Page 46 of The Lover’s Eye

“Where have you been?” Giles’s eyes were sharp, receiving Isobel the moment she crossed the threshold of Cambo House.

“I-I went to Shoremoss,” she said, swallowing. “To breakfast with Marriane. Did one of the servants not tell you?”

“They did, but I could not make sense of it. You had me worried senseless,” he said, bending to wrap her in a hug and kiss her. “I’m just glad you’re home.”

He noticed a hint of reserve in her lips. It was a minor alteration in feeling, but undoubtedly different from the surrendering warm kisses he’d grown accustomed to. “Is something the matter?” he asked, drawing his face back.

Isobel shook her head quickly, smiling up at him. There was a slightly different look about her eyes. Was it tiredness?

“No, everything is perfectly well,” she said cheerily. “I was thinking of hosting a luncheon for some of the local ladies, so that I might become acquainted with our neighbors. Would you oppose such a plan?”

Giles’s brows edged closer together, and he studied her smiling face for an extended moment. Hm. Something off about that smile, too, if he knew his wife. “No, of course I don’t object. But are you certain—”

She lifted on her tiptoes to plant a fleeting kiss on his cheek. “Excellent,” she said, already heading down the corridor away from him. “I must begin on the invitations.”

Giles stared after her in perplexity.

?

Isobel spent the next week immersed in her task. By the time Saturday rolled around, she felt her sister might just be a genius. Isobel had been religiously following two pieces of Marriane’s advice—make every effort to let the past rest, and pretend everything is perfect.

This had seemingly worked on the cook and Mrs. Taylor, who had been working closely with Isobel to plan the invitations, décor, and menu for the ladies luncheon.

Even Smooch appreciated the frequent trips to the kitchen, where she might earn a trimming or scrap, and had begun to accompany Isobel belowstairs of her own accord.

And then there was that third piece of offhand advice Marriane had given. Don’t ever deprive your husband of pleasure.

It had been said as a commandment to maintain a happy marriage, but Isobel was following her own heart’s desires rather than her sister’s advice. Luckily for her, sharing a bed with Giles was a mutual joy.

“Giles, I must get up,” she groaned, the words becoming a mumbled whine against the compression of his mouth on hers. “It is my big day. The ladies will start arriving in a few hours and there is still much to do.”

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the ladies,” Giles said, moving lower to rest his head between Isobel’s breasts. She sighed under the pleasant pressure and ran her hands over the breadth of his warm shoulders.

His hand began creeping downward, grazing the tops of her thighs. “I feel sure Mrs. Taylor has the preparations well in hand. Don’t you?” His fingers eased between her legs, stroking lightly.

Isobel’s body answered with shameless quickness, pooling with warm desire and shifting to afford him easier access. She let out an exasperated chuckle, her muscles falling limp. “Five more minutes. No more.”

Twenty exhilarating minutes later, Isobel rose from the bed and began sponging the sweat from her body, finding the cooled water from her basin refreshing. “What can I do to win Mr. Finch’s regard?”

“That is not how it works, dearest,” Giles said, stepping into his breeches. “You have his respect, and you certainly do not need to work for his esteem.”

“But I want to. I feel everyone is growing accustomed to me but him.”

Giles sighed. “Perhaps you could ask him about the old china. He could talk on its origins from dusk ’til dawn.”

Isobel gasped, her mouth drawing into a smile. “You’ve given me the grandest idea. I can request we use your mother’s tea service for our luncheon today. You know, the black and gold one he so likes?”

“I know it well,” Giles said, crossing the room to tend her lips with a slow, tender kiss. His large hands were warm and encompassing against her cheeks, and smelled faintly of the tender earth in the walled garden. “Do whatever you wish, my love, but do not do it for him.”

She smiled after him as he left her chamber. She had felt more at ease in the last week than she’d dreamt possible. It seemed the more time she spent alone with her husband, the closer they grew, and the shorter the shadows of his past became.

Betsey helped Isobel into a stunning gown of blush colored muslin, adorned with silk ribbons and rosettes along the sleeves and hem.

She fussed over her straight hair with curling tongs until it framed her face in little black ringlets.

With the addition of a gold bandeau in her hair and a careful selection of jewelry, Isobel looked the part of a countess.

Not that she felt it. That was where the pretending intervened.

“What did Mr. Finch say when you asked for the special tea service to be brought out?”

