Page 6 of Revisit the Past (Society of Swans #3)

B irds sang, sunlight shone in full force, and a sweet, spring breeze tickled the back of Isabel’s neck as she swayed in time with the barouche. The distant chatter and light laughter swelled into a cheerful cacophony the closer they came to Gunter’s busy street. Isabel looked out over the open side of Aunt Matilda’s carriage, allowing the neat rows of townhouses and fashionably dressed passersby to distract her from her own thoughts.

As they turned onto the street, a most welcome sight met her eyes. Sitting taller, Isabel lifted a hand to chest height and gave a small wave. The driver skillfully parked their barouche along the side of the teeming street behind the carriage containing Mercy, Ellen, and Clara.

“Do enjoy yourself, my dear, and be mindful not to drop any ice on your gown,” said Aunt Matilda, patting Isabel’s knee.

“You are not joining us?” Isabel asked over her shoulder as a footman helped her down, the dowager countess following. Aunt Matilda glanced at the other carriage of young ladies and gave them her usual tranquil smile.

“Later, perhaps. For now, I wish to stretch my legs a while with a walk. Never fear, for I am never far,” she added in a teasing whisper.

A familiar intuitive glow in her eyes, she reached over to swiftly pinch the younger woman’s cheek. With that, Aunt Matilda took her parasol from her footman and began her leisurely pace down the pavement.

“Isabel, come join us!” Clara’s airy voice drifted to Isabel on the wind, followed by a gently mumbled reminder of decorum from Mercy.

Another footman assisted Isabel into the Reeves’ exceedingly handsome burgundy landau. She perched upon the empty place beside Clara.

“Now, who should like to begin?” asked Isabel after they had dispatched their orders to the staff.

The other three merely stared at her for a moment until Mercy said, “I am sure we are all most interested in your endeavors of the last few days.”

Ellen’s nod of agreement was modest compared to her sister’s, whose bright-eyed enthusiasm threatened to send her ribbon-trimmed bonnet flying into the street to be trampled by all manner of carriages, carts, and horses.

“Has he called on you yet? Surely, he must have! It has already been a week since he last visited! I say, what could possibly be keeping him from you?”

The words flew out of Clara’s mouth in one enthusiastic breath. Isabel could not help the sudden, overwhelming desire to shrink away from her friends’ curiosity. Knots twisted in her stomach. She knew what they would say when she revealed their unexpected encounter at last night’s dinner party.

Though Isabel had never suffered much in social situations, being the focus of such attention felt foreign, almost invasive. Especially when Isabel herself could hardly make any sense of her ever-changing emotions. Every time she came near enough to grasp hold of one and investigate it, it mutated, turning her own well-worn arguments—whether for or against Lord Murfield—into strangers. More often than not, Isabel’s exploratory endeavors into her own mind left her with increasingly convoluted doubts in both directions.

Clara gasped and threw a hand over her mouth. “He has called on you, hasn’t he?”

Even the generally composed Mercy and reserved Ellen leaned forward, their gazes fixed on Isabel’s face. She pressed herself deeper into the cushioned corner of the landau.

“Not quite,” she answered. “He happened to be in attendance at Lord and Lady Huntingford’s dinner last night.”

“So he could speak with you?” Mercy prodded.

Isabel quickly shook her head without making direct eye contact with the other girls.

“I should think not. He seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him. In fact, whatever he said last time he called on me, I am sure I would not have heard from him again had we not crossed paths last night.”

“How can you be so certain?” Ellen added quietly, hands twisting in her lap. “Perhaps he is simply…shy.”

That thought had crossed Isabel’s mind in her more generous moments. She waved a hand at Ellen’s suggestion and her own misgivings.

“Then why would he request a friendship in the first place?”

“Please, will you not tell us what happened?” Clara pleaded, her warm, brown eyes round and bottom lip pushed out.

“I will not,” Isabel announced with a smug smile.

Just as Clara opened her mouth to beg again, Isabel tilted her head to the side. The others looked and, for a blissful moment, fell happily silent. The footman had returned with their ices. They each savored the first bites of their treats with satisfied sighs.

“Do you really mean you will not tell us how the dinner went?” Ellen asked as she dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a kerchief.

Isabel paused, her next spoonful of delicious, chilly maple halfway to her mouth. “I will, but only after I hear from each of you first.”

