Page 32 of The Lover’s Eye

Isobel had much rather continue being in Giles’s embrace than think about ‘that business’—writing to her father. But she acknowledged the necessity of it.

News of her and Trevelyan’s marriage would spread like Greek fire.

Though Lord Ridgeway seldom journeyed beyond Kittwick, he was well connected socially by the flapping jowls of Lady Sempill.

Oftentimes he ignored her, missing even the most scandalous tales in lieu of petting his beloved cat, but there was no way he wouldn’t take an immediate, outraged interest in the clandestine marriage of his own daughter.

Isobel felt nauseous. Before, his reaction had been a probability to think on with apprehension. Now, it was reality. She was a married woman, and had defied the assurance she’d given her papa before leaving.

She had been dishonest. Deceived him out of necessity, yes, but that didn’t absolve her of all guilt.

There was a mahogany escritoire in her bedchamber, already stocked with various types of parchment and a beautiful, silverplate double inkwell. She took her seat, her heart pulsing with a different—and far less pleasurable—excitement than when Giles had been in the room.

The memory of his recent touch flooded her brain, and she blushed for no one at all. She had never imagined hopping into bed with him the same morning as their wedding, but she certainly didn’t regret it. And to think, she had questioned if theirs would be a marriage of convenience?

Not hardly. The answer was written everywhere, emblazoned in every touch and slipped beneath every spoken word: they cared for one another.

It took an exorbitant length of time for Isobel to find the right words to pen to her father.

She decided that when one secretly married a suitor already rejected by their parent, no words felt right at all.

Even as she struggled, waiting so long between words that each appeared to be written in a different, shaky hand, there was peace deep within her heart.

Isobel had complete certainty she had done the right thing in marrying Giles Trevelyan. The affection he was raising in her was unlike anything she had ever experienced. He was so tender and respectful, she felt like laying herself at his feet.

She smiled to herself, knowing if she did such a thing even in jest, he would probably pick her up and tell her she must think better of herself.

Their lunch was unfortunately abbreviated by Mr. Finch, who called Giles away on estate business.

As Isobel picked at her cold dish, she almost wished they had taken a honeymoon away, like Marriane and Pemberton had.

She began to daydream about what countries they might venture to, what experiences they might share.

She broached the subject when they rejoined for dinner.

“I’m afraid we cannot go far until Napoleon is defeated,” Giles said. “Though the war’s end is looking more hopeful, my dear.”

Isobel flushed to the crown of her head at the term of endearment. She basked in his intimacy. “Did you have a Grand Tour?”

He shook his head. They had taken seats next to each other, ignoring the look it earned from Finch. Isobel decided the unfriendly gaze had been worth it, now that she was peering close into her husband’s face, watching his lips curve around the edge of his glass.

“My upbringing was of a different sort. I had a tutor here, of course, and then went off to university. But my father was ill enough by my seventeenth year I knew it best to stay here and ensure the estate ran smoothly.”

Isobel felt sorrow for him. Losing her own mother had been difficult, the absence growing more marked with age and each new stage of life.

She had been so young, she had few fully formed memories of her mama.

It was difficult to imagine what Giles had been through, losing both parents.

It made her even more anxious to hear back from her own father and make amends at the earliest opportunity.

“I’m terribly sorry you went through that,” she said.

Giles lifted his head to smile at her, and ran his hand from her shoulder to the bent of her elbow. “You’re very kind, but there’s no need to pity me. Cambo House was more important to me then, too. Enough so that I did not miss the loss of travel like you might imagine.”

“Do you not have an interest in it?”

His expression turned pensive, and he took a long moment to chew a bite of food before answering.

“It wasn’t that. The other boys, well, let’s just say they weren’t very fond of me.

I was a bit of a curiosity, what with my books and my hair.

I doubt very much that I would have enjoyed a tour in their company.

I don’t know that they wouldn’t have tried to toss me off some distant bridge or other. ”

He met Isobel’s horrified expression and sat down his silverware. “I’m only jesting,” he said, putting his hand back on her elbow.

“I can see that’s not true.”

He grinned. “Nothing much gets by you, does it?”

She returned his smile tentatively, but her heart still ached at the revelation.

“It’s been a long time, now. I seldom think of it anymore. That’s how I grew to know Pemberton, actually. He was about the only lad who would stand at my defense. He was a rude, hulking creature, even then.”

This loosened a laugh from her, and they spent the rest of their meal in pleasant conversation.

To her dismay, Betsey had yet to arrive by the time dinner concluded, and another of the servants was sent to prepare her a hot bath. She and Giles lingered at the base of the stairs.