“He didn’t say anythin’,” Betsey said with a huff. “He hardly speaks to me, and one can never tell what he’s about.”

“I will take great care with it,” Isobel said, setting her shoulders back and turning to appraise all angles of her toilette in the looking glass. “Now, it is time for my first guests to be arriving.”

After seeing the table arranged in brilliant form that made her proud to be hostess, Isobel waited in the entry hall for her guests.

Her heart droned a low, insistent beat, different from the attraction-tinged electricity Giles made her feel.

A sensation akin to the pressure of drawing rooms and ballrooms—a constant self-awareness, a crippling desire to please and show herself in a favorable light.

Giles peeked his head around a nearby door. “Anyone arrived yet?”

“No,” Isobel said, her voice almost a whimper. Her white satin slipper beat a tattoo on the tile floor.

“Do not fear.” He walked up to place two reassuring hands firmly on her shoulders. “It will go off splendidly, I’m sure.”

“Thank you,” Isobel smiled, reaching up a hand to squeeze his. “Will you stop in and greet them?”

He let his head sag dramatically on his shoulders and groaned. “Must I?”

“Giles, they will wish to see you, too! Perhaps if you only stopped in for a minute?” She laughed, hoping she could make the proposition enticing.

“If you wish it.”

The sound of horses on the drive precipitated the appearance of Isobel’s first arrival, and Giles swiftly disappeared into his library. The footman opened the door to a stout woman in her mid-thirties, with a shock of blonde hair and a wide smile of bright little teeth.

“Oh, Lady Trevelyan, how lovely to make your acquaintance!” No sooner than she had taken Isobel’s hand, her eyes drifted heavenward, as if to absorb the high ceilings of Cambo House.

She gave Isobel’s hand a succession of little pats that were none too gentle.

“I am Mrs. Heppel, your neighbor. I am sure your husband has spoken of mine.”

“Oh yes,” Isobel said through her smile. “It is lovely to meet you. Welcome to Cambo House, Mrs. Heppel.”

The next half hour saw a procession of local ladies arriving, each returning Isobel’s smile.

They all seemed nice enough, but she did not miss the cursory glance they each gave her, their eyes lilting up and down her narrow frame with interest. Isobel knew what questions must lay abreast of their minds: What sort of woman captured Lord Trevelyan’s interest, and so quickly?

She prayed they weren’t comparing her to Marriane, and especially not to Aurelia, but knew it to be out of her control.

Her true work would occur around the table.

Make them like you so well they cease their talking , Isobel silently recited another of her sister’s mantras, trying to ignore the way it chafed in her mind.

Marriane was the last to arrive, and Isobel was obligated to linger by the door until she did.

“Forgive me,” Marriane said, trudging up the stairs and dabbing her mouth with an embroidered handkerchief.

Her complexion looked sallow against her lemon-colored dress. “I’ve been a trifle ill this morning.”

Isobel reached her while she was still ascending the stairs and supported her by the elbow. “Are you well? Is the baby well?”

“I demand that he or she must be,” Marriane said with an undercurrent of disdain. “I am suffering enough there ought to be some reward awaiting me.”

Isobel helped her sister to a drink of cool water before they joined the waiting guests in the drawing room. They had not sat through five minutes of idle talk before Mr. Finch arrived to announce luncheon was ready.

A mingling chorus of slippers and heels tinkered across the tile as the party filed into the corridor and followed the butler.

“Where is he taking us?” Mrs. Heppel asked in a not-so-quiet whisper. “We’ve passed the dining room.”

Isobel could not keep a smirk from pricking her lips. Giles often noted he had little use for the central hall, despite it being the most exquisite space in the house, and that had given Isobel the idea of hosting her luncheon there.

A long table had been moved into the space, and little vases of flowers clipped fresh from the gardens lined it. The first tulips and greenery, along with bluebells and crocus, lent their bright, tangy scent to the space.

The massive arches allowed the group to float in as one, rather than file in in the traditional manner. Isobel surveyed the scene with great pleasure, her eyes drifting over to gauge her guests’ reactions. She thought them awestruck when their mouths gaped.

Mrs. Heppel was the first to speak. “Oh,” she said, her voice like a wind gust. “Oh, my.”

Two of the women exchanged low whispers, and one pretended to adjust her necklace. Even Marriane did not smile.

“I thought we could dine here, since the hall is so little used,” Isobel announced, smiling overbright. She gestured upward, adding, “It is a fine day outside, so there will be no draft.”