Chapter Eighteen
“He is gone? The earl has left The Grange?” Isabella stared at Jenkins in disbelief.
“A most urgent matter called him away early this morning,” Jenkins said, glancing nervously at the floor. “He left this note for you.”
“I see.” Isabella studied the sealed envelope the valet hastily thrust into her hands. A cold dread swept through her, and she struggled against voicing her fears. She thought last night they had shared a moment that went far beyond pure physical pleasure, yet something must have gone terribly wrong to cause Damien to flee without even speaking to her.
With shaking hands, Isabella broke the seal and quickly read the note.
Urgent business calls me away, my dear. I shall return as quickly as possible. Watch over Catherine and Ian for me. Have faith. Damien.
“Bad news?”
“No,” Isabella answered, tensing warily at the sound of Lord Poole’s voice. Determined not to be caught wallowing in self-pity, she turned her head toward him as he entered the dining room and smiled brightly. Crushing the note in her hand, she slipped it unobtrusively into the pocket of her gown. “Will you join me for breakfast, Lord Poole?”
“I would be delighted.” Lord Poole glanced about the empty room with obvious interest. “No doubt Saunders is already outside mucking about the estate. I shall enjoy having you to myself this morning.”
Isabella’s smile disappeared. “The earl has been called away on business.”
“Wonderful. I hope he will be gone a long time.” Lord Poole removed the bread rack from the sideboard and placed it on the dining room table. He retrieved the butter dish and jam pot, set them cozily on the table, and then held out a chair expectantly. “Sit down, Miss Browning. I will ring for coffee. Or would you prefer chocolate?”
“Coffee will be fine.”
A stone-faced Mrs. Amberly answered Lord Poole’s summons, and Isabella watched in amazement as he charmed the housekeeper with a few softly spoken words and a dimpled grin. Leaving the room with a broad smile, Mrs. Amberly returned quickly with a steaming pot of coffee and a large dish of coddled eggs that actually looked appetizing.
Isabella selected a piece of bread, declining the offer of eggs. She sipped her coffee quietly and studied Lord Poole openly as he ate his breakfast. He seemed a man accustomed to being in the company of women, and he possessed an effective manner for dealing with them. She assumed he was unmarried since Damien had never mentioned a Lady Poole. Isabella strongly suspected Lord Poole was a favorite with the unattached ladies of thetondue to his pleasant face and polished manner, not to mention his wealth and title.
“You are rather quiet this morning, Miss Browning. I trust you slept well?”
“Fine,” Isabella said. Swirling the dregs of her coffee in her porcelain cup, Isabella suddenly felt nervous and uncertain. “Actually, that is a lie, Lord Poole. I did not sleep well last night. And we both know why.”
Lord Poole’s expression was unruffled. He forked in a final bite of egg, then carefully placed his cutlery on his dish. “I upset you last evening with my outburst. I deeply regret any discomfort I inadvertently caused you.”
“You showed little interest in my feelings last night. I was given the impression your words were meant for Damien, not for me, my lord,” Isabella said. She glanced at him suspiciously, but his placid expression revealed nothing. “I wonder even now if you spoke the truth about your family.”
“Of course I told you the truth.” Lord Poole pressed Isabella’s forearm urgently. “I would never lie about something this important.”
“Then I suppose I must consider the possibilities.” A nervous fluttering began in Isabella’s stomach. “My mother died when I was eight years old, and I discovered the day I left my home that the man who married my mother was not my natural father. Perhaps wearerelated.”
“I feel certain you are my sister,” Lord Poole responded quickly.
“I find this difficult to accept, without proof of paternity. My resemblance to Emmeline coupled with my name could be a unique coincidence, Lord Poole.”
“Please, call me Thomas. And I shall feel honored if you will allow me to address you as Isabella.” He smiled broadly at her slight nod of acceptance, and Isabella felt the tension ease from his grip. “I require no additional verification of your identity, but naturally I shall pursue the matter if you wish. My father passed on ten years ago; my mother preceded him by a year. There was no reference to a child in any of his papers. Had I known of your existence, I would have moved heaven and earth to find you.”
“Thank you.” Isabella took a deep breath and released it slowly, realizing that the anger she had felt toward him last night was fading. It was difficult to remain aloof from him when he demonstrated such concern.
Lord Poole’s glance shifted to his empty coffee cup. “I would like to know more about you, Isabella. What was your mother like? Your childhood? And how did you ever end up here, working for the earl?”
It was a strange and unusual sensation for Isabella to be the focus of such intense interest. She had rarely spoken about herself or her life with anyone. No one had ever cared enough to ask. Except Damien.
To her annoyance, Isabella’s first inclination was to invent a cozy, carefree childhood and a gay, frivolous adolescence. Shaking off the impulse, she slowly refilled Lord Poole’s coffee cup and her own before speaking.
“I’ve led a rather quiet life, Thomas. I have no doubt you will find it dull and uninspired.”
Lord Poole made no reply. And because he didn’t press her, or ply her with cloying sympathy and insincere soothing words, Isabella gradually revealed the circumstances of her youth.
She spoke of her mother’s death and her childhood fears. She told him of her grandfather’s indifference, her great aunt’s cruelty, her longing for a warm and loving family. She related tales from her life as a governess and revealed the bizarre events that had brought her to Whatley Grange.
