Page 14 of The Lover’s Eye

One week later

Giles had taken Isobel’s leaving as a sign of loyalty to the Sempills.

Five weeks of introspection left him with the conviction that there would be no point in his going to see Lord Ridgeway.

It seemed everyone involved had made their mind up, and it would not be the thing for Giles to go traipsing off to Kittwick just to make a fool of himself.

He had gossip enough swirling about him already.

He told himself it was for the best. If he ever did marry, he had the idea that it would be farther off in his future, after a healthy buffer of time had blunted the threat his damaged reputation posed.

Society could be cruel. He wore the rumors they spread about him and Aurelia like deep bruises, knowing that any future bride of his would be subject to the same injury.

Besides, Miss Ridgeway would never be a strictly safe option. She was curious and exceedingly keen to detail, but more than that, she was family to the Pembertons. And Pemberton was far too privy to Giles’s past. The truth would come out at some point, and then—

Don’t be daft, Giles scolded himself. She can’t cease to want you, or turn ashamed of you. You don’t possess her admiration, you cannot lose it.

He tried to settle back into his routine, tried to forget about her, but Isobel Ridgeway found him time and time again. In a hair-raising line of poetry or a rainstorm on the cliffs, in erotic dreams that left him kicking off the bed linens, sprung with inconsolable agitation.

If Giles had ever intended sleep to be a salve for his longing, he was sorely mistaken. He dreamt of nothing but Isobel. While the particulars varied, the scene was always much the same:

Her, beneath a night sky riddled with stars.

Her striking profile cast in the light of a blue moon, coastal wind rippling through her unbound hair, the palette of darkness illuminating her peculiar beauty to the best effect.

Giles felt, with crippling realism, the weight of her body in his hands, the taste of her against his lips.

He heard utterances of her pleasure in his ear, and heard himself reciting one of those confounded poems to her, his voice hovering on a precarious balance of need and self-control.

And then he would wake to dreadful quiet, his pulse racing and his arm flopping to the empty side of his bed. Cold and vacant.

That was how he had awoken this morning, and finding himself in dire need of a sobering diversion, Giles had sent for Pemberton.

He was in constant want of distraction, but nothing had been able to suit him.

He had pulled up and replanted a quarter of the walled garden, sold three horses, and now set up a shooting gallery in the park.

It was not hunting season, and would not be for months yet, but Giles had the distinct urge to feel a shotgun crack against his shoulder.

“Ah, a bit of shooting is just what a man needs,” Lord Pemberton said, placing a thick hand on his hip. “You would not believe the havoc that has taken over my house.”

“Oh?” Giles asked dryly. You would not believe the havoc that has taken over my own mind. He was taking aim at a glass bottle and pulled the trigger, the explosion from the shotgun’s barrel setting one of his ears to ringing. When the smoke cleared, it was confirmed he had missed. Again.

He muttered an oath and set to reloading the powder. “What’s the trouble?”

Pemberton took a shot of his own, a smug smile tweaking his mouth at the sound of shattering glass. “Marriane is in raptures again. Could hardly get her out of bed for weeks, and now she’s like a damned hummingbird, fussing over draperies and attempting to solve the world’s problems.”

Giles was only half-listening. It had become his habit to let his mind wander; a vice that was affecting all his relationships, even down to those with the gardener and grooms. “Oh, is that so.”

“Matter of fact, I’d say you dodged a bullet in not courting the younger girl.

Damned mess it is—would you believe it? A fortnight ago, we got a letter from the old man, saying her betrothal to Sempill would be made public at the Everly Ball.

Marriane starts planning the blasted nuptials, worrying over fabric samples and flowers, as if the business concerns her at all. ”

Giles fought against the uptick in his pulse, resting the shotgun atop his boot, his fingers fidgeting over the powder flask.

“Then— then— comes a letter from the chit herself, who, mind you, has already arranged to come put up at my house again, asking if Marriane knows of any family in want of a governess. A governess!”

Giles hadn’t noticed Pemberton reloading his own weapon, and the sound of a shot and breaking glass made him jump.

Pemberton did not pause to celebrate his victory this time, but resumed speaking before the barrel ceased smoking.

