Page 20 of The Lover’s Eye
If Giles Trevelyan could have exited his own body, he would have for two reasons: first, to escape the crippling embarrassment, and second, to plant himself a facer.
He had figured if he were careful, he might never have to see Miss Ridgeway again.
She had only visited her sister the one time, and it was an inimitable trick of nature and timing that had brought her to his own doorstep.
His heart fell to the bottom of his boots when she came tumbling out of the haberdasher’s shop, nearly landing onto his chest.
Giles had determined it was time he begin reacclimating himself to society, and thought a trip to the village would be a harmless foray. His surprise—and displeasure—had been immense when he had run up with Reverend Gouldsmith and Miss Ridgeway in one blow.
He was riding hard toward Cambo House now.
Too hard, he realized. The ground was a slick mess from spring rains, and they were moving at a near gallop.
Giles closed on the reins and settled his weight in the saddle until Theseus slowed to a walk.
He ran a soothing hand down the blood bay’s well-muscled neck. What must she think of me now?
He’d wondered if Isobel would learn of the visit he paid her father, but he had never seen her that day and never detected a hint of suspicion from the Pembertons, who surely would have learnt of it, too. Now that he had laid eyes on Isobel again, he could feel it deep in the pit of his stomach—
She had no idea.
Why, then, had he acted so harshly? There was no vulnerability to conceal, nothing to protect. It was clear she thought him indifferent to her. But that was earlier. Now, she likely thought he despised her.
He recollected his manners with guttural annoyance, Thesus’s ears flicking back at the growl that left his throat.
She had been smiling. A beautiful, unaffected smile, and he had been the one to wipe it from her face.
He’d stepped away from her, when in truth, he wanted to draw closer.
He’d even had a second chance to make things right when she came up of her own accord, nervous and stammering.
He had been so sure she was engaged. Convinced by her hotheaded father she wanted to be engaged.
Giles covered his face with a hand, rubbing it roughly across his forehead.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty in declining Lady Pemberton’s offer to dine at Shoremoss Hall.
He felt the foolish but inexorable pull to see Miss Ridgeway again, and now that he had acted so brutishly, that desire was amplified tenfold.
As he rode down the winding drive to Cambo House, he did not see the bursting rhododendrons or the soft bed of wild coltsfoot. All he saw was Isobel.
Her smile, and then her wide eyes and parted lips. She had been disappointed in him, surprised by his coldness.
She had also not been wearing a ring.
The sight gave him more hope than was logical. He decided then to rectify the matter. They would undoubtedly think him a fool, showing up at Shoremoss’s doors the very same day he’d professed to be busy, but oh, what the devil. People thought worse things of him all the time.
He jumped from the saddle before Theseus had entirely halted, handing his reins to a waiting groom. The doors of Cambo House opened to him, and Giles jogged through them, tossing his hat aside.
“Finch, I need the carriage readied. And my finest evening coat—you know the one.”
The old butler’s expression did not alter, but Giles felt his black gaze bearing into his back as he ascended the stairs.
He was in a mood similar to the one that had seized him all those weeks ago and sent him rushing to Cumberland on his useless errand.
Now he wondered if that business might have gone differently, had Lord Ridgeway allowed him to see Isobel. Would she have turned him away?
As Giles tore off his mud-specked riding clothes, he wished he hadn’t given up so easily that day.
That he hadn’t let that damned necklace get in his head or let Lord Ridgeway’s searing gaze unravel his confidence.
He felt now that he had taken the easy way out.
After all, it was always simpler going to believe the worst about himself, to assume that even the few people who cared for him might one day see all of him and walk away.
“Is there a special occasion, my lord?” Giles’s valet held up the coat of black superfine for inspection.
“Not especially.” He hoped his nerves did not show in his features.
It took some maneuvering, but with several insistent tugs from his valet, Giles got the coat settled over the breadth of his shoulders. It had been a good long while since he had worn it, and he seemed to have grown slightly.
