Louise Allen Page 12

  ‘If you can be thinking about my ribs while I am kissing you, it does not say much for my lovemaking.’ Giles bent and brushed his uninjured cheek against hers, his mouth nuzzling at the warm angle of her neck and shoulder.

  ‘You want to make love to me?’ How brazen she was to ask such a thing. How wonderfully liberating it felt to do so.

  ‘I would give a year of my life for one night in your arms.’ His voice was muffled against her skin as she lifted her hand to touch his hair.

  Isobel gasped. It was all her fantasies about Giles, all her wicked longings, offered to her to take. All she needed was the courage to reach out.

  Almost as soon as he said it, she felt him hear his own words. The enchanted bubble that surrounded them shattered like thin glass. Giles’s body tensed under her hands, then he released her and stepped back.

  ‘I am sorry. I should never have spoken, never touched you.’ His face was tight with a kind of pain that his physical injuries had not caused. ‘I did not mean— Isobel, forgive me. I would not hurt you for the world.’ He turned on his heel and walked away without looking back, up the gallery and into the book room that led to the library.

  She stared after him, still shaking a little from the intensity of that kiss, unable to speak, unable to call him back.

  He had only wanted a brief amorous encounter and his sense of honour had stopped him before they both were carried away. Isobel sank down on the nearest chair, stared unseeing at a landscape on the opposite wall and tried to tell herself she had just had a narrow escape.

  *

  The earl broke up the meeting shortly before noon. Giles suspected that such a short morning’s work was on his behalf, but he could not feel sorry for it. Between the lingering effects of the doctor’s potions, the pains in his body and his anger with himself over Isobel, it had been an effort to think straight at all, although the other men did not appear to notice anything amiss.

  Of all the damnably stupid things to have done. But somehow he had not been able to forget that moment of waking to find her beside him in the big bed. All his good resolutions, all his self-deception that he could treat her as a friend, had fled to leave only a raw, aching need for her.

  He could have controlled it, he told himself savagely, as he turned left out of the steward’s room and, on impulse, took the steps up from the basement. He emerged into the grey light of a blustery, cold day that threatened rain before nightfall. Giles jammed his hands into his breeches’ pockets. He would have controlled it if she had not chosen that moment to come to him, her face full of hurt at the way he had coolly ignored her.

  That vulnerability, that honesty, the way she confronted him so directly had somehow wrenched equal frankness from him. And because she was older than most of the unmarried girls he encountered, because he had been so open with her, he had let himself believe that they could have an affaire.

  And of course she was too innocent to understand where their kisses were leading—even if she was not, it would have been wrong. By his own action he had cleared her name of all disgrace—now she could go back into society, find a husband, marry.

  She was a lady and that meant marriage—but not to him, he told himself savagely. Not to him and she knew it, had remembered it when he had blurted out his desire for her. He had thought he had come to terms with his birth and with the limits it placed upon him: it seemed he was wrong.

  ‘Idiot,’ he muttered, kicking gravel. Of course a woman like her would not offer herself to a man she did not love. She had thought him her friend, nothing more, and he had betrayed her trust. ‘Damnation.’ What had he done?

  ‘Harker, I could follow you across Cambridgeshire just from the muttered oaths.’ He looked up to find James, his cane in his hand, standing in front of him. ‘What is the matter? Are you in pain?’

  ‘Not as much as I deserve to be. What are you doing out here?’ Giles took in his friend’s thick greatcoat and muffler. ‘It is no weather for a walk.’

  ‘I went over to the stables to see how they were progressing in the search for a blacksmith. What’s the matter with you? If you want to talk about it, that is.’

  He could trust James, more than he could trust his own sense, just at the moment. ‘Strictly between ourselves I’ve made a mull of things with Lady Isobel. More than a mull. Are you warm enough to walk? I don’t want to risk being overheard.’

  ‘Of course.’ James fell in beside him as he walked past the stables and the church down the drive to the east. ‘Have you told her you love her?’

