Page 3 of Engaging Sir Isaac

Lady Olivia’s predatory smile preceded her detailed explanations, and by the time Millie left the park, she knew the difficulty of the road before her.

Sarah remained quiet during the long walk home, to a less-fashionable street than Lady Olivia had likely ever visited. The maid’s fear and disapproval were obvious, though.

“It is no use looking at me like that,” Millie finally said, stopping before the door to her family’s town home. She turned slowly, meeting her maid’s sorrowful eyes. “I am doing this for my family, and for me. We cannot go on like this. Mother suffers. Father is no longer respected. All because of Emmeline.”

The maid lowered her eyes. “Yes, miss.”

“We do what we must to get what we want,” Millie said under her breath. She would confide everything to her mother. She needed guidance. Her mind had already turned upon several ideas to placate Lady Sophie and impress Lady Olivia, but what did she know of their sort?

“I am hurting no one but those who deserve it,” Millie added as she stepped into the house. She lifted her head to a regal angle, removing her hat and gloves. Looking into the mirror that hung above the entry table, she studied her reflection, cringing when she saw nothing but guilt in her eyes.

Millie drew herself up and glared fiercely at her mirror image. Mother was always saying that Millie needed to be stronger. Fiercer. More of just about everything Millie was not. If Millie did not manage it now, her hopes for a better future were dim.

I deserve a chance at happiness. No matter what Emmeline did with her life. I must protect mine.

Chapter 2

July 15, 1815

“It will be as I said, Lord Marham. Wellington will rout Napoleon and we will send the Little Corsican directly back to Alba. You will see,” Sir Isaac Fox spoke with surety. “Although how they will manage it without me, I have not the faintest idea.”

At his ease upon his sister’s couch, Isaac leaned against its back while speaking with great animation to his two-month-old nephew. The baby squealed and waved his little fists in the air, a spot of drool on his chin.

“You ought not to argue with your elders.” Isaac held his hand near enough for the baby’s fingers to grab. “Even if you outrank me, Baron.”

The baby’s mother, Isaac’s younger sister Esther, peeked around the canvas where she worked. “I realize you are both posing and entertaining Little Isaac, but I do wish you would attempt to look my direction every once in a while. Your crooked nose appears to better advantage that way than in profile.”

“The baron demands attention,” Isaac countered. “See how he threatens us with his fists if we do not heed him?”

The baby cooed and kicked his feet with enough force to remove the blanket covering his legs. At only two months old, the baby boy had completely won Isaac’s heart and devotion. The fact that the child had been named for him only intensified the bond he felt for the little imp.

Esther put her paintbrush down. “The two of you are a pair. However am I to finish this portrait when you are both so difficult?” She came to the couch to sit on the opposite side of the baby, fixing his blanket. The moment the child caught sight of his mother he unloosed a gurgle that had both adults laughing along with him. Esther lifted her son into her lap.

Motherhood became his younger sister, which had surprised Isaac. He never pictured her in the role before discovering her marriage to his lifelong friend, the Earl of Inglewood.

His sister had painted Isaac and Silas a half dozen times each over the years. Isaac was of a height with Silas, though narrower in build. Growing up, they had measured themselves with regularity, a wager between them as to who would reach greater heights. The end result had pleased them both. And apparently pleased Esther’s artistic sense, as she was forever speaking of them as fine models.

Isaac stretched his arm over the back of the furniture again, tapping his fingers on the stiff fabric. He let his eyes wander the room, noting that his sister had added new paintings to the walls while others no longer remained displayed. What had once been a proper sitting room she had turned into an artist’s study. Canvas, paints, and shelves of supplies lined the walls. Her favorite subjects tended to be brightly colored, which meant the room itself had a cheerful spirit.

“Why am I dressed like a farmer?” Isaac stared at a portrait she had done of their friend, Jacob, in his vicar’s smock. “Why not put me in uniform? I am quite dashing in uniform.” When Esther had applied to him to come and model for a painting, she had specified he was to wear drab, old clothing.

“I have painted you in uniform once already.” She helped her son find his little fist, which he promptly shoved in his mouth and sucked loudly. Esther settled more comfortably into the couch, the baby leaning his head against her chest. “I have never seen you look more dashing, but also never so uncomfortable. You scowled at me all the hours I spent at work.” She shuddered. “Most unnerving.”

The end result of that particular project hadn’t been especially pleasing, either. Though Isaac could say nothing against his sister’s talent, his likeness had appeared rather angry. The fact that one of his sleeves had been pinned up to emphasize the loss of his arm hadn’t softened the fierceness of the pose either.

“So I am to be what? A tired field hand?”

“No.” Esther leaned closer and tweaked the brown cap he wore to complete his strange ensemble. “You are a weary, common man, resting at last after a long day of work. Perhaps a gamekeeper, with those boots.” She nodded to his rough footwear.

He made a show of studying the tips of his boots, where they were dull and in need of attention. “What is wrong with my boots?”

“Nothing. You are as I requested. Thoroughly brown, drab, and worn.” She eyed the loose blue neckerchief tied in place of a cravat. “I am pleased you still have those old things. Have you used them much?”

Isaac stretched, then removed the cap to scratch at the top of his head, mussing his dark brown hair enough to give his valet fits. “I have not. It is difficult to climb mountains when one has an estate to manage.”

His sister shifted, a small line appearing between her drawn down eyebrows. “Silas wished me to remind you of our dinner party Thursday next.” Her abrupt change in topic made him groan.

“Dinner party? Another one? Are you two planning to host every family in the county at your table?”