“Pardon me for sayin’ so, sir, but it’s a shame.”
Giles was peering into the looking glass, smoothing his freshly washed hair with a comb and the side of his hand. “What?”
“It’s a shame you don’t have a special occasion, my lord,” the valet said, his smile glowing with approval. “That coat looks as if it were stitched right onto you.”
For Giles’s part, he thought it looked a touch too snug—he certainly felt that it was, when he moved in any way that required his shoulders—but he was too distracted to care. He climbed into his carriage, his mind spinning anxiously during the miles that took him to Shoremoss Hall.
Mercifully, the footman informed him Pemberton was at home, and led him into the marquess’s study.
“What the devil brings you here?” Pemberton asked, only slightly looking up from his supine position on the leather sofa. He had a half empty glass of brandy balancing on his chest and wore nothing but a pair of soiled trousers and his shirtsleeves.
Most men would never receive callers like this. As Giles drew nearer, he smelled the stench of brine and fish, and realized the meager clothes bore little splatters of blood. Statement corrected: most gentlemen would never find themselves in such a state in the first place.
“I have a rather strange question to put to you,” Giles said, taking a seat across from him.
Pemberton seemed to realize the astounding contrast in their dress then, and lifted a brow as he looked Giles up and down. “Are you in your best evening clothes? At”—he craned his neck to find the clock, and sloshed a bit of brandy on himself—“five in the afternoon?”
“I am.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
Giles tapped his toe on the carpet. “I saw your wife in the village today. She mentioned something about having me for dinner, but I rather rudely declined.” A few moments of silence passed, forcing him to add, “Miss Ridgeway was with her.”
“ Ah, ” Pemberton mused, drawing out the syllable. “And you realized she was not betrothed. Are you asking for a place at my table tonight?”
“I would greatly appreciate one.”
A little soprano laugh, so unlike what one would expect from the insipid hulk of a man, escaped Pemberton’s lips.
He sat up and downed the contents of his glass.
“I’d let you see her right now, if she weren’t holed up somewhere with her head in a damn book.
I’m afraid you’ll be rather bored for the next couple of hours. ”
Pemberton rose from the sofa and stretched. A thoughtful look came over his face. “By God, the two of you would make some more of a match, wouldn’t you? You’d never leave your bedchambers.”
Giles knew the statement had not been meant like that , hadn’t even been intended as a compliment, but warmth surged in his cheeks all the same.
He couldn’t stop himself from hearing the phrase’s alternate meaning, relishing the implication that a marriage between him and Isobel would be tireless and passionate.
One step at a time, you wolfish bastard , he chastised himself.
“About that,” Giles said, “what of her betrothal? What happened?”
“We’ll discuss it over port. Nasty business. I’m sick of hearing of it.” Pemberton was heading for the door, but paused for a final question. “Say, didn’t I tell you you were fortunate not to have gotten entangled with her?”
“I recall you saying something of the sort,” Giles said flatly.
Pemberton shrugged. “Oh, what’s the use. Us men desire what we desire, hm? Dinner is served at seven. Make yourself at ease, and oh—I daresay it’s your lucky day. Cook’s serving panfish. My fresh halibut, to be exact.”
With that final, proud pronouncement, Giles was left alone. He hoped it was his lucky day.
He blew out a tremendous breath, wishing he could wrangle his coat off so that he might breathe more easily. But he would never be able to get it back on by himself. Besides, it was more likely the prospect of spending all evening with Isobel Ridgeway that had his chest in knots.
?
“‘Unless your betrothed deems it necessary for propriety’s sake’,” Isobel repeated in a low, derisive mumble, crossing her arms forcibly over her chest. “What’s it to him if I marry?”
She picked up a pillow and, with a sharp grunt, threw it violently at the door. The action had already been taken when she realized that same door was opening.
The mass of white nearly throttled Betsey in the throat. It was quick reflexes only that spared both the maid and her silver tray, which was laden with the tea Isobel had requested. Horror shone in Betsey’s eyes, and Isobel leapt to her feet.
