashion, drying up the detestable signs of her weakness. Her gaze was sympathetic, and it was all Izzy could do to hold still for her sister’s ministrations. She wanted to run away and hide. To bury herself beneath the covers in her guest bed and never emerge.
“You were reading the letter again, and you were weeping,” Ellie said quietly.
“Yes,” she admitted, for there was no point in continuing her charade.
“Neither the letter nor Mr. Penhurst are worth your time, your tears, or your heartache.”