The young ladies agreed, Clara with another pout, and took their turns alternating between enjoying their ices and listing off the engagements that had kept them occupied since their last meeting.

“As I am sure you all might guess, Lady Eldmar has sent me out to as many events as she can find space for in my diary,” Mercy began as she stuck her spoon into a slowly melting mound of elderflower ice.

Isabel and the others nodded their sympathies. Though she would never dare admit as much, Isabel could not help noticing the faint shadows that had taken up residence under her friend’s eyes recently, made invisible at present only thanks to the shade from Mercy’s bonnet.

“Two nights in a row of balls, one with the Bakers and the other at Almack’s. Every day, there has been either a luncheon or dinner party, and in between, I was subjected to carriage rides and trips to the Egyptian Hall and Somerset House and Astley’s,” she finished with a weary sigh.

The poor twins had suffered a lifetime of their mother’s neglect until last Season, when it had come to the viscountess’s attention that some among the ton had found it odd that her two youngest children were still unmarried. Since then, in an effort to insulate her own reputation, Lady Eldmar had made it her most crucial mission to send Felicity and Mercy down the aisle. With the former unexpectedly settled, the full weight of the viscountess’s efforts had fallen upon Mercy’s narrow shoulders.

“Perhaps it is time you feigned ill for a few days,” suggested Clara, wearing an encouraging smile that did not quite possess her usual optimism. “Surely, even her ladyship will allow you some rest then.”

Mercy chuckled and reached across to grasp the younger girl’s free hand. “I am afraid I may soon have no choice but to take your suggestion. And what of you and Ellen?”

Eyes widening, Ellen quickly slipped another spoonful of chocolate ice into her mouth and fixed her sister with a stare. Unsurprised, Isabel and Mercy turned to Clara for the report from the Gardiner household. Clara frowned down into her dish and absentmindedly chipped away at her favorite pistachio treat.

“Mama does her best to bring us out as much as possible, but you know Nicholas. Since last we met, he has only allowed us the carriage once, for a dinner at Mrs. Frampton’s. I am beginning to fear that unless one of you is always disposed to convey us about London, we shall never again see anything but the walls of our home.”

“You know we will answer your call as often as we are able,” Isabel promised quietly around the tightness in her throat.

She also could not help noticing the sisters’ increasingly worrisome complaints of their older brother’s behavior and wondering with no small amount of anxiety at what would become of the dear girls as his habits became unsupportable.

“But…”

All attention turned toward that sweet, demure voice. Ellen continued to stare at Clara expectantly. The younger lady’s head whipped up and to the side, eyes sweeping across the bright-blue sky as if suddenly noticing its lack of clouds. Before Isabel could probe any further, brows furrowed, Ellen continued.

“Clara forgot to mention that the younger Mr. Dailey was in attendance at Mrs. Frampton’s dinner. It appears he himself has just returned from his most recent journey to Wales and has stopped in London for a week or two before making his way to Bainbridge.”

“He said he was so thrilled by Lydia’s news,” Clara continued through pursed lips, “that he ended his trip early and left his friends in Cardiff to come meet his niece—but he decided to recuperate from the travel in London and allow the little family more time to themselves before Mary’s buffoon of an uncle arrives. That was his precise wording, not mine,” she added quickly, glancing over her shoulder at her friends.

Isabel and Mercy shared a surreptitious look of their own but, as usual, refrained from commenting when the topic of Lydia’s younger brother was touched upon in Clara’s presence.

“There, now it is your turn, Isabel,” Clara announced, nodding sharply.

Isabel could only sigh and accept her fate. She cradled her dish in both hands and rested them in her lap. “The dinner last night was…not terrible. In fact, it was pleasant. Quite.”

“That sounds promising,” said Mercy in a cautious tone.

“Hardly.” Isabel scoffed. “It was pleasant in a purely amicable manner. After dinner, Lord Murfield even attempted to earn my favor for another man, at the request of said gentleman, that Mr. Dunn.”

“Could that not be because you have given him no signals that might encourage hope?” asked Clara, eyes ablaze once more. “Surely, he must believe there is no chance of your ever being interested again.”

“And he would be correct,” Isabel answered firmly, ignoring her friends’ dubious expressions. “Besides that,” she continued, “we conversed before dinner, primarily about Salisbury Plain and Stonehenge. Of course, we were not seated together during dinner, though he seemed quite taken with both his companions. I do not think he noticed me across the table once during the meal. He may very well have forgotten me entirely after dinner had Mr. Dunn not accosted him during their gentlemanly port.”

