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“What is ‘betrothed’?” Sam said, his eyes wide.

Simon ruffled his hair affectionately. “Nothing either you or Will need to worry about for some time, young man.”

“Good,” Will said. “Can we play What Time Is It, Mr. Wolf, now?”

“Good heavens!” Lady Whitely said, although whether her exclamation was directed at the twins’ interruption, the news of his betrothal, or his and Isla’s willingness to entertain the boys, Simon could not tell.

Lydia had yet to lose her stunned expression, but Simon could not summon any feelings of regret. The sense of loss he had expected to feel upon setting eyes on her again had never materialized, and the dread over their first meeting was gone. So, too, were the remnants of bitterness and hurt that had plagued him for months. With genuine relief, he inclined his head to both ladies.

“If you would excuse us, ladies, Miss Crawford and I have a prior engagement with my nephews. Enjoy your time at Copfield Hall. I have no doubt Lady Maidstone will be anxious to hear all your news.”

And then, before Lady Whitely could find her tongue, he led Isla back across the lawn to the sound of Sam’s and Will’s whoops of delight.

Finally. Isla leaned back in her chair and studied the piece of paper on the writing desk before her. It was free of ink splotches, the lines were straight, the spacing even, and the words legible. Relief mingled with accomplishment, and she allowed herself a grateful smile. Her penmanship was nowhere near as elegant as Martha’s, but this was her best work to date, and it might just be good enough.

Setting down her quill beside the two others she’d worn through, Isla rose to her feet and stretched. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been working on the letter. Long enough for the sun to lower in the sky and for her back to ache from being hunched over the small table.

She’d heard Lady Whitely’s carriage roll down the drive some time ago but had opted to remain in her room rather than relocate downstairs. Martha’s forethought in placing paper, ink, and quills at the writing desk in Isla’s bedchamber, along with the one in the parlor, where she usually practiced, had been a blessing. Isla would have resorted to staring at the walls in her room rather than enter the parlor before Lady Whitely and the Duchess of Tunstow had left. As it was, she’d made significant progress and was excited to share it.

Moving over to the small wash basin on the other side of the room, Isla picked up the piece of lye soap and rubbed it across her ink-stained fingers. She winced at the now-familiar zing. The caustic bar was as likely to take off a layer of skin as it was to remove the black marks. She should add moisturizing soap to the list of twenty-first-century advancements she shared with Simon.

For the first time since they’d parted at the nursery door, Isla allowed her thoughts to settle on the gentleman. They’d played two more rounds of What Time Is It, Mr. Wolf, before Miss Tomlinson had come for the boys, and at no time during the game or the walk back into the house had she or Simon brought up their interactions with Lady Whitely or her daughter. It had to have been difficult for him to see Lydia again. Truth be told, it had been surprisingly unpleasant for Isla too. Lady Whitely was waspish, and Lydia was stunningly beautiful. The latter detail should not have bothered Isla so much, but feeling like a rag doll standing beside a porcelain doll hadn’t been the most enjoyable experience.

Isla rinsed her reddened fingers and dried them off on a small towel. She hadn’t expected Simon to take her hand in front of Martha’s visitors. Or to announce their betrothal. Perhaps both things had been a defense mechanism after all the unkind darts Lady Whitely had thrown their way. Or maybe he’d thought it better for word to get out that they were betrothed before they arrived in London. There was no doubt that Lady Whitely would take great pleasure in being the one to spread that news.

Isla sighed. The snarky noblewoman would probably include something about Isla’s untamed appearance being a fitting match for her remote northern background.

Setting down the towel, she opened the nearby wardrobe. With a handful of Martha’s altered old gowns to choose from, Isla couldn’t have hoped to outshine Lydia’s appearance this afternoon, but she could at least make some effort to clean up for dinner. She may not be able to help Simon through the aftermath of another broken betrothal, but when he’d taken her hand today, Isla had made herself a promise that she would do everything in her power to make the time they were together a good memory rather than another painful one.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” Isla called.

The door opened, and Maggie appeared. “Good evenin’, miss,” she said, bobbing a small curtsy. “I’ve just come from Lady Maidstone’s chambers an’ wondered if you were needin’ any assistance afore you go down t’ dinner.”

“Oh, Maggie, you are an answer to an unuttered prayer. If you can make my wind-snarled hair presentable, I’d be most grateful.”

The maid smiled. “I can ’ave it lookin’ lovely in no time at all.”

Maggie was as good as her word. Less than half an hour later, Isla descended the stairs holding the letter she’d penned and wearing a royal-blue Jacobean gown with white lace and an elaborate updo.

Feeling unaccountably nervous, she approached the door to the dining room. Martha’s voice reached her from within. Was she the last person to arrive? Crossing the threshold, she looked around the wood-paneled room. The table was set for four, but Martha and Lord Maidstone were standing beside the fireplace, goblets in hand, obviously waiting for their guests.

“Good evening, Miss Crawford.” Lord Maidstone inclined his head. He had yet to call her by her first name, and Isla felt strangely reluctant to forgo addressing him by his title.

“Good evening, my lord. Martha. I hope I am not terribly late.”

“Not at all,” Martha said. “As you can see, you have arrived ahead of Simon.”

“But, thankfully, only just.” Simon’s voice reached them from the doorway. “I beg your pardon, Martha,” he said as he entered the room. “I took Blaze out again this afternoon and lost track of time.”

Isla’s heart sank. A second long ride after having spent a considerable amount of time with the twins meant that Simon’s interaction with Lady Whitely and Lydia must have affected him far more deeply than he’d let on.

“It must have been an enjoyable ride,” Lord Maidstone said.

“Indeed.” Simon did not elaborate. Instead, as though anxious to change the course of the conversation, he turned to Isla and pointed to the paper in her hand. “What do you have there?”

“Oh!” Isla held it out. “My latest attempt at a letter for Lord Monteagle.”