“As you might imagine, that bit of foolishness has sent Marriane into fits. I’m about to lose my damned mind, man.

I’ve not even got draperies in my study, and she’s on about my sponsoring her fool sister for a Season.

I agree, the dame isn’t yet old enough for spinsterhood, but why should I empty my coffers to find her a husband?

She can settle for Sempill as easily as the next woman. ”

Giles had given up on regulating his heartrate. It thundered behind ringing ears, pushed hot blood to the tips of his fingers.

“I believe you’ve got it,” Pemberton said with a laugh.

Giles looked up. “What?”

The marquess dipped his chin in the direction of Giles’s hand, which was still using excessive force to tamp down the powder in his gun. He stopped abruptly, his cheeks singeing with heat. “Are you going to?”

“What? Ship her off to London?” Pemberton boomed, squinting against the sun. “Not if I can help it. Marriane’s sent word to some of the old matrons that helped with her come out. Pray to God they refuse to aid.”

Before Giles could formulate an answer, Pemberton was walking off, picking up a thin mahogany case and lying it on the table.

He popped the clasp open, revealing a matched pair of dueling pistols on a bed of green velvet.

The steel gleamed in the midmorning sun, and Giles picked one up to inspect it.

“You must have spent a tidy sum,” he said.

Pemberton pointed out the custom engraving of his family crest. “Straight from London, out of the hands of Joseph Manton himself. Say, we should travel down together. He’s got a fine shooting gallery. We could get you a new piece, place a couple bets …”

He leaned closer, elbowing Giles and dropping his voice to a suave whisper. “Find you a suitable wife .”

“May I?” Giles asked abruptly, gesturing to the powder flask.

Pemberton nodded, but he kept a sharp eye on his friend. “You needn’t pretend with me, Trev. At the very least, you’ve got to be missing the company of a woman. How long has it been?”

Giles didn’t answer. He didn’t know how long it had been, but a fair sight longer than anyone was ever likely to guess. He moved to level the pistol’s sights over a glass bottle, the blood still rushing in his veins.

He had never wanted to duel with anyone.

On any other day, it was unlikely the pistols would have seized his curiosity at all.

But as he covered the trigger with his finger, the etched wooden grip felt good in his hands.

He found himself imagining what Elias Sempill might look like.

What strife he might be causing Isobel. What she must be suffering, if she’d sent letters to her sister, pleading for the power of choice.

It seemed no one was anxious to help her—and that, Giles could change.

No sooner had his finger squeezed the trigger, than the bottle shattered into a formless thing.

?

Most of Giles’s decisions were made after a long spell of thinking, a delicate weighing of benefits against risks. Not this one.

Part of his privilege as a man of means was that he did not have to answer to anyone.

He could do whatever he wanted, and what he wanted was to help Isobel Ridgeway.

If she did not wish to marry Elias Sempill, he would offer himself.

If she did not wish to marry him—Giles tried to ignore the pang of pain in his chest at the thought—he would pay for her damned Season himself.

And if she didn’t wish to marry at all, well, he would think of something.

Something better than the life of a governess.

If she thought him a complete madman, an unwelcome interference who had no right to offer his aid … well, she would be right. And he would leave her, with the peace of knowing he had at least tried.

It baffled him, how he had come to care for her so deeply after such a brief acquaintance. He was afraid to inspect the feeling too closely, to unearth the truth about how far gone he was, and so he chose to face the problem head on without a moment to spare for introspection.

“I’m going out today on a matter of business. I do not expect I’ll be back until tomorrow late.”

His valet’s eyes widened, but he nodded, helping Giles into a dark riding coat. “Certainly, my lord. Should I have the coach readied?”

Giles’s lips rose into a grimace. Damn it . Clearly, he had not considered every angle of this venture.

“Or perhaps the phaeton?” his valet suggested, bringing out a pair of glossy black tall boots.

Giles could have laughed. Wouldn’t he like to race to Kittwick in the phaeton, arriving on Isobel’s doorstep like some Greek hero? No. Upon closer inspection, not even his own coach would suit.

“I do not wish to tire my own horses over it. I’ll hire a gig.”

The valet looked as though he might fall over dead, but followed the instructions given to him and packed the earl’s necessities into a small trunk.