  ‘What? Of course not! I’m not in love with her. I do not fall in love with well-bred virgins. In fact, I do not fall in love with anyone.’ James snorted. ‘I want her, that’s the trouble, and she caught me with my guard down and I damn nearly propositioned her.’

  ‘Clumsy,’ James remarked. ‘And unlike you. But of course she, being female and having more intuition than the average male, presumably took your intentions to be honourable.’

  ‘I don’t know what she took them to be,’ Giles retorted, goaded. ‘She knows who I am, so how could she believe them to be anything but dishonourable? And what makes you think she wants me? Your fine understanding of female sensibility?’

  ‘Not being able to see means I use my ears, my dear Harker. And I listen to the silences between the words as well. You two are, as near as damn it, in love with each other. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing. Because you are wrong, and even if you were correct, even if I was fool enough to allow myself to fall in love, I would do nothing. I am not even going to apologise for what happened between us in the Long Gallery and perhaps that will bring her to her senses. And stop snorting, it is like having a conversation with a horse. I’ll leave as soon as I can.’

  ‘So you make love to her and then snub her. An excellent plan if you wish to break her heart, although I doubt Lady Isobel deserves that.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ Giles demanded.

  ‘Marry her.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Marry her? Are you insane?’ Giles slammed to a halt. ‘Isobel is the daughter of an earl.’

  ‘And so? She’s a second daughter, she’s perilously close to being on the shelf and she’s had a brush with scandal. From what my sister tells me she was only doing the Season reluctantly in any case. Perhaps her father would be delighted for her to marry an up-and-coming architect with society connections, a nice little estate and a healthy amount in the bank.’

  ‘You are insane,’ Giles said with conviction.

  ‘All right.’ Albright shrugged. ‘Go right ahead and break her heart because you won’t risk a snub from the Earl of Bythorn.’

  ‘Snub? I’d be lucky if he didn’t come after me with a brace of Mantons and a blunt carving knife. I would in his shoes.’

  ‘Coward,’ James said.

  ‘I am trying to do the honourable thing,’ Giles said between gritted teeth. ‘And that includes not knocking your teeth down your throat. You’re the only man who can get away with calling me a coward and you know it.’

  ‘If you want to do the honourable thing, then you want to marry her,’ Albright persisted. ‘Let’s go back inside, it is raw out here and it must almost be time for luncheon.’

  ‘Of course I do not.’ Giles took the other man’s arm and steered him down a path towards the back of the house. ‘I am not in love. I have never been in love, I do not intend on falling in love. I intend,’ he continued with more force when that declaration received no response, ‘to make a sensible marriage to a well-dowered young woman from a good merchant family. Eventually.’

  ‘That’s three of you who’ll be unhappy then,’ James retorted as they went in through the garden door. ‘Give me your arm as far as my room, there’s a good fellow.’

  *

  Lord James was particularly pleasant to her over luncheon, Isobel thought. Perhaps he was trying to make up for the misunderstanding over the house-party incident. Sheer stubborn pride m
ade her smile and follow all his conversational leads. She wished she could confide in him, for he seemed both intelligent and empathetic and he knew Giles so well. That was impossible, of course—he would have no more time for her foolish emotions than Giles had and, besides, she could not discuss Giles with anyone.

  She had bathed her red eyes and dusted her nose with a little discreet rice powder. Giles would never guess she had been weeping, she decided, studying her own reflection in the overmantel glass.

  ‘You think this new census is a good idea?’ he was saying now in response to Lord James’s speculation on how accurate the results of the government’s latest scheme might be. He sounded not one wit discomforted by what had occurred that morning. Isobel tried to be glad of it.

  ‘What do you think, Mr Harker?’ she challenged him, frustrated by his impenetrable expression. He was treating her as though she was unwell, fragile, which was humiliating. It seemed to her that when he spoke to her his voice was muted. His face, when their eyes met, was politely bland. But she knew him too well now to believe he was indifferent to what had passed between them that morning. There were strong emotions working behind the green, shuttered eyes.

