Page 11 of The Lover’s Eye

Cold wind cut across Isobel’s cheeks and nape, and had its way with her hair. Her bonnet and wool redingote were no use against the sea’s strength; it was blowing up a gale.

She had begged Marriane to accompany her on a walk.

One final, sisterly outing before Isobel left for Cumberland.

They ambled some distance from the cliff edge, following the incongruous coastline from easterly headlands to scooped out bays.

Far below, the brine-soaked rocks of the shingle beach stretched out like broken, knobby fingers, absorbing the force of the North Sea with indifference.

Isobel was fascinated by the callousness of the landscape, and hesitant to leave it.

“Look!” she called excitedly, half-yelling against the wind boxing her ears.

Marriane squinted out at the tumult of sea, following the point of Isobel’s finger. The water was a midnight blue, dimmed by the heavy swath of cloud cover. Gliding over the waves was a bird of vibrant black and white, its neck gracefully arched.

“It’s only an eider, dear,” Marriane said, diverting her gaze. “I’m afraid it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well, it is to me,” Isobel said with a smile, unperturbed.

She had been floating since Trevelyan’s visit.

It still didn’t feel real that he had held onto the slice of memories they had created together during the storm.

That he had held on to some small part of her, not unlike Isobel had with him—and now she had a physical reminder of that connection.

The priceless leatherbound volume of Homer’s works.

She had promised to return the book to him, ignoring all his protests.

It was clearly a valuable object, and Isobel hadn’t missed the small etchings inside the cover, names and dates of Trevelyan’s family members from generations past. It was that sentimentality which turned the book from valuable to priceless, and Isobel could hardly believe he’d entrusted her with it.

She remembered the strength of his arms around her back, returning her embrace. The sweet, sharp, minty scent of him. A shivering thrill ran up her spine, unrelated to the cold climate.

“I’m a little surprised you’re abiding Lady Sempill’s letter,” Marriane said, staring at the ground passing beneath their boots. “Are you quite devoted to Elias?”

“What?” The question took Isobel by surprise. Devotion hardly described the cool courtesy she and Elias stood on. “No, of course not. You know I’m not ready to wed.”

Marriane fixed her dark gaze on her sister. “You might want to consider how your behavior presents, then. You’re acting like a proper pet, Isobel—they call, and you come running. I feel sure that’s how Trevelyan sees it.”

Isobel’s heels ground into the soft earth. “Whatever do you mean? Did he say something?” She caught Marriane’s elbow to get her attention. “Tell me.”

“No, he didn’t say anything. He’s an exceedingly reserved man. But gifting you that book was no small intimacy, and now you’re running home based on a ruse.”

“Do you mean to say …” She paused to tame a wayward strand of hair. “You believe there’s a possibility Lord Trevelyan …?”

“Wants to court you?” Marriane finished, shrugging one small, wool-clad shoulder. “I couldn’t say. But you’re not like to find out, should you run back to Elias.”

Isobel’s pulse heightened, newfound anxiety robbing her of her good humor.

Her father’s coach was already packed. Betsey had spent the previous night meticulously folding and wrapping every dress, stacking them into the old trunks.

A letter had been sent ahead to Lord Ridgeway to expect Isobel’s early return.

“Do you care for him at all?”

Isobel met her sister’s searching glance, and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Who?”

Marriane’s brow creased. “Elias, of course. And I mean as more than a pleasant neighbor.”

“Is he pleasant?” Isobel answered as if by mechanization, an accidental release of her true feelings. “He has not a nice thing to say, Marriane. He lets his mother control his every step—and mine , when she’s around. He talks of marriage like a business arrangement, of women like property—”

“Then why in God’s name are you going back?”

When Isobel’s tirade ended, her fingers were tingling, bitter cold and bloodless. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “It’s much easier, to just … go along.”

Marriane’s gloved finger came to her sister’s chin. Something akin to sadness, to sympathy, brimmed her eyes. “My dear sister.”