“Hopefully she will be arrived by the time you are finished with your bath,” he said, staring at his boots and lightly tapping one foot.

“Yes, hopefully so.”

Giles gave a little nod and made a motion to depart for the library. Isobel scrambled for words she didn’t have—all her allicient sensuality had ceased to exist beyond the walls of her bedchamber.

“And then I will read my book,” she said, a little too loudly.

He turned to look at her, a sweet smile of amusement at his lips. “Excellent. You must let me know what you make of it.”

“Perhaps you might come and ask me?” Isobel asked in a much softer tone, sparks and heat threatening to burn the flesh from her face.

“I shall do that,” he said, his own demeanor turning giddy. With his hands in his pockets, he gave a parting grin and disappeared into the library.

His dog, which Isobel had been humored to discover was named Smooch, appeared out of thin air and raced after him. The beautiful spaniel had yet to come close to her, much less permit her touch. Just one more individual to win over in her new home.

In her chambers, Isobel allowed the maid acting in Betsey’s stead to help her out of her dress and stays.

From there, she dismissed her, handling her stockings and chemise herself.

There was a fire burning in the grate to stave off the cold night, and the hot water in the portable tub felt exquisite against her skin.

Isobel exhaled, settling into the water. Cambo House had seemed so imposing the first time she’d seen it some four months earlier. She was far from at her ease, but in less than a day she had developed hope that she could make this her home. Love living here, even.

Tomorrow she would have to set about meeting the staff and making a good first impression.

They must be as wary of her as she was of them.

All she needed to show them was her kindness, and reassure them she would not uproot or ridicule their well-run routines.

Mr. Finch, however, might prove more difficult.

She stayed in the bath until the water grew chilled. She was freezing by the time she got out, gooseflesh springing up all over her body as she dried and pulled a nightdress over her head.

The same servant returned to take away the bath things and stoke the fire, but Isobel declined any further aid. She tended to her own hair and put on a warm dressing robe before settling onto the chaise by the hearth.

She got several pages into Giles’s book, but found her mind continued to wander.

Recollections of his lips against her own, his body lying next to her, his fingers —fluttered in her mind and heightened all her nervous sensibilities.

She knew what to expect from consummating the marriage, but nothing could settle the unquiet in her stomach.

Nothing but him coming to her room and distracting her in the way he had proven to be so damnably skilled at.

Isobel sat the book aside and began an ambling pace around the room.

One of her trunks had already arrived and been unpacked.

She toyed with the bristles of her brushes, sifted through her dresses.

Even though she’d had no intention of returning to Cumberland, she had only packed a fortnight’s worth of goods.

Anything more would have aroused suspicion.

There were so many of her things still at Ridgeway House; it was one of the points she’d mentioned in her letter to her father.

The arms of the little mantel clock limped onward. Isobel paused as she passed the door that opened into the corridor. Absolute silence.

She began to grow irritated, then concerned. The silence seemed to grow louder, until the absence of sound was more vexing than an overabundance of it would have been.

She gathered her courage, set her shoulders, and passed through the dressing room.

Giles’s bedchamber was saturated in shades of dark blue. It suited him in its simplicity, and it smelled like him, making her heart ache a little. There was a clutter of books on the table beside his bed, and a circular rumple on the covers that she approximated to be the exact size of Smooch.

Isobel smiled gloomily, receding to her own room. Had he changed his mind about her? He had shown concern for her comfort and readiness, why hadn’t she offered the same courtesy?

A light knock sounded against her door.

“Oh, finally ,” she said under her breath. Just seeing Giles would be enough now.

Isobel opened the door, her mouth an expectant smile. Her expression dropped. “Oh, it’s you, Betsey.”

The lady’s maid entered, her movements swift and jerky. She had a pained expression about the forehead and breathed rapidly through an open mouth. “I am so terribly, awfully, sorry, miss.”

“It’s really quite all right,” Isobel said, walking back to the chaise and trying to conceal her increasing disappointment. Having had to dress herself and brush her own hair was the least of her concerns.

“To be so calm—you are better than I!”

Isobel stopped, turning slowly to face her. Apprehension seeped into her body, her voice. “What are you speaking of, Betsey?”

“Wait,” Betsey said, pausing mid-pant. “What are you speaking of?”

Isobel gripped the back of the chaise between her fingers. “If you are not apologizing for your own absence, what has happened?”

Betsey wet her lips, her hands needling around the handle of the bag she held. “It is Miss Gouldsmith, miss. They come to Shoremoss saying her body has washed up.”