Now, Rosalind was frowning. “I think you’re lying.”
“No, I’m not. Why would I? You told me that you wanted to know what happened last night, so I’m telling you about it. That’s all. Felicity was a very popular choice among the gentlemen there.”
“But why would she be?” Rosalind frowned. “That makes no sense.”
“Felicity is lovely,” Isabella said. “And you know how kind and pleasant to be around she is. It doesn’t surprise me at all that gentlemen are taking an interest, and I can’t believe you’re genuinely surprised by it either, even if you do wish it wasn’t true.”
“Well…maybe you’re right,” Rosalind agreed. “I suppose she is very pretty in an ordinary sort of way. I couldn’t say the same about you, though.” She smirked, and Isabella knew that her half-sister expected the comment to be hurtful.
It wasn’t. Isabella had never felt any need to be admired for her beauty and certainly not by Rosalind, who had never seen anything good in her at all. If Rosalind had paid Isabella a compliment of any kind, Isabella would have mistrusted it.
“Felicity is what matters,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll go along and beherlady’s maid when she marries.”
She had said it mostly to try to irritate Rosalind, but Rosalind just smiled mysteriously and replied, “Perhaps you will. All I know is that I’m sure your time pretending to be a lady will soon be at an end. Father hasn’t much more patience for your airs. You’re a maid really. He promised your mother that he would raise you. That’s what he’s always told me. But you’re old enough now to be on your own. He’ll find work for you somewhere, or maybe he’ll marry you off to someone. I don’t know. I do know he doesn’t intend to go on caring for you for the rest of your life, though. Eventually you’ll be expected to move on.”
Isabella said nothing. The fire was roaring now, so she stood and brushed off her skirts. She moved to the bed and set about tidying the bedclothes which was rather difficult to do with Rosalind still tucked between them.
There came a knock at the door. “Rosalind?” the Viscount called out to the pair of them. “Are you up, darling?”
“Yes, Father. Come in.”
The door opened to admit Maxwell Abberton, the Viscount of Cliffrows. He was a short man with very little hair remaining on his head and a rotund figure, and though Isabella would never have said it aloud, she thought that Rosalind quite resembled him. Both she and Felicity took after their mother—in fact, Felicity was her mother’s image exactly. Isabella knew that she wasn’t as beautiful as her mother and her sister, but she was still grateful to look more like them than she did like her father.
“How are you feeling, darling?” the Viscount fussed, ignoring Isabella and giving his full attention to Rosalind.
“Still very weak.” Rosalind reclined against her pillows and allowed her eyelids to flutter. “I had better spend the day in bed, I think. Do you suppose that will be all right, Father?”
“Of course, it will,” the Viscount said. “I’m sure your sister will be more than happy to tend to your every need, won’t you, Isabella?” His voice became sharp at the end of the sentence, and it was clear to Isabella that this was no request—she was expected to set aside whatever her own plans might be and spend the day caring for Rosalind.
“Perhaps Rosalind would be better off in the hands of her own lady’s maid,” she suggested.
“That’s just like you, Isabella,” the Viscount said. “Always trying to find ways of getting out of work. You’re nothing but a littleprincess. You think yourself better than everyone around you, and you always have.”
Isabella’s blood boiled. This was the one thing that could be said to her that would truly make her feel angry, for it was an accusation she had heard all her life, and she knew that it was untrue. She had never believed herself to be any better than anyone else—well, perhaps she was more good-natured and clever than Rosalind, but that was nothing special. So were most people.
The servants here at Cliffrows had always looked down on her for this very reason. They’d always accused her of believing herself to be better than they were because her father was noble. She thought no such thing, but she hadn’t ever been a part of them because of that. And, of course, the members of the ton had never included her and never would. They would never look at her as their equal, and Isabella knew that she was mocked behind her back for having the audacity to act as if she belonged in society.
“I don’t think I’m better than anyone,” she told her father.
“Then you’re not too good to spend the day caring for your sister,” he said smoothly. “You’ll see to it that she has everything she needs today. I’ll have meals sent up for both of you.”
“Father, I don’t want to eat withher,” Rosalind complained.
“She does have to eat, Rosalind,” the Viscount said. But Isabella knew that her father was not truly taking her side. When themeals were sent up, Rosalind would be given trays filled with everything she could have wanted, and Isabella would be given something small—enough to sustain her, for her father might not have cherished her, but he certainly didn’t despise her and had no wish to see her starve. But he would want to make sure that Rosalind saw how she was his favorite. He would want her to be given the most so that she would accept the alleged hardship of taking a meal with Isabella and wouldn’t complain that anything unfair was being done to her.
Isabella didn’t mind this, exactly. She would be given enough food, and she knew that. But it seemed petty to her that her father insisted on dealing with her in this way, and that Rosalind—young though she was—deemed it necessary. If only everyone could just relax and stop worrying so much about Rosalind’s jealousy, this wouldn’t be such a problem.
“I’ll do as you ask, Father,” Isabella said, primarily hoping that he would go away and leave them alone. As long as he was in the room, she knew that she needed to put on a bit of a show of being cooperative and obedient. Little though she liked Rosalind, she could be more herself in front of her half-sister because Rosalind wasn’t clever enough to take effective revenge against her. Sometimes Rosalind didn’t even recognize that she had been disrespected by Isabella’s comments.
Isabella would have felt bad about that if Rosalind hadn’t deliberately and overtly disrespected her all the time.
Before their father could say his farewells and leave, though, the door opened again. This time it was Clarise, Rosalind’s lady’s maid, and she looked rather alarmed.
“Lord Cliffrows,” she said, “I’m so glad I found you. The house is in an uproar!”
The Viscount frowned. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
“Well, I don’t quite know,” Claire said. “No one is sure what brought him here, but?—”
