Page 7 of The Lover’s Eye

Isobel lay beneath the cover of the fourposter bed, staring dumbfoundedly at the gold drapery. Her body was betraying her.

She used to wonder if she was even capable of feeling attraction, but dinner with Trevelyan had cleansed her of any remaining doubts.

They had spoken of Aristotle, of Homer, of their favorite varieties of orchids and their favored places to walk.

By the end of it, they had completely forgotten the presence of the staff wavering tiredly by the sideboard, as well as the total absence of a chaperone—or anyone else who might have tempered the passionate height their conversation reached.

When after dinner Trevelyan had asked her if she wished to see the library, Isobel had said no. An admirable show of will, really. For the first time in her life, Isobel didn’t trust herself.

The intellectual conversation, so foreign and affirming, paired with an extra glass of claret and those dratted blue eyes left her frightened.

Isobel knew if she went into that library she would do something stupid.

Probably become an outrageous flirt and try to kiss him, only to wake up mortified the next day.

Even now, lying in bed, she felt vulnerable.

The trouble had never been with her, but with her limited scope of living.

She had looked at courtship and marriage in one light only, a haze carefully curated by the adults around her: wife to Elias Sempill, or wife to none.

The room to dream had not been there at all.

To envision a marriage that would be a union, a safe place where her voice would have worth and merit, was like making a scintillating discovery. It was a goal worth desiring.

But not with Lord Trevelyan. Only chance brought them together, and tomorrow, it would separate them. He was a solitary man, and the only woman he had ever considered marrying was gone.

?

Isobel awoke to fine rays of sunlight the next morning, strong enough to warm the glass panes of her window. Melting slush dripped from the roof, and the few holes burning through the snow revealed a reviling mud slush.

Betsey brushed out Isobel’s long, thick hair. “’Tis a good thing, your leaving for Shoremoss Hall today.”

“Of course it is, I am quite desperate to at last lay eyes on Marriane.” Isobel turned back a moment later, her eyes narrowing. “Why do you say it as a scold?”

“I seen the way you were lookin’ last night. You’ve got a tendre for the earl after just one day.”

Isobel scoffed.

“Know I don’t blame you, ’fore you get in a fuss,” Betsey interjected.

“He’s a handsome man, and you a girl seldom allowed in company.

But it ain’t right, your spending all that time alone, especially—” Her small, thick fingers paused mid-brushstroke, and she abandoned the task in search of hairpins.

“What?” Isobel asked.

The word became her refrain as Betsey, shaking her head, continued to search for the pins. “It just ain’t right, as I said!” she insisted on a firm whisper.

Isobel turned full around in her chair, gripping the back of it in her hands.

“You know something. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve never been any good at keeping secrets.

” Betsey pulled a face. “It’s the truth, and a quality I rather like in moments such as this.

It allows me to insist you share what you learnt. ”

The maid looked around in nervous habit, finding only the empty bedchamber for company. “There’s idle talk, is all.”

Isobel’s jaw set angrily.

Betsey lowered her voice another increment. “Some of the earl’s staff, well they says his missing bride might not be dead after all.”

Whatever Isobel had been expecting, it wasn’t this. Her blood cooled. Aurelia . When she was with Trevelyan, she could almost forget, but there was always something to force a reminder over her.

“What can they mean?” Isobel asked, not loosening her grip on the chair.

“She was never found, Miss Gouldsmith weren’t. They say she come here one night, alone. She went into the library with the earl, just the two of ’em, and after she left, she were never seen again.”

These details would have been easier to bear before.

Before Isobel knew Lord Trevelyan, experienced the quiet comfort of his library and admired the books shelved within it.

Before she indulged in his company and memorized the feel of his arms around her.

Her stomach twisted into a stiff knot. “If she only disappeared, why does everyone think she’s dead? Why don’t they think she ran off?”

“I couldn’t say. Seems everyone that knew her knew she wouldn’t just up and leave. After all, what kind of girl, and we’re talking of a vicar’s girl, for all that, would up and run away from an earl who’s to marry her?”

“What do you mean to say? You think the earl a dangerous man?”

“I don’t mean to say that, miss.” Betsey waved a hand, the flush of embarrassment working up her neck.

She had done just what Isobel had wanted her to: forgotten her place and divulged the full contents of the belowstairs gossip. At least, that’s what Isobel had thought she wanted her to do. Now, she could no longer be sure.