Ellen’s frown, paired with her sincere eyes, gave Isabel pause and pierced her heart.

“That cannot be true, dearest Isabel. How could he forget you over the course of one dinner when it is obvious that the passage of years did not erase you from his mind?”

Silence fell upon the carriage at Ellen’s astute words, disturbed only by the bustle of the street. It was difficult to argue when their most timid member spoke with such quiet conviction.

“Perhaps I should mention…” began Mercy, brows upturned as she looked at Isabel. “I overheard my mother tell a friend during the play at Covent Garden last night that she is eager to invite the newly returned and increasingly popular Earl of Murfield to the musical performance we are hosting next week.”

That familiar mixture of emotions, growing in intensity, seized Isabel’s chest, both apprehensive and anticipatory and a thousand variations in between. After last night, she should have expected this. With Lord Murfield back amongst the ton and reacquainting himself with the finest circles, it was only a matter of time until they began crossing paths, no doubt with greater frequency.

Yet every time she attempted to remind herself that this was a circumstance to be avoided as much as possible, she found she could not construct a truly compelling reason for it. After last night, Isabel should have expected that as well.

“I shall attempt to persuade the viscountess to save Lord Murfield for a different guest list,” Mercy continued with a small, understanding smile when Isabel failed to reply.

Isabel shook her head. “No, that is not necessary, but I thank you. I know Lady Eldmar’s mind is not liable to change once she is determined on a course of action. Conserve your energy for other ordeals.”

Safe in the privacy of her own mind, Isabel remembered how fond Lord Murfield was of music. Music was the perfect marriage of art, science, and history, he had once told her after a beautiful evening at the opera.

She did not wish to deny him any opportunity to enjoy it…or to deny herself the opportunity to discuss the performances and pieces with him.

Their surprisingly lovely conversation last night had felt like the most natural thing in the world. It had ignited such a longing to be near him that Isabel knew she could not maintain her outward denial to her friends for much longer.

“Have any of you decided what you shall play or sing?” she asked, eager for a respite from talk of the earl.

To her relief, the ladies seemed satisfied with the information they had wrested from Isabel and accepted the redirection. As they pondered which pieces would show their skills to the greatest advantage and which duets would complement them best, their ices slowly disappeared and their concerns melted away.

Some unknown amount of time later, Aunt Matilda finished her leisurely walk up and down the block and collected Isabel to return home. She shared the news of Lady Eldmar’s plans for a musical performance and the girls’ discussions of their participation in the barouche.

No mention of Lord Murfield passed her lips. Until the carriage stopped before the Abbott family’s townhouse.

“Lord Murfield?” she whispered, half in disbelief and half in hope. It could not have been possible that she had somehow summoned him with her mind, could it?

At the same moment as Isabel, the gentleman descended from his phaeton farther up the street. He caught sight of her and the dowager countess and brushed at the tuft of bright-red hair that peeked out from beneath the rim of his hat, a leather portfolio tucked under his other arm. Even from here, Isabel could read the nerves in his stuttering movements.

“What a lovely surprise. Lord Murfield has come to call on you again,” said Aunt Matilda cheerily. “Now, I must hurry upstairs and speak with your papa before I leave for my dinner. Do invite the earl into the drawing room.”

One neat brow raised, Aunt Matilda placed her fingertips at the small of Isabel’s back and gave her a gentle push forward.

“Ah, Miss Abbott.” Lord Murfield smiled and raised a hand in a hesitant wave.

Isabel went still in that way that only the earl’s voice could inspire. Even her curiosity about his sudden appearance at her home was quieted. Perhaps it was simply enough that he was here.

“It appears our timing has begun to fall into step once more,” he continued, tipping his hat. When his eyes rose to meet hers again, the hope she saw there—or thought she saw—sent a twinge through her heart.

“Please, come in,” Isabel replied as she led them up the steps into the foyer.

She paused halfway to the stairs when she felt Lord Murfield’s absence behind her. She looked over her shoulder to find that he had paused in the middle of the foyer, clutching the portfolio against his middle.

“My lord?”

“You were so interested in my travels that I thought I would bring some maps as well as a few of the paintings I made to chronicle the scenery, though of course they are rather crude by comparison despite my improved skill. Still, I thought these might help you get a sense of it all.”