  ‘I think that it will all depend on the competence of the parish priest entrusted to fill in the return in each place,’ he said now. ‘Better if each person was questioned individually. Or every householder, at least.’

  ‘You think that would expose more of the truth?’ Isobel asked. ‘That people would reveal their circumstances honestly?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Giles said slowly. ‘And perhaps it is a mistake ever to ask for too much honesty.’ Isobel had no difficulty reading the meaning hidden in his words. He had been honest about his desires, had led her to the point of seduction and now he was regretting it.

  ‘Sometimes people do not know the truth because they are too close to it,’ Lord James observed, making her jump. She had forgotten that she and Giles were not alone. ‘The observer often sees more of the picture, don’t you think?’

  ‘So gossips and old maids like to say in order to justify their meddling,’ Giles said harshly.

  Startled, Isobel glanced between the two men. Albright’s mouth twisted into a wry smile, but he did not appear to feel snubbed by what had sounded like a very personal remark. Giles, on the other hand, looked furious with his friend. Something had passed between them that morning, it was obvious.

  The earl looked up from his plate of cold beef, unconscious of the undercurrents flowing around his luncheon table. ‘The census? Very good idea in my view. I’d be glad if they did it in Ireland, then I might have a better idea of what to expect of conditions and problems there. I may suggest it when we see how this works out.’

  The talk veered off into discussion of Irish politics, social conditions and, inevitably, sporting possibilities. Isobel placed her knife and fork neatly on her plate, folded her hands on her lap and watched Giles.

  He guarded his feelings well at the best of times, except for his betraying eyes. But now, with his face so damaged and his eyes bruised, she was not at all sure she could read him at all. Except to know he was unhappy. Good, she thought, and went back to chasing a corner of pickled plum tart around her plate with no appetite at all.

  *

  In the general stir at the end of the meal Isobel found herself beside James Albright. ‘I hope you have a safe journey home, Lord James.’

  ‘Rest assured I will make your innocence known to Penelope and all my family,’ he said. ‘And we will ensure the facts are spread far and wide. Unless, of course…’ he lowered his voice ‘…you would prefer to stay ruined?’

  ‘Whatever can you mean, sir?’

  ‘It might widen your choice of marriage partner, perhaps,’ he suggested with a slight smile.

  ‘Are you suggesting what I think you are?’ Isobel demanded. Marriage? ‘There is no question of a match between myself and…and anyone.’

  ‘No? Of course anyone would say that, too, and, if…er, anyone’s defences were not down, he would never have got himself into a position where he betrayed his feelings to me quite so blatantly, as I am sure you realise.’

  ‘As we are speaking very frankly, Lord James,’ Isobel hissed, furious, ‘the feelings betrayed to me were not those which lead to a respectable marriage—quite the opposite, in fact!’

  ‘Oh, dear. Hard to believe that anyone could make such a mull of it, let alone my friend. He is usually more adroit,’ Lord James observed. Isobel glanced round and found they were alone in the room. His sharp hearing must have told him that also, for he raised his voice above the murmur he had been employing. ‘If I am mistaken in your sentiments, Lady Isobel, then pray forgive me. But if I am not, then you are going to have to fight for what you want. Not only fight your parents and society, but fight Harker as well.’

  ‘I have no intention of throwing myself at a man who only wants me for one thing,’ she said. ‘And I do not want him at all, so the situation does not arise.’

  ‘You know him better than that. Try to forgive him for his clumsiness this morning. If his feelings were not engaged he would have been…smoother.’

  ‘How did you—?’ She took a deep breath. ‘My feelings are not engaged.’

  ‘I found him in some agitation of mind. He told me he had erred and distressed you—I could fill in the rest. He let himself dream and hope and then woke up to the problems which are all for you, not for him. Giles Harker has a gallantry that will not allow him to harm you, so, if you want him, then you must take matters into your own hands.’

  ‘Lord James—are you insinuating that I should seduce him?’ Isobel felt quite dizzy. She could not be having this conversation with a man who was a virtual stranger to her.