“I’m terribly sorry, Betsey.” Isobel reached her in a few strides, taking the weight of the tray into her own arms. “That was not intended for you.”
Betsey continued staring at her in a state of shock.
“Or anyone,” Isobel added, embarrassment causing her lips to tuck in. “It was not intended for anyone.”
Seeming unconvinced, Betsey left Isobel to take her solitary tea in bed.
Isobel could not help but question her own words. Had the airborne pillow truly been unintended for anyone, or would she have liked to wallop Lord Trevelyan with it?
She hated how reactive she was to his words. The way he had spoken them was half the affront: his eyes distant and emotionless, his tone clipped close with judgement. She had gathered her courage and sought him out, attempting to pay him a compliment, and that was the treatment she got?
The scene had been gnawing at her nerves ever since. It humiliated her enough that she hadn’t recounted what happened when she returned to the carriage with Marriane, but rode home in silence and shut herself in her chambers to fume.
Marriane burst through the door without warning. “Isobel! Whatever is the matter?”
She wore a muslin dress of French grey, a long string of pearls spilling down her front.
She came to Isobel’s bedside and sat, causing the cup of tea to quaver on its tray.
Isobel snatched it up and drew it to her mouth, not wanting to spare a drop.
“Nothing,” she said, licking the sweet residue from her lips.
“I merely wanted to rest this afternoon.”
One side of Marriane’s mouth ticked up distrustfully. “Mm … That does not explain why your maid looked horrified leaving this room. Does this have something to do with Trevelyan?”
Isobel scoffed. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m not daft. You practically fell out of the carriage when you saw him the second time, and seemed significantly less enthusiastic upon your return. What did you two speak about?”
“I spoke to him only briefly. It was not a conversation of consequence.”
Marriane nodded slowly, and then more firmly, until the weight of her body coerced the bed into a nodding motion, too. Her eyes were narrowed and catlike, seeking answers from her prey.
“Stop it,” Isobel cried, exasperated. “You’ll make a mess of my tray. I’ve given Betsey work enough this morning as it is.”
Her sister rose, taking a slow turn around the room and laying light touches on a brush, a ceramic figurine, Isobel’s divested stays. Isobel watched her with wary interest until she drew to an abrupt halt, turning on her heels to face the bed.
“Well, since you are not, in fact, cross with Lord Trevelyan, you won’t mind his dining with us.”
Isobel’s mouth opened to protest, then closed. Hadn’t he explicitly declined her invitation?
“Perhaps you will have a conversation of more consequence tonight?”
Isobel groaned and rubbed her eyes.
Marriane climbed into bed beside her, fixing a cup of tea for herself. “There is something else I wished to discuss with you.”
Isobel’s hand tightened on the linen sheets, drawing them up into her fist. “What is it? A letter?”
Marriane took her time before answering, busying herself with adding sugar to her tea. “I received a letter from Lady Venning,” she said in her quiet, authoritative way. “She is unable to sponsor you.”
Isobel’s limbs went heavy. She had a sudden desire to collapse into the mattress and let the folds of pillows and blankets consume her.
“Do not fret, however,” Marriane hastened to add, “for as you must remember, Lady Venning was our less likely candidate of the two. Her daughter is younger than you, just making her debut, and they have been in London since January. I daresay it will be much better if Lady Hambly can see to your coming out. After all, she and her connections were such an excellent aid to me.”
“What was her reason?” It changed nothing, but Isobel could not stop herself from asking.
“She cited the same concerns I have, Isobel.”
It was difficult not to feel disheartened by the odds heaped against her.
The Season’s significant events began in March.
The obligatory presentation of ladies before the Queen had passed.
Any light inquiries would reveal Isobel was all but promised to wed Elias.
Even if Lord Pemberton grew a heart and opened his purse strings to outfit her for a proper debut, Isobel’s chances of a successful Season were already mortally wounded.