He thrust the portfolio, sealed by clasps, out to Isabel. Confused, she glanced from Lord Murfield’s offering to his face.

“You may take as long as you like perusing them. Until next time, Miss Abbott.”

“Wait!”

Lord Murfield’s eyes widened as Isabel crossed the room in a few strides. She gripped one end of the portfolio loosely.

“Stay. Please.”

The earl’s gaze only grew wider, matching Isabel’s own surprise. “I-If you wish…”

In some distant corner of Isabel’s mind, a bell of alarm sounded. This was all too familiar. They had done all of this before—the strangely exhilarating uncertainty, the unspoken desire, the longing looks. And they knew where it ended.

The force of Lord Murfield’s stare as he waited for her was enough to muffle the alarm. It even softened the edges of painful memories.

“I am sure I shall have a million questions that can only be answered by you, so you may as well stay,” she said quietly.

The gentleman’s face split into a wide grin, the freest she had seen him since he had come back into her life. It nearly took her breath away. How desperately she had missed that smile that had once graced his handsome features more often than not, especially in her presence.

He slipped the portfolio out of Isabel’s hand and offered his elbow. “To the drawing room, then?”

Could it truly hurt, just for one moment, to pretend as though no time had passed? Isabel pondered and savored that question as she took Lord Murfield’s arm and ascended the grand staircase by his side.

“Arthur, would you have tea brought to the drawing room?” Isabel asked a passing footman in the hall.

“Lady Ainsworth has already requested a tray for the drawing room, miss. It should be there now.”

“Very good.” Isabel gestured for the servant to join them in the drawing room and attend to their needs—and to the necessity of some supervision for two young, unmarried people.

She smiled at her lovely aunt’s thoughtfulness as Lord Murfield led her in, leaving the door wide open. The earl helped Isabel settle onto the sofa in the middle of the room while sensible Arthur made himself busy at the sideboard with preparing cups of tea and plates of treats for his young mistress and her visitor.

When Lord Murfield turned to take the chair beside her, the memory of their first night as renewed acquaintances flashed through her mind. Isabel did the unthinkable once more.

Her hand shot out and captured Lord Murfield’s wrist. The delicate lace pattern of her gloves did nothing to protect her skin from the shock of heat that rushed up her fingertips, up her arm, into her heart.

Lord Murfield’s russet-brown eyes, as kind as they were meditative, glanced from Isabel’s hand to her face with a look she could not quite identify.

“Sit beside me,” she said, her lips suddenly dry.

She fought the urge to lick them. It was far too unladylike, not to mention the fact that she had dropped her focus to the gentleman’s mouth in an attempt to avoid the questions she’d glimpsed in his gaze.

Perhaps that, too, had been a mistake. Lord Murfield’s lips looked far softer than hers felt at present.

“It will be more convenient for me to view your materials if you sit beside me, will it not?” Isabel added. Her quiet rationalization sounded rather more yielding than resolute, much like when she had rationalized her reason for asking him to stay.

“Quite right. But…” Lord Murfield nodded and looked down at his hand, still claimed by Isabel’s grasp.

For just a moment, she hesitated. It was enough to be noticed by both of them, yet not enough to be remarked upon. Not even when the tips of Isabel’s fingers trailed along the back of his hand as she released him. Neither did their eyes break as Lord Murfield sank onto the sofa beside her.

Much too close , that muted voice of reason chimed. When Lord Murfield’s leg brushed against Isabel’s, her senses had no choice but to desert her. His knuckles whispered across the silver, gossamer fabric covering her knee as he unclasped and flipped open the portfolio, spreading it over both their laps.

Isabel prayed he did not feel the jolt that raced through her body, tingling from the top of her head all the way to her toes. Why should such closeness cause such a reaction? They had been this close before—closer, even.

How could something so simple feel just as intoxicating as it had four years ago, yet comfortably familiar, yet also wonderfully foreign all at once? Isabel could not begin to fathom which thread to follow first, or if she truly wanted to know what awaited her at the end of each.

“Tea, custard tarts, and honey cakes, miss, my lord,” announced the footman from halfway across the room, carrying an artfully arrayed silver tray.

Whether he knew it or not, Arthur had afforded Isabel and Lord Murfield the opportunity to compose themselves. At least, Isabel knew she required a moment to remind herself to breathe. Just then, the earl also seemed to realize how much he had encroached upon Isabel’s space. He scooted down the sofa, laying out the portfolio between them.

