Page 26 of The Lover’s Eye

Giles spent the next two hours in repressed anger, which showed itself in the tapping of his foot.

The black porcelain teacup before him was not fit to be toyed with, being some half-century old treasure of his late mother’s, so he picked at the fleshy areas around his fingernails beneath the tablecloth.

“The designs for some of these new boats are damnably stupid,” Pemberton said, dipping his hand into the deep bowl. It emerged clasping two little cakes. “You’d think the fellows inventing them had never sailed a day.”

“Many men stick to the rivers, dear,” Marriane said. She hadn’t stopped scowling since her husband had jilted her during the seating of the phaeton. “The North Sea is notoriously dangerous.”

Pemberton made a hasty comeback, some derision of any man’s character who did not wish to risk his life on the icy seas. It would be a long enough argument, Giles thought, to tune them both out and observe Isobel instead.

He felt a warm rush fill his limbs when he found her eyes already on him. His restless foot stilled at once, one corner of his mouth ticking into a smile. Isobel’s eyes softened, narrowing beneath long black lashes as she smiled back.

There had always been a bedrock of tension between them, from the moment of their first meeting.

It had ebbed and flowed between feelings of hope and promise, to tones of awkwardness and distrust, but their candid discussion in the Pemberton’s garden had altered it into something new.

The invisible link was sweeter, somehow, tinged with mutual approval and an inner relish of some private scheme.

Looking at Isobel, Giles felt easy in his decision to make his intentions known—giddy with hope, even.

Yet the reality of his bold offer was not lost on him.

He had never dreamt of being the sort of man who would wed a woman in haste, without a proper few months of courtship and the approval of her family.

He could argue he barely knew Isobel, that the strength of his feeling should both frighten and surprise him. But it simply did not.

Giles often credited himself with good sense, but looking back at his very public betrothal to Aurelia and now this hasty pursuit of Isobel, he began to fear he had no scruples about women whatsoever.

Do not compare them, he rebuked himself. You must never compare them.

A silence lapsed over the table as Finch supplied them with more hot water and cakes.

“This tea service is positively beautiful,” Isobel said, her eyes shyly engaging the old butler. “Lord Trevelyan said bringing it out was your suggestion.”

Finch sat down the teapot as if it were the gilded peacock emblazoned on the object’s side, and not a common household item.

His movements were so haltingly cautious, not even a click could be heard as the piece returned to its tray.

“Yes, miss, it is an exquisite set. It belonged to the late Lady Trevelyan. It has been a favorite among some of our guests here at Cambo House.”

“That will be all, Finch, thank you,” Giles said, more sternly than he had intended. It was bad enough the old bastard insisted on serving them himself to protect the old relics; Isobel didn’t deserve a history lesson in return for her attempted kindness.

When the group rose to go to the walled garden, Giles offered his arm to Isobel. She flashed a glance at him before looping her hand through the crook of his elbow. Even the minute touch was a salve to his frustration.

He was leading the way through the central hall when Marriane held back on her husband’s arm. “Trevelyan, would you mind if Martin and I stayed back a moment? I do love admiring the art so.”

“Certainly,” he said. “Stay as long as you please.” Giles would have knocked down the stone balustrades and sent them home with Lady Pemberton if he thought it would keep her and her husband away for the span of a moment.

A footman opened the portico doors for the couple to exit.

Isobel hovered on the top step, letting out a wistful sigh, as if she had finally returned home after a long, arduous journey.

She did not comment on the timid, vibrant green lawn reviving itself around the pond, or the early blooms bordering the paths in clusters.

The admiring look that danced in her eyes spoke for her.

“I apologize for Pemberton,” she said, once they had reached the bottom of the stairs. “I fear he has made today something quite different than what you intended.”

Giles guided her along the main path, toward the arching stone staircases. As much as he wanted to whisk her down the more secluded lanes for maximum privacy, he felt obligated to observe propriety. He had broken enough gentlemanly conduct already.

“Ah,” he said, smiling at the implication of her words. “And what is it you suppose I intended?”

Isobel’s cheeks flushed the shade of pink viburnum. “Forgive me, I—”

Giles squeezed her arm playfully. “I am only joking with you. You are correct, if you assume I’ve been hoping desperately to get you alone, though it’s not your place to apologize for old Pemberton.”

“Even after this morning?”

“Especially after this morning.”

They separated when they reached the stone terrace, gravitating toward the walled edge and looking out at the garden below.

“I take it you and your sister discussed my proposition on the drive over?”

Isobel’s eyes widened. “I was hoping you had not overheard us. I apologize, how terribly impertinent, I-I should have waited for a private moment.”

“Do not apologize,” he said, his hand inching nearer to hers on the walled edge. His brow held a slight crease, but his eyes were warm with kindness. “You apologize too damned much, Miss Ridgeway.”

