Page 6 of The Lover’s Eye

Giles felt a surge of pride in his chest. “Yes.”

“If I thought my father would not kill me, I should walk it this very minute.”

He huffed a laugh, enjoying the strength that had mounted in her voice. Isobel looked at him, her eyes glimmering with pleasure. “What?” she asked a little self-consciously.

“I was only thinking how your father is in Kittwick.”

?

When Isobel returned to the portico doors, wearing as many fur-lined layers as Betsey could wrap around her, Trevelyan was waiting for her. He had donned a caped greatcoat of fawn-colored wool, a beaver hat, and gloves. Isobel was a little relieved for the large, boxy coat.

All throughout their tour of Cambo House, she’d been subject to the hard muscles of his arm under her hand, the sight of his broad shoulders and twinkling, curious eyes. Nothing had been done to conceal those. They landed on her now, with a warm smile to match.

“I hope I wasn’t too forward in my suggestion,” he said. “If you do not wish—”

“Oh, no,” Isobel interrupted. “Nothing settles my mind like a walk.”

As they stepped outside, the sting of cold air assailing their warm skin and burning their lungs, Isobel was sprung with a feeling of liveliness.

A low thrum of not-unpleasant tension hummed in her belly, a faint heightening of all her senses.

It was warm, unusual. And more than a little frightening. She never felt this way at home.

She never felt this way with Elias.

“This entire area will be purple with crocus soon,” Giles said, sweeping his arm over an indistinct patch of white. “And then we shall have snowdrop and daffodils—drat it, I need to cut back that cranesbill.” He frowned at an ice-covered shrub.

Isobel laughed, but stopped short when she saw the seriousness in his eyes. “You mean it? You really prune your own flowers?”

The air was dry and frigid, already pinkening his nose, but she could’ve sworn the color bled into his cheeks. “It’s, ah, a pastime of mine. I said I make no alterations to the house, but the gardens are another matter.”

“And suddenly, you impress me further.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could think the better of them.

She waited only long enough to see Trevelyan’s brows lifting before she extricated herself from his arm, stepping off the path.

She pretended to appraise a row of wintering plants, her fingers trembling from more than cold.

She was acting a fool with him, just as Lady Sempill warned her she might.

“These roses are beautiful, I’m sure,” she said quickly. “And is this an orchid?”

She crouched to examine a gnarled, brown specimen, turning it between her gloved fingers.

“Ah, I’m afraid your myrtle has died. Such a shame—I gifted my sister a myrtle trimming upon her marriage; they usually root quite easily.

Did you know they symbolize fidelity, purity, and love? Even in ancient Greece—”

Isobel stopped when she glanced up and saw Trevelyan’s face. Something like anguish contorted his features, his eyes clouded over with unspent feeling.

“Forgive me,” she said, rising and brushing her hands off on her cape.

She had almost forgotten about his infamous past, his almost marriage.

And based on the small, stemmy bit of myrtle gone lifeless in the dirt, it, too, could have been a gifted cutting.

Perhaps the woman herself had put it there.

Aurelia. That was her name.

“Don’t apologize,” said the man himself, suddenly real beside her again. “I’ll see it’s taken up.”

His countenance was cleansed of unpleasantness, but a new brand of tension existed between them. They were entirely strangers, and she would be wise to remember it.

Giles forced a small smile and Isobel took his arm again, though with more hesitance than before.

They stayed with the path, their leather boots crunching in the freeze until they reached a small, circular pond.

Rising on either side of it were twin stone staircases, which met high overhead in a broad terrace that promised excellent views of the garden.

“And what is over there?” Isobel asked, once they were standing abreast of the terrace. She could just make out another structure beyond the wall. “Your stables?”

“Yes. I’ve only recently got a fine set of matched greys to pull my phaeton,” Giles said. “I haven’t had the proper chance to try them for travel, but I daresay the pair of them could cover sixty miles in the work of a morning.”

“Good heavens,” Isobel mused. “Why, that is the distance from here to Cumberland.”

“I know.”

A slow, curving smile stretched Trevelyan’s lips, and something in it made her flush instantly. She looked away, back toward the sprawling view of house and garden. If she did not know any better, if she had not heard of the earl’s despondent grief, she might have thought him flirting with her.

“I suppose we must be heading back, lest I get a good scold from my maid,” Isobel said. Betsey had disapproved of their walk when she’d helped Isobel dress, citing an array of concerns that ranged from propriety to the couple’s likelihood of catching their death.

Without waiting for Trevelyan’s arm, Isobel started down the steps. She was suddenly impatient to be back indoors and by herself. Her mind was performing an obnoxious series of somersaults; perhaps the cold was going to her head.

Trevelyan’s footfalls were close behind her, distracting and steady, probably offended that she preferred to walk alone. Isobel had reached the final few steps when her foot connected with a layer of ice. She felt the total suspension of her balance and gasped, reaching toward the wall for support.

She never had the chance to reach it.

Trevelyan caught her in his arms with unforgivable ease. Like he’d anticipated her need. Like he didn’t mind the fact that she was now pressed against him, warmed by his body, even through all their cumbersome layers of clothing.

“Are you all right?” His voice was strained with concern, the light blue of his eyes flitting over her.

Isobel was reduced to staring up at him, her eyes huge with an amalgamation of different shocks: the shock of nearly falling, the shock of being held, and foremost, the shock of being so close against this devilishly handsome man, whom she had only just met.

“Yes,” she said at last. “Owed only to you.”

They quickly righted themselves, and Isobel took his arm this time, though with a tinge of bitterness. The contact—which had been foreign some hours before—now felt strangely chaste.

Upon entering the dry warmth of Cambo House, they began relieving themselves of their cold dampened outer garments.

“And your ankle?”

“It is fine, really,” Isobel said. Her host had been quizzing her on the wellbeing of every body part appropriate to name. Her face burned from the cold, and she touched the tip of her nose, barely able to feel it. She caught Trevelyan smiling at her. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just—you’ve a bit of snow …” He reached out a newly ungloved hand.

Isobel’s muscles tightened, not in apprehension, but out of a divine anticipation that was entirely out of her control. He was about to touch her. Face, hair, hat, she didn’t know—when someone cleared their throat sharply.

The pair turned at once. The aged butler was standing nearby, made nearly imperceptible by the shadows flanking the glass doors. “Pardon me, my lord, but there are some estate matters that require your attention.”

“Certainly,” Trevelyan said. He gave Isobel a last, quizzing look. “I shall see you at dinner, Miss Ridgeway?”

She nodded, finding it impossible not to smile back at him. She watched his tall frame recede as he took long strides away from her, his boots resonating on the tile.

Mr. Finch did not follow immediately, but remained standing in the half-light, staring at Isobel. When at last her gaze met his, all feeling of lightness dimmed.

She got the distinct impression that her pleasure was distasteful to him. The sharp glint of his eyes, his rigid posture, the hard set of his jowl, all seemed to communicate his blatant disapproval of her.

A chill ran down the length of her arms. Or was it her with Lord Trevelyan that he disapproved of?