“There, that is better. We will both see more clearly,” said Lord Murfield.

Isabel missed the warmth of his closeness immediately, her side exposed, empty.

“Would you like me to have another table brought up so that his lordship might display his documents?” the footman inquired.

“That will not be necessary. Thank you, Arthur.”

Unable to remove her gaze from Lord Murfield, Isabel waved a hand in dismissal. The servant bowed and retreated to his post along the wall, poised with hands behind his back.

“You need not remain quite so far, my lord.”

A week ago, Isabel would not have believed she would ever say such a thing to the man who had caused her so much heartache. The man himself seemed hardly able to believe it as he awkwardly collected his portfolio once more and slid back toward Isabel, though not quite as close as he had been before. He seemed to think better of it, brows furrowed.

Lord Murfield lowered his head. “Are you certain? I have been so afraid…”

“Afraid of what?” Isabel asked. Guilt pricked at the hidden tenderness in her heart.

He looked up, eyes alight with sincerity.

“I have been terrified of causing you any more discomfort than I already have, and I have feared that your genuine good heart compelled you to accept a truly undesirable position as my friend. Hence why I did not make a greater effort to seek you out sooner.”

Isabel smiled. Something inside her felt a little more right than it had before. “I believe I have quite left all that behind—the worst of it, at least.”

Surprising her, Lord Murfield exhaled a sigh that sounded to Isabel like relief. His sturdy, broad shoulders drooped ever so slightly. The angles in his face eased into softness.

“You cannot know how much that means to me, as undeserving as I am,” he said under his breath.

A muscle in Isabel’s neck twitched. Memories prodded at the back of her mind. She did not wish for their conversation to veer any closer to the past than it already had. She wanted to enjoy this moment as something new…a fresh start of sorts. If not, she would be driven mad by this grudge.

“Now, how much longer do you plan to keep me in suspense?” Isabel tapped the leather portfolio.

“Ah, yes, here we are,” Lord Murfield said, his smile widening as he extracted the first sheet and brandished it before Isabel.

Despite biting down on her bottom lip and covering her mouth with a hand, Isabel could not silence her giggle at the sight of it. It turned into a true laugh when Lord Murfield pouted.

“I did warn you that my paintings would be crude. You know I have never had much natural talent with art, yet I had no other means of capturing my memories. Alas, if they are so far below your standards, I shall trouble you no further,” he half-grumbled, half-teased, rising from his seat.

Isabel could hold it in no longer. Her laugh burst forth as she lurched forward and took hold of his hand once more with both of hers.

“No, stay!”

What followed happened in the blink of an eye and left Isabel breathless. How could she not be when all of a sudden, she found her former suitor’s nose a mere hair’s breadth from her own, the radiant color of his gaze consuming her entire field of vision?

In Isabel’s rare bout of playfulness and thoughtlessness, she had pulled upon him with greater strength than she’d realized. Lord Murfield had lost his balance and they’d toppled gracelessly to the sofa. Isabel’s back pressed against the armrest. The earl hovered over her, one hand gripping the carved back of the sofa, the other cradling Isabel’s head, lest she bump it against the side table. One knee was propped against the cushion, nearly touching Isabel’s hip.

They remained perfectly still for an agonizing, delicious moment. They had been this close only once before…the one and only time they had shared a kiss.

Only Isabel’s heart retained its freedom of movement. It thundered and buzzed and danced in that way that she had felt with no one but this man before her.

Perhaps she was mad, for she had no possible way of knowing short of asking aloud, yet she suspected that Lord Murfield’s heart experienced much the same. She took the strange, enticing shine in his eyes as they held hers captive—and the fact that he had not yet moved away—as plausible evidence. For now, in this moment, it would do.

“Good heavens, forgive me.” Lord Murfield gasped as his senses returned, his entire face flushing the color of his hair. He scrambled up and away from the lady, bumping against the long, low center table behind him before hastily resuming his seat and smoothing down any loose waves against his forehead.

When Isabel righted herself, her attention went straight to the wall on their left. The heart that had been so carefree a beat ago shot into her throat, dread icing her veins. The footman stared straight ahead as if intently studying the view of the brick building through the window across.

“Stay here,” she whispered from the corner of her mouth to Lord Murfield, rising swiftly.

“May I be of assistance, miss?” asked Arthur as Isabel approached. His hazel eyes just barely widened when the young lady came within a step of him, betraying his surprise before his professional composure returned.

