Isabella positioned herself in front of the pianoforte, fussing for a few moments before sitting down. She gave only a cursory glance at the sheets of music neatly arranged on the music stand, recognizing the first piece as a classical composition far beyond her talent.
Instead she played from memory, slowly picking out the tunes, gradually playing with greater certainty as she remembered the correct notes. She played the simple melodic ballads she enjoyed from childhood, releasing long-suppressed memories of her mother. Although not possessing a great talent, Isabella played from the heart, and her music had an exalted, vibrant quality that touched both men.
The final note died away, but the mood created by the music remained until a log in the fire crackled, showering sparks over the hearth.
“That was lovely, Isabella,” Damien remarked sincerely. “I recognized a few of the tunes—Irish ballads, I believe. But I never heard the final song. It was charming.”
“My mother always played it,” Isabella said softly, her mind still filled with memories of her mother. “I don’t recall the title.”
“You of all people should know the name of that particular tune,” Lord Poole spoke out. “ ’Tis an old Spanish folk song entitled ’Fair Isabella.’”
Isabella looked with surprise at Lord Poole. “However would you know such a thing?”
“Quite simply. I too have memories of that ballad. When we were children, my father often played the piano for me and Emmeline. He had a talent for music that was certainly far greater than my mother’s, and he took great delight in indulging himself.”
“And the song?” Damien inquired sharply.
“In memory of his mother, my grandmother. Apparently you are unaware of my family history, Saunders. My paternal grandmother was half Spanish, a strikingly beautiful woman with thick dark hair and unusual violet eyes. She had an equally lovely name. Isabella.”
Questioning looks of amazement passed between the earl and Isabella. Pitching his voice low, Lord Poole added softly, “An interesting coincidence, is it not?”
Chapter Seventeen
“Damn you, Poole!” Damien’s anger broke through the silence that had enveloped the room. “What sort of bizarre game are you playing at now? I for one do not believe a word of that preposterous story.”
“Your opinion is of no interest to me, Saunders.” Lord Poole’s tone was icily polite. “My only concern is for Miss Browning.”
“Your only concern is for yourself, Poole. What is your plan? Do you think to come into my home and steal Isabella away from me with your preposterous lies? I will never allow that to happen.”
“You don’t own her, Saunders. This woman, who might very well be my half sister, merely has the misfortune of being employed in your household. I fear for her safety, and fully intend to do everything in my power to ensure that she does not end up like poor Emmeline.”
“You bloody hypocrite!” Damien lunged toward Lord Poole.
“Stop it! Both of you.” Isabella sprang to her feet, clapping her hands tightly over her ears to shut out their angry words. She gulped helplessly as she felt the tears welling in her eyes, and she trembled with the effort it took to contain them.
Her outburst had the desired effect of stopping the earl in his tracks. His head turned, and Isabella could see the blazing fury in his smoky gray eyes. She shifted her glance to Lord Poole. His expression was unreadable, but his stance was rigid and his shoulders stiff with tension.
“How dare you discuss me as though I were a piece of property to be fought and bargained over. Your behavior is insulting, and I refuse to listen to another word from either of you.”
Lowering her hands from her head, Isabella picked up her skirts, defiantly lifted her chin, and strode across the room, not sparing so much as a glance at the two men. Throwing open the door, she banged loudly out of the room. Her speed increased with each step she took, and by the time she reached the staircase she was sprinting.
Her thoughts tumbled wildly as she ran. Was it possible that Lord Poole spoke the truth? Could she in fact be his half sister? Ever since discovering her striking resemblance to Emmeline, the notion had festered in the back of Isabella’s mind, yet she had deliberately refused to examine it closely. Hearing Lord Poole voice the possibility had shaken Isabella. Frightened her. Filled her with an equal sense of longing and dread.
Her mind spinning with shock, Isabella stumbled up the staircase, letting out a sob of relief when she entered the private sanctuary of her room. She felt a mild sense of satisfaction as she slammed the door loudly, and for good measure, turned the key to lock the door.
She took a few small steps and stood in the center of the room waiting vainly for the feelings of panic and fear to subside. Warm droplets of water fell on her wrists and it took a few moments before Isabella realized she was crying. Feeling a strange sense of detachment, she removed a fresh linen handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away the tears.
Isabella moved toward the center of the room and caught a glimpse of her pale face in the mirror by her dressing table. She immediately closed her eyes, forcing away the reflected image, wishing she could so easily dismiss the turmoil in her heart.
The knock she had expected and dreaded came the moment she sank down upon the bed.
“Open the door, Isabella. ’Tis Damien.”
“Go away, my lord. I do not wish to speak with you.”
Isabella heard Damien’s exaggerated sigh and concluded that he was attempting to master his temper. The brass doorknob rattled noisily, but the lock held. “Open the door, Isabella.”
He continued rattling the doorknob, and Isabella knew he would not be easily dissuaded. Rising on unsteady legs, she-opened the door slightly. Fixing her gaze firmly on the earl’s cravat, she repeated quietly, “Go away, my lord.”