“Do you think I’m making a grave error? The coach is already packed. It’s too late for me to change plans now. And Pemberton’s hospitality is plainly run dry; he seems only too happy for me to be leaving.”

Marriane relinquished her touch. “Martin doesn’t like his habits interrupted. It’s hardly personal.”

“I thought Lord Trevelyan was still grieving,” Isobel continued, the speed of her thoughts bordering on frantic. “Everyone acts as though he’ll never recover, much less court some nameless girl from the country.”

Marriane shot her an admonishing glare.

“What? I am all but nameless to society. I’m not like you, beautiful and talented, capable of charming any gentleman in Town.

” Even as she spoke the words, Isobel was forced to acknowledge her sister had changed.

She was a wisp of the energetic, vivacious woman she’d once been. It was heart-wrenching to witness.

“Trevelyan was consumed by grief. He’s moped around for months. But men have room in their hearts, Isobel. They seldom content themselves to one woman for a lifetime.”

Isobel stiffened. “Are we speaking of him, or of Pemberton?”

A paper-thin smile stretched Marriane’s mouth.

“I know he’s kept a mistress. I could smell her blasted scent on his shirts when he’d come back from the fishing cottage.

It’s all quite typical, I assure you, and doesn’t alter the fact that, as an earl, Lord Trevelyan would be a more estimable match for you than a baron’s son.

Just stop expecting these men to be honorable creatures, Isobel. I can’t bear it.”

“You think Lord Trevelyan—?” Isobel shook her head, blood swooshing in her ears as the full gravity of her sister’s words absorbed. “Good heavens, you think Pemberton has been unfaithful to you?”

“I know he has been,” Marriane said softly.

“As for Trevelyan, he was already keeping one when Miss Gouldsmith went missing, Isobel. Those two were practically undressing each other in public drawing rooms. He was infatuated with her, almost to the point of impropriety. Him offering for her hand was the only noble thing in it.”

Isobel didn’t know why this news should make her stomach swirl with nausea.

Trevelyan was a man in his late twenties.

An exceedingly handsome, titled gentle man, to be exact.

She hadn’t presumed him to be man of no experience, but she grappled with the visual of him as some remorseless rake, parading his mistress in public.

No, his betrothed. His bride.

“Marriane.” Isobel reached for her sister’s hands, gripping them tightly. They did not reciprocate the pressure. “Is Pemberton’s behavior the cause of your melancholy? Is he treating you poorly?”

Isobel got one, fleeting glimpse of her sister’s eyes, mahogany depths roiling with pain.

And then the barricade returned. Marriane ripped her hands free from her sister’s grasp.

“Don’t be absurd. We weren’t fortunate enough to have a mother around to teach us these things, dear.

I’m merely trying to disillusion you. To prepare you for the reality of marriage, no matter which man you should choose. ”

?

Isobel brought plenty home with her from Northumberland: a megrim of remarkable tenacity, a basketful of worries for her sister, an insatiable urge to behead Martin Pemberton, and … Lord Trevelyan’s books.

It had been late evening when the coach drew up to Ridgeway House.

Isobel’s head had been pounding, and when she went into the library to greet her father, she found him asleep in his chair.

It was a blissful excuse to delay their reunion, to allow her to climb into her familiar bed and surrender to unconsciousness.

Her dreams were mercifully blank. The haunting hallmarks of waking life left her in peace, and when she awoke the next morning, Isobel felt capable of drawing breath again. She found her father waiting for her at the breakfast table, already worked up into a fuss.

“What is the matter?” she asked finally.

It was the third time Lord Ridgeway had cursed in a quarter of an hour. The first time was because his coffee was too bitter, the second because he had spilled it all down his dressing robe, and now he was complaining about the eggs. He never complained about the eggs.

“What?” he asked sharply. “Nothing. Nothing.”

Isobel set down her silverware with a clink. “I don’t know why you should be cross. Not only am I safely returned, I came back a full week before we originally intended.”

