Page 27 of The Lover’s Eye

Isobel was still in a languorous daze the next morning when Betsey strode into her bedchamber, wide-eyed.

“What’s the matter?” Isobel asked, her words mangled by a mouthful of toast. Marriane was so pleased with her sister’s engagement, she had allowed her to take breakfast in bed and leave the more technical arrangements to her own good judgement.

“You have a caller,” Betsey said in a loud whisper.

Isobel froze, forcing a swallow on her food. “At this hour?”

Betsey nodded rapidly. “It is Lord Trevelyan.”

A sobering relief swept over Isobel. Why had she suspected anyone else?

She finished off her cup of chocolate in one large, decadent sip, a tiny trail of it running down her chin and threatening the crisp white of her nightdress. “Help me dress,” Isobel said, swiping the spill with the back of her hand. “Quickly, please.”

He was waiting for her in the drawing room she loathed, and rose to greet her.

The curtains were pulled fast over the windows in their usual fashion, but his timid smile seemed to bring a light to the space.

Isobel felt a lifting sensation in her stomach, like a cluster of butterflies had been awoken.

“Lord Trevelyan,” she said, giving a small bow. He gave her a cross look, one dark brow lifting, and Isobel giggled. She looked over her shoulder before amending, “ Giles. ”

“Ah, that’s much better,” he said, crossing the space between them until he was close enough for her to reach out and touch him.

Though her hands stayed at her sides, her eyes flickered over his lips in remembrance.

She longed to kiss him again. He seemed to divine her thoughts, for they curved into a smile as she watched. “Good morning, Isobel.”

“Please, have a seat,” she said, clearing her throat and settling onto the overstuffed chintz settee. “Is something the matter?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m sorry to trouble you so early.” Though Giles sat, his posture remained upright, his hands resting on the knees of his breeches. “I have secured a marriage license from the bishop this morning.”

“Already?” Isobel was powerless against the girlish grin that manipulated her mouth. “That’s wonderful.”

“Yes. It is only some other … matters I felt need to discuss with you.”

Her excitement waned into curiosity. She waited for him to speak, willing herself into patience.

She had another matter to speak with him about, too.

She had failed to broach that subject yesterday, too consumed by the harmonious, affectionate happiness between them.

But no matter how terribly she wished to forget, or how much she longed to never speak of it again, she had to tell Giles what had happened with Elias.

“I presume you know the custom of marrying in the parish where you reside,” Giles said. Isobel nodded hesitantly. “I wish for you to set the day of our wedding, so that I might make arrangements with Reverend Gouldsmith.”

Isobel’s eyes widened and fled to her lap. The father of his first bride was going to marry them. It was perfectly logical, a simple technicality which she should have already deduced—but she hadn’t.

“I assure you the reverend is a good and honorable man,” Giles continued. His voice sounded strained. “He will be most accommodating to your wishes, and discreet, if you wish it.”

She searched for words, trying her best not to sound as affected by the news as she was. “Marriane said she will handle the arrangements for me … I suppose I must ask her.”

“I would prefer the decision to come from you.”

Isobel found the delicate blue of his eyes settled on her. “What day do you think best?”

One of Giles’s eyebrows raised in response. Realizing she had been driven to making the decision unaided, Isobel lapsed into a moment’s consideration. “Would Saturday suit?”

He extended his hand to her, just as he’d done in the garden the day before. “Darling, there is not a day you could choose that wouldn’t suit me.”

Even as she took his hand, dread culminated to a single point in her chest. “There is one other thing,” she said quickly.

“Yes?”

She felt his eyes on her, but kept her head bent. “I am not sure if you are aware of—of certain events, which occurred before I left Cumberland.”

Giles shifted a little, lowering his voice to match hers. “Are you referring to Captain Sempill?”

Her eyes jerked up, tears welling in them instantly. So he did know some part of it. She did not know whether to be relieved or mortified, and only nodded in answer.

“Isobel.”

His voice was like honey, a comfort she hadn’t realized she was aching for. He moved closer to her, wrapping his arm lightly around her, his fingers working an easy pattern over her shoulder. “What happened to you, no part of it was your fault. You must know that.”

