Page 41 of The Lover's Eye
“Do not fret, however,” Marriane hastened to add, “for as you must remember, Lady Venning was our less likely candidate of the two.Her daughter is younger than you, just making her debut, and they have been in London since January.I daresay it will be much better if Lady Hambly can see to your coming out.After all, she and her connections were such an excellent aid to me.”
“What was her reason?”It changed nothing, but Isobel could not stop herself from asking.
“She cited the same concerns I have, Isobel.”
It was difficult not to feel disheartened by the odds heaped against her.The Season’s significant events began in March.The obligatory presentation of ladies before the Queen had passed.Any light inquiries would reveal Isobel was all but promised to wed Elias.Even if Lord Pemberton grew a heart and opened his purse strings to outfit her for a proper debut, Isobel’s chances of a successful Season were already mortally wounded.
15
An invisible band of tension formed around Isobel’s head as Betsey curled her hair and helped her dress for dinner.She had lost all her energy to irritation and fear—her interaction with Lord Trevelyan and Marriane’s harbinger of bad news made for a suffocating combination.Isobel despised how sensitive she was.
The letter of rejection did not change much.She had already made up her mind; regardless of what her father, sister, or anyone else said, she would not marry Elias.She could devolve into spinsterhood and use her respectable name to procure employment as a governess or a lady’s companion.
As for Lord Trevelyan, it mattered naught what he thought of her.She handled scorn from other people well enough, did she not?She would return his blasted book and have done with him.
Even as she made these private, impassioned declarations, her chest ached.Beneath it all, she understood the letter and the sour conversation were killing something good in her.Her girlish hope.Her irrational dreams of a happy marriage.She hadn’t realized the full scope of that grief before; how fully some small part of her had believed it possible.
Now, Isobel was forced to confront the idea that she would always be alone.It was an awful, blistering pain.
“You look lovely, miss,” Betsey said, patting Isobel lightly on the shoulder.She had selected the silk evening gown.Its beauty rested in its simplicity—the fine stitchwork and perfectly flat seams, the glossy fabric a shade of such pale, shimmering olive, it almost appeared silver in the light.“Will you be going down to the drawing room to keep Lord Trevelyan company?”
Isobel shot her a look.“He’s already here?”
“Yes, miss.I believe he’s been here a good while, waitin’ alone.”
Isobel had the silly urge to hop out of her chair and run to him, hoping for another of their sweet, private moments.She squashed the idea, recalling, for the hundredth time, the events of that morning.“I’d like a moment to myself.Thank you, Betsey.”
The door clicked shut, and Isobel heard her breathing change.Deeper inhalations, more labored.More nervous.She pushed aside the carefully arranged tendril curls to massage her temples.No use in waiting.
It would be far easier to return Trevelyan’s book without Pemberton or Marriane lording over them.Before she could give pause to doubt, Isobel rose and went to her trunk, drawing out the wrapped parcel.She squared her shoulders and strode toward the drawing room.
Her pace maintained its confident strength as she crossed the threshold, not faltering even as she saw him there, lounging in an overstuffed chintz chair.He looked so infuriatingly at his ease, his legs stretched out before him and his hands cradling a book.Of course,she thought.Damn him.It was impossible to find him anything but excruciatingly attractive.
He turned his head, hearing her approach, and the change she affected in him made her stop.His eyes brightened and he rose in an instant, his body all alertness and regard.Why could he not be like Pemberton or Elias, and barely notice her entry into a room?
Isobel cleared her throat gently, forcing herself to close the short distance between them.She gripped the edges of the wrapped book so tightly, the paper tore.Trevelyan did not seem to notice.
“Good evening, Miss Ridgeway,” he said, bowing.
“Good evening.”His name was on the tip of her tongue, but her mouth was suddenly dry, and she felt the danger of saying more than was necessary.“I wished to return this to you.”
He looked down at the offering she extended, but ignored it.His eyes returned to her face, and he took a step nearer, forcing her to lower the book and make more room forhim.
“About this morning,” he said, sounding as unsure of himself as she felt, “I … had not expected to see you.”
A wondrous apology,Isobel thought scornfully.She latched onto its insufficiency with undue strength, using it as a reason to keep her guard up.It would have been so shockingly easy to let it down.
“And I did not expect you to be dining with us tonight,” she said.She could have sworn his cheeks turned pink.
He placed his hands on the book, but aligned them over hers.Isobel drew in a shocked breath at the brush of his bare fingers, warm and faintly calloused.Just as she’d imagine they would feel.Somehow, that made it worse.As if maybe all her other lofty imaginings about him could be proven true.
“I wanted to see you again,” he said.“To have the opportunity to—”
“Do you realize why I am here?”Isobel asked suddenly, stepping back and out of his touch, leaving the book in his hands.Her fingers seemed to sting where he had touched them.“Because my sister intends to give me a Season.Therefore, a man so consumed by propriety as you are, must understand the perfectimproprietyof my being here, alone with you.”
To her chagrin, Trevelyan gave a breathless laugh, as though he enjoyed her spirited outburst.“I deserve that.If I reminded you of the time we spent alone in winter, could I convince you to remain in my company for a few minutes longer?”
She did not need to be reminded.Isobel had lived those sweetened moments over and over again in the tortuous privacy of her mind.She did not need this towering man in his perfect black evening kit to shove the thorn deeper.