“Yes, I did receive your letter. What was the reason for your haste, again?”

“Lady Sempill lied and told me I was to return for the Everly Ball. It is to be held the third of April, not February.” Isobel matched her father’s belligerent tone, staring at him levelly. She would not be cowed.

“I see,” the viscount mumbled, fidgeting with the napkin tucked around his throat. “Perhaps there was a reason for that.”

“Yes, perhaps there was, and I should like to know it.”

Lord Ridgeway looked angry for a moment. Isobel could sense the denial hovering on his lips before it faded into a sigh. “Nothing much gets by you, does it, my girl?”

She did not answer.

“It is only that we think it’s time, Isobel.”

Isobel’s eyes turned flinty, flashing with prey-like instinct. “Time?”

“For a formal courtship to begin between you and Elias, of course.”

“No,” she spit out. “Not yet. I am not ready.”

Lord Ridgeway’s head sagged until his jowl tickled his chest. “Oh, my dear girl. You would think it a father’s dream, to have one so disinterested in courtship and marriage. And it has been—only you are two and twenty now.” He said the last sentence in an irritated growl that made Isobel inch back.

“Papa, I am simply not ready.” She stared at her plate, any trace of appetite lost.

“I am becoming an old man,” Lord Ridgeway said matter-of-factly. “Elias will take run of this estate, and someone must be around to teach him how to do so. His father never groomed him for such a role.”

Isobel disregarded her father’s voice as he proceeded to extol her—surely for the millionth time—of all the benefits of the match.

Sir Sempill’s eldest son was to inherit the Sempill estate, which left Elias with no property of his own.

A marriage to Isobel would not only ensure the continuity of the Ridgeway estate, it would bind the neighboring properties in strength and finances, the latter of which Lord Ridgeway had never been a good manager of.

Elias would gain property and a handsome association to the viscount’s title.

Lord Ridgeway would be relieved of whatever financial burdens he had accrued and never have to suffer his youngest daughter straying from his side.

Isobel was just a piece on the game board, a necessary formality to be shoved from one confining box to another.

In marriage to Elias Sempill, she would stay as stuck as she ever was, existing only as an unhelpful adjunct to the men in her life.

“Can you not begin teaching him without my being married to him?” she asked when her father paused for breath.

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That is a foolish notion, and a completely improper one.” He rubbed his eyes with hands that flaked of dry skin. “Elias came by and chatted with me while you were away. Isobel, you must know, I gave him leave to court you in earnest.”

Dread settled in her veins like lead. No. Thursday dinners were pressurizing enough. Every touch, every word, every contrived opportunity for them to be left alone together. Isobel did not want to imagine the intensity of Elias’s pursuit now.

“It’s been long enough, child. I imagine you have already bruised the fellow’s pride a good deal.”

I do not care for his pride , Isobel longed to say.

“What if there was someone else?” she asked suddenly, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Her father’s unruly white brows scrunched over his eyes. “Someone else?”

“Yes. What if there were another suitor?” Isobel paused, forcing herself to sit tall. “Would you be opposed to considering him?”

Red splotches appeared on Lord Ridgeway’s cheeks, and his breathing became audible, a thick wheezing through his nostrils. “Is there someone else?”

His question seemed to reverberate against the walls, hollow and daring. Isobel hated where her mind inexplicably went. Giles Trevelyan’s arms—on the icy steps, kneeling in the drawing room. The tantalizing, dreadful intimacy of his book, now tucked discreetly in the drawer of her dressing table.

“No,” she said softly. “I don’t suppose there is.”

“Then where do you intend to find this mystery husband, Isobel? Out on the moors? Because let me tell you plainly, I will not empty my coffers to send you out for a Season, not when there is a perfectly eligible man besotted with you right here.” He ground the tip of his finger into the tabletop, and Isobel felt suddenly light-headed.

Their eyes locked, the shared hold burning with anger. But Lord Ridgeway claimed the final word.

“I. Will. Not. ”