Isobel was useless to stop the tears from flowing down her cheeks. “Yes, but, you might think differently—”

“No.” Giles moved once again, bringing her closer, his thumbs swooping over her damp cheeks. “Nothing can change how I feel about you.”

She drew a shaky breath, searching his face. Even through the blurred veil of tears, she could read the genuine concern in his eyes. “Truly?”

He brushed her lower lip with his finger, as if to take her back to their kiss on the terrace, a moment that had distilled even her belief in his affection. “Truly.”

She laid her hands over his wrists and gave them a squeeze. It seemed this man was slowly putting her back together. No, she thought, he’s helping me put myself back together. Somehow, that was far more precious.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, brushing a kiss to her knuckles before relaxing back into the sofa cushions.

“No.” Isobel shook her head. He was muddling her brain, robbing her of half her senses just by being present. “I mean, yes.”

A slow, amused smile spread over Giles’s features. “But you could eat again?”

She laughed, but the sound was choked by a residual sob. “Yes,” she answered truthfully. She thought she might finish smothering her anxieties if she had a second cup of chocolate.

A small tray was brought a few minutes later, laden with a few pastries, Isobel’s chocolate, and Giles’s coffee.

She began to relax as they talked and ate.

The drawing room, which always felt too cramped, suddenly became not close enough.

She wanted to be nearer, nearer—in his arms, consumed by his kiss.

She brought out the commonplace book he had given her, and they delved into a discussion of their favorite quotes and Odysseus’s transformation.

His strength was inspiring, borne more of wisdom, humility, and perseverance than of raw force.

Flipping through the scrawled pages, remembering the weeks of frightened confinement during which she had written them, Isobel felt profoundly grateful for where she sat now.

She, like Odysseus, seemed to be finding her way home.

It was only when their conversation turned back to their wedding that Isobel felt a hint of nerves return.

“Right,” Giles said, setting down his empty cup and crossing an ankle over his knee. “We’ll keep things quiet then, just Pemberton and your sister.”

“And you feel certain that will not be an issue with, um, with Reverend Gouldsmith?” Isobel played with the printed cotton of her gown. “I cannot guess at the nature of your relationship, given …”

Giles’s posture changed as she spoke, and she let her sentence die off.

He smoothed his hands over his coat, a habit she was beginning to realize denoted his discomfort.

“He will perform the ceremony without any difficulty or malice. I have no doubt of that. I also have no doubt you have … heard things, about me.”

Isobel was gripped by a desire to ease his fears, even at a little expense to the truth. “Oh, not really—”

The cold look he gave silenced her. “I know you have. Hell, everyone has.” He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath.

“That does not mean I believe them.”

“Then you are giving me a kindness I’m not worthy of.

I have done things I’m not proud of, things I never wish for you to know.

Things I do not want to bring into our life together.

” When he opened his eyes, the intensity of his gaze was enough to startle her.

“Perhaps you will not think it fair of me, but I would be grateful if you made me a promise.”

Isobel’s lungs began to burn, and she realized she had quit breathing. “What?”

“Not to meddle in that part of my history, nor ask about it.”

“What part of your history?” she asked, even as her stomach dropped, as she acknowledged she was goading him, and would not like what came next.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Anything that pertains to Miss Gouldsmith.”

?

By the time Giles’s carriage was returning to Cambo House, the sky was heavy with storm clouds, flickers of lighting turning them violet as they crept in and headed toward the coast. What a day.

He reached into his pocket, drawing out the little parcel he’d gotten from the jeweler that morning. Wrapped in delicate silver paper was an emerald cut sapphire. The stone reminded him of the sea at its darkest hour, positioned east to west in a curious, rectangular shape perfect for his bride.

Giles tilted the ring this way and that by the hazy carriage window, dark glimmers of light catching the stone’s blue depths.

He had been unwise to think the business would be easy now.

That just because Isobel had said yes —that one, singularly brilliant word that simultaneously sated and scorched him—his past wouldn’t follow.

It clung to him like a silent shadow. It was everywhere, forever lurking at the periphery. What sordid tales had Isobel heard about it? What conclusions had she drawn?

He would never know, because in a sudden fit of overwhelming panic, he’d made her promise not to question him about Aurelia.