Page 5 of The Lover’s Eye

Giles waited for his guest in the breakfast room. He knew his social skills had waned in the recent months he’d spent so disengaged from company, but he’d had no idea they were so bad as all that.

The awkward scene in the library presented itself to him over and over, his embarrassment and self-reprimand growing with each recollection until he was remembering a worse scene than had actually occurred.

He was determined to be the cool-tempered gentleman moving forward, to redeem his pride with the stolid masculine air he was known for.

He had even begun telling himself Isobel Ridgeway was not, in fact, as beautiful as she had first struck him.

He attributed his reaction to the fact that he had been so long out of company, and expected to see an average-looking woman cross the threshold of his breakfast room.

But when Isobel entered, wearing the same sweeping dress of parma violet, Giles swallowed.

For all his reprehensible behavior that morning, perhaps gawking at Miss Ridgeway was one act he could more easily forgive.

They regarded each other with a stiff, uncertain air, and Giles moved to help her into a chair.

“This is a lovely room,” Isobel said as the tea was poured. “All of Cambo House is lovely.”

“Have you seen much of it?”

“I—Well, no, I don’t suppose I have.” Her eyes widened hungrily as steaming plates of food were laid before them.

“Perhaps you will allow me to show you around after breakfast.”

Isobel raised her eyes to him, the first time she had done so since sitting down. He had been watching her, too, but they both diverted their gazes now.

“I would enjoy that.”

Most of their breakfast passed in painful silence. Giles was overly aware of each bite he chewed, each sip he swallowed, the noisy movement of the silverware in his hands. They attempted a feeble conversation about their mutual acquaintances, but found they seldom had any aside from the Pembertons.

“I must thank you,” Isobel said, following a particularly long break in conversation, “for being so good as to send your groom to Shoremoss Hall.”

Giles forced his eyes to remain on his plate. “Think nothing of it. I wanted to ensure Pemberton you had not befallen some harm.”

He saw her posture stiffen out of the corner of his eye and felt instantly guilty. Cool gentleman, he chided himself. Not mannerless scoundrel. He had sent his damned groom for her, and well he knew it.

Finch appeared in the doorway, holding a silver salver laden with a sealed letter. “Lord Pemberton was glad to receive your message, my lord. He thinks the roads might stand for Miss Ridgeway to travel tomorrow.”

“May I?” Miss Ridgeway was looking at him, eyes huge with expectation.

She was half out of her seat before Giles said, “Certainly.”

She snatched the letter, and without a falter in her stride, left the breakfast room. Finch raised his eyebrows in her wake.

Giles leaned back in his chair, spinning his teacup—a bad, nervous habit.

He stretched his legs under the table, tapped the toe of his boot.

The mantel clock became audible, and the uninterrupted ticking began to annoy him.

With a sigh, he kicked back his chair, smoothed his coat, and stepped into the hall.

One more stride would’ve sent him crashing into Miss Ridgeway. She was leaning against the wall, the letter held taut in her hands. The tension in her features made him fear the worst. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” Isobel said, lowering the letter. “Or so she tells me. It is difficult to know with her.”

“I see.” All he really saw was her. He should’ve backed away, put distance between them. He couldn’t seem to move.

She swallowed, extending the paper toward him. “Would you like to read it?”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“I would like you to.”

He held her gaze for a moment, smiling a little as he took the proffered letter.

Dear sister,

It pains me to know you traveled such distance, and in such a storm as we have had, no less.

I am happy to comfort you on my health, however.

I fear my dear husband might have given you a shock in writing to you.

I assure you I am feeling much better already, and warmly await your company in the coming days.

All my love,

Marriane

“It’s written in her hand, no doubt,” Isobel said, leaning toward him to analyze the fluid, cursive letters. She smelled of lavender soap and June roses, but the delectable feminine scent registered more like danger in Giles’s brain.

“That’s encouraging, then, isn’t it?” He raised his eyes. A little furrow still creased her brow, and he found himself desperate to ease it, wishing he could smooth it with a brush of his thumb.

She gently pried the letter from his hands and shrugged. “Marriane can hide a world of secrets behind her pretty letters. I intend to unearth them all, however, when we meet tomorrow.”

The determined glint in her eye broadened his smile, but in the same breath, he felt disappointment. Leaving tomorrow. And when would he see her then?