He held her gaze until her shoulders relaxed. “And I did not hear. I only assumed, for Pemberton gave you the best opportunity when he put up the dashed canopy.”

Isobel laughed at that, the sound high and sweet, eddied with amusement. “That was terribly ridiculous.”

“What are your thoughts after having spoken to her?”

Isobel’s lips pursed in some remembrance, her eyes turning appraising of the scene below. Giles winced. Evidently not all of their discussion had been favorable.

“I am certainly amenable to the idea,” she said at length. She turned her face up to his. “But I am also frightened.”

“Of me?” His pulse turned thready. Isobel had reason to fear potential suitors after how Sempill had treated her, but Giles also knew rumors swirled about his own name.

Some people speculated he was to blame for Aurelia’s disappearance, that he was a violent man who had caught her with another and acted in vengeance.

It was a baseless accusation, but that only deepened the wound.

“Why, of course not.” Isobel slid her hand further down the rough grained wall until it bumped the edge of his. “It is my papa, and the Sempills, and …”

“What?”

“I suppose I want to be certain it’s a fair arrangement for you. I am keenly aware I have nothing to offer you but myself, and that is very little.”

In one smooth motion, he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her toward him.

“Lord Trevelyan, remember anyone can see us from the portico, and they may be out at any moment,” she said, her eyes struggling to focus on him.

“I would say it front of them, too, I do not give a wit. Miss Ridgeway, if you are to be my wife, you must not speak of yourself in such a depreciating manner. I am not a man of rules, but by God, I won’t allow you to do such a thing.”

A swallow disrupted the tender front of her neck. She nodded in understanding.

Giles could hardly believe he’d said the words aloud, that he had the need to. If you are to be my wife. It was a dream that had been too elusive—too brilliant—to place faith in.

“You have much to offer. I have enjoyed our conversations immensely. We have many shared interests, and I find you to be a singularly beautiful woman. I would not have hinted at such an arrangement if I, myself, was not willing to it.”

He could see in her eyes that his words only pooled upon the surface of her understanding. Enough to engender a genuine, girlish smile and a bashfully bent chin, but not enough to penetrate her belief. Christ, what had she been told her whole life to think so poorly of herself?

Enough dawdling about. He was going to set to rights the misunderstanding that had begun that morning.

He moved his hands from her shoulders up to the soft curve of her jaw, a gentle pressure that begged her attention.

“What you said this morning—I wanted to correct you. It isn’t convenience I want. It’s you.”

Isobel’s shyness burned away in the afternoon sun, and she looked so unaccountably beautiful between the cradle of his hands, Giles’s body ached. Her brows flinched, giving way to a smile that lay somewhere between disbelief and mischief. “Perhaps you shall have both. For I—I want you, too.”

Giles smiled like he hadn’t smiled in years. Like he hadn’t ever smiled. Like the world had been melted and poured into one perfect moment, one exquisite woman, and he held her between his thumbs.

He closed the distance between them with a slow step, the tips of his fingers edging into her neatly pinned hair.

He bent his head, electrified from head to toe with anticipation and burning with longing.

All these months, these damnable, torturous dreams that died with the dawn, and now— now, he was finally going to kiss her.

There was a split second where he paused, realizing Isobel might have no desire to kiss him or anyone else, given what she had been through. But before he could give voice to concern, she clasped the lapels of his coat and pulled his mouth against hers.

The effect was immediate. She made her desires known, allowing him to give into his.

Giles forgot about propriety, about the likelihood of onlookers gathering on the portico below, the milieu of problems that awaited them in the days to come.

His lips closed on hers, not in the tentative manner he had planned, but consuming and searching and insatiable—

The kiss he had wanted to give her all along.

Isobel leaned into him, as if entrusting him to catch her, to hold her like this forever. She was roses and sugar, her hair threads of satin between his fingers. Her hands moved to his neck, brushing against the wildness of his pulse, and he reawakened to their surroundings.

“Isobel,” he breathed, catching his breath. Their faces were still inches apart, his fingers still twined in her hair. A loose tendril strayed in the breeze, and he reached to capture it, smoothing it behind her ear. “May I call you that now?”

Her eyes were something other than grey just now; they were darker, her pupils larger, cresting with something he dared to hope was desire. The sight nearly undid him, almost had him stretching for another kiss, when a scuffle drew their attention toward the house.

Lady Pemberton was shoving her husband back inside, kneeing him in the arse when he resisted. Isobel laughed softly, lowering her hands to her sides. Her cheeks turned an illuminating shade of pink, and she fussed with her rumpled hair and skirt.

“Yes,” she said through a little sigh. “You may, Giles.”

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had used his real name, and to hear it coming from those lips, their color still heightened from his kisses, was pure ecstasy.

“Is that a yes, then?” he asked with a wide grin. “You’ll marry me, Isobel?”

She looked up at him through her lashes, the disbelief gone from her smile, and nodded. “I will.”