  The unfocused eyes turned in her direction. ‘Just a suggestion, Lady Isobel. It all depends what you want, of course. Forgive me for putting you to the blush, but Giles Harker is an old and dear friend and I will happily scandalise an earl’s daughter or two if it leads to his happiness. I wish you good day, ma’am.’

  *

  With Lord James’s departure the men went back to their meeting and Lady Hardwicke swept up Catherine, Anne, Lizzie and Isobel, ordered them into bonnets, muffs and warm pelisses and set out for the vicarage to call on Mrs Bastable, the vicar’s wife.

  ‘I have sadly neglected my parish duties these past few days and it is Sunday tomorrow,’ she remarked as she led her party down the steps. ‘What with Lizzie’s drama and all our preparations for the move and the pleasure of having Isobel with us and now Mr Harker’s accident, the Clothing Fund has been sadly neglected.’

  ‘Was it an accident, Mama?’ Lizzie demanded. ‘Mr Harker, I mean. You said it was footpads who broke his nose and cut his face like that.’

  ‘It was accidental in that he fell amongst criminals who tried to hurt him,’ her mother said repressively.

  ‘And Lord James was the Good Samaritan who rescued him?’

  ‘I rather think he was rescuing himself quite effectively,’ Isobel said, then closed her lips tight when Anne shot her a quizzical glance.

  ‘And the bad men?’

  ‘Have been taken up and will stand their trial, as all such wicked persons should,’ her mother pronounced.

  ‘The wages of sin is death,’ Caroline quoted with gruesome relish.

  ‘Really, Caro!’

  ‘It is from the Bible, it was mentioned in last Sunday’s sermon,’ Caroline protested. ‘Mr Harker is very brave, isn’t he, Cousin Isobel?’

  ‘Very, I am certain.’

  ‘And he was very handsome. Miss Henderson said he’s as handsome as sin. But will he still be so handsome when they take the bandages off?’

  Lady Hardwicke’s expression did not bode well for the governess, but she answered in a matter-of-fact tone, ‘He will have scars and his nose will not be straight. But those things do not make a man handsome: his morals and character and intelligence are what matter.’

  She pursued the improving lec
ture as they made their way across the churchyard and through the wicket gate into the vicarage garden. Isobel brought up the rear, her mind still whirling from that extraordinary conversation with James Albright.

  Had he really meant that Giles was in love with her? Worse, he seemed to believe she shared those emotions.

  *

  The vicar’s wife was grateful for help with the results of a recent clothing collection and, after serving tea, set her visitors to work that was familiar to Isobel from her own mother’s charitable endeavours.

  Isobel helped sort clothing into a pile that would be reusable by the parish poor after mending and laundering. The remaining heaps would be organised by the type of fabric so that when they had been washed the parish sewing circle could make up patchwork covers, rag-rugs or even suits for small boys from a man’s worn-out coat.

  It was worthy work and the kind of thing that she would be organising if she married a wealthy landowner, as she should. Lord James had spoken of marriage. An architect’s wife would not have these responsibilities, although Giles had said he had a small country estate, so perhaps there were tenants. What would the duties of an architect’s wife be? Not organising the parish charities, or giving great dinner parties or balls, that was certain. Nor the supervision of the staff of a house the size of Wimpole Hall, either. Not any of the things she had been raised to do, in fact.

  This was madness. She would not marry save for love—on both sides—and Giles Harker wanted one thing, and one thing only.

  ‘Cousin Isobel, you are daydreaming again,’ Anne teased. Isobel saw she was waiting for her to take the corners of a sheet that needed folding. ‘What on earth were you thinking of? It certainly made you smile.’

  ‘Of freedom,’ Isobel said and took the sheet. They tugged, snapping it taut between them, then came together to fold it, their movements as orderly as a formal minuet.

  ‘Goodness, are you one of those blue-stockings?’ Anne put the sheet in the basket and shook out a much-worn petticoat. ‘I do not think this is any use for anything, except perhaps handkerchiefs.’