Likely never , and that would be just as well. He had grown weak in his willful solitude. Too much time around this sweet, soft-spoken creature was likely to be hazardous to his health.

“I’m not sure how well acquainted you are with my sister, Lord Trevelyan, but she’s quite perfect.

Nothing like me, as you surely have noticed, but that’s no matter—she’s different, now that’s she’s wed.

” Isobel folded the letter closed, running her fingers over its creases.

“She promised to invite me into her home, but never did. She likewise promised to visit Papa …”

“And that hasn’t happened, either?”

“No. So, when that letter arrived, I went quite off my head. I was willing to do anything to reach her.”

“As you have proven, setting out in a storm that’s likely to make history.”

She smiled then, a giggle rising from her, sweet and light. The furrow had eased, and Giles took some private pride in the fact he was the one to have banished it.

“I shouldn’t be laughing,” she said, raising a curved finger to her mouth. “It’s all quite horrible, isn’t it? And here I am, upending your household over my flight of fancy.”

“You haven’t troubled me in the least, Miss Ridgeway,” he said, and the significant intonation in his voice surprised even him.

What the devil had come over him? No trouble at all—try telling that to the version of himself resting in the library not four and twenty hours earlier, thrown half into a fit of rage by the news of her arrival.

But that was before he’d met her. Somehow, that made the whole ordeal perfectly sensible in his brain.

Miss Ridgeway took a deep, steadying breath, but her eyes glinted with tears of laughter. “I believe I’m done with hysterics now. My apologies.”

“This old house was in need of laughter, I assure you.” He offered his arm to her. “Would you care to see it?”

She stared at his arm for a moment, but met his eye as she slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow.

They moved slowly through the house, Isobel filled with compliments for the elaborate Corinthian columns in the dining room and the rich threads of the drawing room’s tapestries.

“I thank you, but none of the praise is owed to me,” Giles said as they ambled the perimeter of the breakfast room. “My mother, and my grandmother before her, are responsible for all you see. I haven’t touched so much as vase since my parents passed.”

Isobel looked up at him, as if taking his measure. “I think that’s good of you.”

Giles found himself ducking his chin like a bashful schoolboy, and cleared his throat. “What is your home like? You’re from Cumberland, you say?”

They started out of the room, appraising a collection of ceramics in the entry hall. “Oh, Ridgeway House is the typical country home. I have always found it perfectly comfortable, but it does not boast this amount of detailing. The best part is the grounds. And the library, of course.”

As time had passed, Isobel’s hand grew more comfortable on his arm, and she unconsciously squeezed it as they climbed a few stairs.

Giles tried, rather unsuccessfully, to ignore this. “Do you spend a good deal of time outdoors?”

“Yes,” Isobel admitted. “More than I should, according to everyone of my acquaintance. They fear for my petticoats and my complexion more than my happiness.”

Giles couldn’t prevent a smile. “Ah, I do not think one can spend too much time in nature. But if that is your way, you may appreciate this room as much as I do.”

They stepped into the central hall, and Isobel’s jaw gaped.

The room stretched upward to encompass both stories of the house, and glass panes in the coved ceiling let in a wash of bright light, spilling it over the stone balustrade and archways.

The room itself was empty, but the four arched walls depicted vibrant scenes of the Northumberland landscape and a plethora of native plants.

“This art is enchanting,” Isobel breathed, detaching from his arm to walk around the space. Giles took this opportunity to watch her, committing the sight of her to memory.

“The artist did such wonderful work. Why, this poppy looks real enough to touch, and this nightshade almost prettier than the real thing!”

Her small laugh echoed, and Giles walked up behind her. “My favorite is the bed of red campion,” he said, pointing up and over her shoulder. “I enjoy coming here in the winter. It is the closest replacement I know of for the summer gardens.”

Isobel smiled, tilting her face toward his. She was close. Much too close. “Do you have many gardens here, Lord Trevelyan?”

Rather than attempt words, Giles arched a brow and offered his arm in silent invitation.

At the south side of the house, a set of doors opened on a broad portico. Their view was largely one of undisrupted snow, but the prominence of a wall, a pond, and several mature trees could be made out.

“A walled garden?” Isobel asked, the disbelief palpable in her voice.