At the sound of his voice, Isabella’s knuckles went white around the brass handle, but she forced herself to remain calm. She tried to reply, but her throat was too dry. She had to swallow a few times before answering.
“As you wish, my lord,” Isabella replied in a wry tone. She shut the door quickly behind her and hurried up the stairs to her room, silently vowing she would beg on the streets before accompanying that dreadful man anywhere.
Chapter Four
Isabella wrenched a plain brown dress off its hook and flung it onto her bed. She swore vehemently and reached into the wardrobe for another gown. She yanked out the remaining three garments and cursed again. Then she pulled out her worn satchel from the bottom of the empty oak cabinet.
Growing up in an all-male household did have its advantages, Isabella decided, repeating a favorite curse of her eldest brother, the exact meaning of which she did not fully understand.
She kept her anger fueled by alternating her cursing and throwing, and within minutes all her clothing was scattered on the bed. After all her meager belongings were assembled, Isabella quickly gathered them up and stuffed them into the satchel.
Normally she would have carefully and methodically folded each and every garment before packing it, but Isabella was not about to take the time to pack neatly. It was imperative she vacate the house quickly, and neatness would be a deterrent to that goal.
Isabella embraced her anger, knowing it was buffering her from the true reality of her situation. If her anger left, it would be replaced by fear. Cold, unmitigated terror at the prospect of once again being without a job, without a home, without any security at all. And worst of all, the maniacal earl, the cause of all her recent distress, awaited her downstairs. Above all else he must be avoided.
Shuddering with emotion, Isabella jammed her straw bonnet on her head and hastily threw on her coat. She pulled too hard on a button and it went flying, but she did not take the time to search for it. Better to lose a button than lose a chance at escape.
You must hurry, you must hurry,Isabella repeated methodically to herself as she lifted her satchel. She paused briefly in the hallway outside her door, toying with the notion of saying good-bye to the children but rapidly discarded the notion. She could not afford to waste the time it would take to walk to the schoolroom at the opposite side of the house. Let the Brauns explain to their children why their governess had left so suddenly.
Quietly, efficiently, Isabella strode down the hallway to the servants’ staircase. When she reached the first floor, she cautiously edged her way across the short hallway toward the kitchen at the back end of the house. She strongly suspected the earl had positioned himself at the bottom of the grand staircase in the front of the house, but if he moved to the side of the foyer, there was a slight chance he might see her at the back entrance.
Thankfully, Isabella reached the kitchen without incident. For once the busy room was deserted, except for the cook, who was sitting in a large rocking chair in front of the fireplace, snoring softly.
Isabella could scarcely believe her good fortune. She had neither the time nor the desire to exchange lengthy farewells with the household’s servants and now it appeared she would escape the house without anyone seeing her at all. Silently she lifted the kitchen door handle and gingerly stepped outside into the small courtyard facing the rear of the house.
Isabella paused a moment, debating which direction to take. She would have preferred going straight ahead, walking through the Brauns’ formal gardens, crossing the neighboring property, and emerging onto the street behind the Brauns’ house. But a rather high fence divided the two properties and Isabella was uncertain she could scale it.
Instead, she turned to her right and rapidly walked along the shortest section of the house, crouching low to avoid being seen through any of the windows. Turning again, she followed the narrow brick footpath along the side of the mansion, heading toward the street front. She struggled for a moment with the iron latch on the gate guarding the entrance to the Brauns’ yard but successfully swung it open on her third attempt.
“Going somewhere, Emmeline?”
Isabella was so startled by the earl’s voice that she dropped her satchel. She jerked her head around and saw him standing in front of the house only a few feet away. He was leaning casually against the brick facade, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He looked very pleased with himself.
Drat the man, must he be everywhere? Isabella bent down to retrieve her satchel and slowly stood upright. She simply stared at the earl for a few minutes, feeling completely lost. His superior attitude grated on her nerves. She gritted her teeth and considered a variety of actions. Isabella glanced briefly down at the earl’s strong, muscular legs and knew for certain she could never outrun him. Perhaps it was possible to outwit him.
“Ahh, I can almost see the wheels turning in that devious head of yours, Emmeline.” The earl pushed himself off the wall and took a step toward her.
Isabella decided it was time to take a stand against him. She thrust her chin in the air.
“I give you fair warning, sir. If you do not allow me past you, I shall scream. Very loudly.”
“You will?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” The earl stroked his chin thoughtfully. He appeared singularly unimpressed by Isabella’s threats. Desperately, she tried again.
“I am not going with you, sir.”
“You are going to do precisely what I tell you to do, Emmeline.”
“For the last time, I am not Emmeline!”
Isabella shrieked loudly, but the fight soon left her. She brought her hand to her head and rubbed her temple vigorously. It was no use. No matter how many times she shouted the truth at this man, he would not relent. He would never relent. He would hound her until he got his way.
“What do you want from me?” she finally whispered.
Damien’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he observed her abrupt change of attitude. She had dropped her defiant stance and her eyes were lowered in classic feminine submission.