“Yes, you shall be of immense assistance should you promise to keep what you just witnessed to yourself,” Isabel hissed in an urgent whisper. “It truly was nothing but a clumsy mistake. Do you promise?”

Arthur nodded quickly. “You have my word, Miss Abbott. I saw nothing untoward because nothing untoward occurred.”

A touch of relief loosened the tension in Isabel’s chest. She gave the footman a grateful smile. “Thank you, Arthur.”

Isabel returned to the middle of the drawing room, where Lord Murfield waited, and sat back down beside him. “Now, where were we?”

The earl opened his portfolio once more to reveal his watercolor Stonehenge. “If you are quite finished ridiculing my earnest effort, I thought I would begin with the treasures in Salisbury Plain since we spent the majority of our time last night discussing it. I also brought maps of the area, of course.”

Like before, he slid closer and spread his display across their laps. Isabel gave all her energy to focusing on Lord Murfield’s words instead of how close he sat, the entire side of his body brushing against hers, or how lovely it felt to share such peaceful proximity. Eventually, as she relaxed and found herself falling into the wonder of his stories, following along on the maps and artwork he’d brought, a thought almost more alarming than any Isabel had had thus far flitted across her mind.

She blinked hard in an effort to banish that vague wish. To share the mystery of Lady Swan with the earl would have been madness. No doubt he would have been just as fascinated and eager to search for clues and formulate theories…if the letter were not about himself, of course.

Considering how nearly fatal the revelation of Lady Swan’s letter had been to Felicity’s relationship with her husband, Atticus, Isabel could not risk a similar falling out. Not now. Not when he had only just returned and things between them had finally begun feeling easy…like the old days.

She blinked hard again. What had become of the Isabel who had been sure of being the first one to wave farewell when Lord Murfield disembarked once more?

The earl tapped at a spot on the map, sending the thought scattering from Isabel’s mind.

“And here. This would be the exact place one must stand for an optimal view of the sunrise behind the Heel Stone during the summer solstice. It was a thing of miraculous beauty, though I am not sure many would brave the early hour and poor roads to witness it.”

He paused, his whole being softening, and chuckled. Isabel watched from the corner of her eye, a quiet awe slowly washing over her.

If Lord Murfield could reflect with such a sweet, glowing fondness upon these difficulties he’d sometimes encountered during his travels—which would have been considered gross inconveniences to many members of the ton —then it must have been true.

The earl loved this life.

An unwelcome pang struck Isabel somewhere deep in her stomach. After seeing such a look on Lord Murfield’s face, how could she wonder why he’d stayed away for so long, or why he’d disappeared in the first place?

Everything about this great country, full of riches to dazzle the eyes and broaden the mind—to say nothing of the bits of the broader world he’d experienced—was far more interesting than Isabel could ever hope to be, no matter her accomplishments or cultivated intellect.

“But thus far,” Lord Murfield continued with a sheepish smile that made Isabel ache, once more jarring her away from that melancholy darkness, “if I manage to make it to this point, my audience usually shudders to imagine forcing themselves out of bed at such an unnatural hour. Nor are they inclined to heed my suggestion of forgoing grand events the night prior so as to take advantage of the early morning.”

“Please, continue,” Isabel urged immediately. “You never need fear offending whatever delicate sensibilities remain to me after making a daily habit of extensive study and practice, remember? I am no stranger to rising with the sun, even after a long night…though I must confess I do not often rise before it.”

Without thinking, one of her hands covered his where it rested atop the map, obscuring a swath of Wiltshire.

Why could she not stop reaching for him? Was it because their hands knew each other, could sense the history between them?

“You never need to fear sharing anything with me, remember?” she added, so quietly that if the gentleman had leaned away at that precise moment, he might not have heard. As the silence stretched on, she was not sure she wanted him to have heard.

Isabel’s heart began beating erratically, fluttering at a dizzying speed. Her senses had been well and truly compromised. This was all too much. He was too much.

“It is such relief to know there is still at least one soul in this world with whom that can be true,” he whispered. He was so close that his warm breath drifted across Isabel’s forehead.

“Whatever happened in the past, that will always be true with me.” Isabel’s reply had come before she could process the words falling from her lips. Before she could hesitate.

Who was she?