The lady’s maid was helping Isobel into a white chemisette with a high, ruffling collar. “This ought to keep you warm,” she said quietly.

“If you do not think Lord Trevelyan dangerous, and if his—if that Miss Gouldsmith did run off, what trouble can you have with him then? Surely a man is not beholden to a woman who breaks off her engagement.”

“That’s just it, miss,” Betsey said. “By all accounts she did not break off their engagement. If Miss Gouldsmith ain’t dead, the earl is still promised to her.”

?

Giles’s heart beat with dense urgency as he took breakfast with Miss Ridgeway.

This was it; the last hours she was obliged to spend in his company.

It seemed absurd that he should feel so melancholy about it, that he should be picking over his food and scouring for the courage to ask for more.

More time, more conversation. Luxuries he wasn’t owed ever, but especially not when she was anxious to get to her sister.

“I, uh,” he began, pausing to adjust his already-straight cravat, “was wondering if you would mind it very much if I accompanied you to Shoremoss Hall.”

Those large, inquisitive eyes lifted to him.

“I would not disturb your sister, of course. Only discuss a piece of business with Pemberton, should he be available.”

“Certainly,” she said, smiling a little and returning her attention to her plate.

A bit of the tension eased in his throat. “Your own coach is quite filthy from your adventure. I thought, perhaps, I could return it a bit later on in your stay, once the ground has dried.”

Her teacup had almost reached her lips, but she sat it down at that.

Oh God, could she see straight past his veneer of chivalry?

Not that he didn’t want to be accommodating, but his plans were borne of a sleepless night, a restless tumbling of what had somehow become his chief concern: How can I see her again?

“Oh, don’t feel obliged to do that,” she said. “I’m sure Lord Pemberton can—”

“I don’t feel obliged.”

Time stilled for a moment, and the barest trace of color warmed Isobel’s cheeks.

“I mean,” Giles said, unable to keep meeting her stare, lest he turn the shade of fried tomatoes, “I mean that I should like to.”

Her thumb toyed with the tiny handle of the teacup, her voice softer when she answered, “Then I suppose I have something to look forward to, Lord Trevelyan.”

Giles’s mud-specked carriage pulled even with the front steps of Shoremoss Hall at one o’clock.

The roads were far from admirable, the journey taking nearer to two hours than the expected one.

Isobel had spent much of that time with her face pressed near to the window, admiring the desolate landscape as it grew increasingly flat.

Shoremoss Hall was, at its core, an ancient structure, but generations of expansionary minds and a century old fire left the marquess’s home an amalgamation of different ages.

The unforgiving stone structure was built into an L-shape, the longer wing rising to a lesser height, its stone less weatherbeaten by salt and sea.

Beneath folds of snow, the boundary of a sprawling hedged garden could be made out.

“Thank you, again,” Isobel said as she shrugged off the warm rug Giles had given her and removed her booted feet from the hot brick. “Though you shall have me quite spoiled to travelling comfortably.”

“I believe you earned the right to warmth, considering your initial journey,” Giles said, matching her grin as he stepped down from the carriage and offered his hand.

Outside the confines of the vehicle, warmth was an elusive concept. Wind whipped mercilessly at the hems of their outer garments, and Giles used his free hand to grip the brim of his hat.

“Is that the sea?” Isobel paused when she reached the ground, her gloved fingers tightening on his. Giles, distracted by her lingering touch, almost said that the view was only accessible from the far side of the house, when he realized she wasn’t referencing sight at all.

Isobel had closed her eyes, tipping her chin up toward the aquamarine winter sky. Seagulls wheeled overhead, calling and screeching, but beneath their commotion lay an eternal song: the rush of saltwater against limestone bluffs.

She had confided in him that she’d never left Cumberland; seldom left home. But to watch her experiencing this new slice of world, drinking in the very landscape which he so often took for granted, squeezed Giles’s heart.

At the top of the stairs, a footman opened the door to them. The sound broke her spell, and when her eyes opened, they were sharp with determination.

“Welcome to Shoremoss, miss,” the footman said, bowing to Isobel after he had greeted Trevelyan. “Her ladyship awaits you.”

Divested of her redingote and gloves, Isobel was already wavering in place, seemingly magnetized toward the steep, narrow staircase.