The sweet memories swirling in her mind’s eye, the wonder of the present moment, and the glimmer of possibility that awaited on the horizon had neatly tempted her away from the bitter principles she had used to hold him at arm’s length.

“Isa—”

“Isabel dearest, who do we have here?”

Panic shot down Isabel’s spine like a strike of lightning. The young pair scrambled to their feet and spun around to face the drawing room door. Clutched in both of their hands, Lord Murfield’s map of Wiltshire’s Salisbury Plain sliced through the air so rapidly that it sounded at risk of tearing.

Isabel’s father stood in the doorway, his stout figure taking up most of the space, one hand resting atop his middle. Despite Papa’s naturally rosy complexion and generally jovial temperament, Isabel could read the questions in his eyes as they bounced back and forth from his eldest daughter to the man he had once been sure of calling his son-in-law.

“Sister!” called Maria as she poked her head around Papa. Squeezing herself against the frame, the girl weaseled her way into the room. A smile illuminated her delicate features. “Is that a map?” Maria asked with a delighted squeak.

“Maria, mind your manners!” cried Papa as he tried and failed to capture his youngest child, grasping at air as she skipped toward Isabel and her visitor.

With ease and elegance, Lord Murfield lifted a hand to the older gentleman. “Do not fear. I would never fault a fellow lover of cartography for her enthusiasm.”

Isabel forced herself to regain her composure, ignoring the sweet scene beside her of the earl dropping to one knee and unfurling the map before dear Maria’s sparkling eyes.

“Papa, good afternoon. You recall that Lord Murfield and I shared quite the discussion of his journeys across the United Kingdom. He was so kind as to visit with the most wonderfully detailed maps and paintings of his expeditions over the years and has been transporting me with incredible tales.”

She waved one hand toward the map in question, now being diligently prodded and examined by Maria and Lord Murfield, with whom she shared an anxious glance. Why had they been sitting so close?

“Of course I recall! He transported me with a fair few tales last night as well.” Papa laughed as he took a step into the room, turning his attention to Lord Murfield with a grateful nod. “How good of you to call on us, my lord. I am afraid I must beg your forgiveness, for I must now remind Isabel to ready herself for tonight’s play and ensure Maria returns to her governess.”

Groaning under her breath, Maria pouted down at the ground, defeated.

“I hope you will allow me to call again soon and peruse my maps with you as well, sir,” said Lord Murfield with a relaxed smile, rising to his full height, the very image of a perfect gentleman. Only Isabel could feel the tension radiating from him.

Papa brought his hands together in a resoundingly enthusiastic clap, grinning from ear to ear. “Nothing would bring me greater pleasure, indeed! Alas, it is a terrible shame we shall be obliged to wait until another time.”

Lord Murfield offered his regretful agreement and farewells. He spared nothing but the barest glance over his shoulder at Isabel as he quickly collected his things and quit the drawing room. It was enough. For what, Isabel did not have time to wonder.

“Off you must go as well, both of you,” said Papa with a chuckle, holding out an arm.

Silently, Isabel obeyed, taking Maria by the hand and hurrying across toward the door. Everything had happened so fast, and now it was…over. It had taken all of an instant for reality to shatter around them once more.

As she passed by Papa with her customary swift peck on his cheek, as well as a one-armed hug about the waist from Maria, Isabel watched her father from the corner of her eye. Apart from his initial reaction of mild surprise, perhaps more so at the presence of any guest than of that particular one, nothing seemed amiss in his demeanor.

Until, as Isabel took those first few steps down the hall beside a happily chattering Maria, her continued unease nudged her to look back. This time, her gaze went not to Papa, but to the other man who occupied the room with them. Still stationed along the wall, it was now Papa who whispered in the footman’s ear.

Isabel’s stomach turned itself into an impossible knot. Of course she trusted Arthur to keep his promise…to the best of his ability. Though she had assumed more and more duties of the mistress of the house since Mama’s death, the final word still belonged to Papa. He could compel any of their staff to divulge any information if he saw fit.

Turning on her heel, Isabel spurred herself down the hall to the schoolroom and delivered her sister to the care of a frazzled Miss Oakley, who had just returned from the chamber pot and had been searching for her charge, then went up another flight of stairs to the family wing. The last thing she wanted was to bump into Papa again after all this strangeness.

Isabel breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the security of her quarters. Only then did the knot in her stomach finally begin to ease at the memory of her hand and Lord Murfield’s joined together like they had never come apart.