Page 46 of The Lover's Eye
It had not seemed so outrageous then, to let her choose and prepare a room for herself before their wedding.He’d wanted her to be comfortable in his home, not sequestered in some ghoulish old space his mother had decorated decades ago.
Giles crossed the room, tugging ice blue curtains back from the windows and forcing sunlight in.The warm, natural glow was at odds with the cold luxury before him.The walls still smelled faintly of paint, but mustiness had begun to cling about the corners.
He could still capture the feeling of last summer.The clamor of renovations carrying over to his bedchamber.The footfalls of plasterers and the clinch of their ladders.Windows were opened to alleviate the dust and scent, but it had been so terribly hot, the air thick with brine and marsh and pests, that he had almost preferred the house’s stuffiness.And then Aurelia herself would come bursting in, always a little rumpled and rosy.Everything she did was fast—slinging off her bonnet, skipping up the stairs, purchasing things just because they sparkled.
Giles looked at the outrageously expensive dressing table, still laden with silver-backed brushes and little pots of creams and powders she never got to use.It had been easier to open his purse strings to her, than to open himself.Aurelia had only known the version of himself people expected.A demure gentleman of reason.A dully handsome thing, coming without frills or shocks.
She never knew how many misgivings he had about their arrangement, hoping the proposed marriage of convenience might one day grow into something more and yield the genuine affection he craved.Perhaps if he had done a better job being himself,reallyhimself, she would have listened to him that final night.Trusted he was telling her the truth.Allowed him to soothe her anger and find another solution to her problem—one that might have kept her alive.
Giles had already shown his true self to Isobel; trusted her implicitly.He would not make repetitions of his mistakes.When he offered his hand to her, it would not be for a damned marriage of convenience.
He walked to the door, hesitating on the threshold.The guilt and pain weren’t likely to go anywhere, but something had shifted in Giles.All these months, he had harbored a deep feeling in his gut, no larger than a seed—a whispered promise that he and Aurelia were not yet finished with each other.Now, he thought they were.
He would have many of the goods in this room sold off, and order his housekeeper to strip the linens and repurpose the fine draperies elsewhere in the house.He would shut the door and turn the key and keep hoping Aurelia was alive somewhere, her crafty mind delivering her to some distant shore where she never thought of him again.
♦
The next two days passed in quiet deliberation for Giles.Sobered by Finch’s pronouncement, he had scaled back his once grand ideas for Isobel’s visit.However, he still requested an assortment of special confections from his cook, who was none too pleased, and many ingredients listed in the receipts had to be brought all the way from Newcastle.
The moment he closed the door to Aurelia’s frigid bedchamber, he imagined he was closing his fears up with it.They could stay there, immortalized on some gilt shelf with the rest of her almost-belongings.His life had moved on, as time inexorably pronounces it must, and nothing could deter his interest in Isobel Ridgeway.
Saturday morning saw his matched greys harnessed to the phaeton.The sky turned out a shade more beautiful than blue, clouds of wind spun ivory giving it a soft and subdued expression.The gentle lilt of moorland, spiked Pomona green in places, pooled out before him with ancient solemnity.The sound of the earth churning beneath his horses’ arched strides gave Giles a silent, bolstering confidence, even as the phaeton rocked on its precariously high seat.
He did not even have to announce himself as he crossed the threshold at Shoremoss Hall.Marriane was already descending the stairs, a bonnet lavishly adorned with feathers and sprigs of coltsfoot swinging in her hand.
“Trevelyan, I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to this excursion,” she said, reaching the landing with a happy little sigh.“It has been an age since we’ve come to Cambo House.You know Martin’s not much the wandering type, and what with my health—”
“Good day, Trev,” Pemberton said, stepping out from his study.His freshly shaven face and pomade-greased hair disagreed with his brown, seafaring complexion.It was like seeing Smooch in a court dress.
“Oh, is that your new phaeton?”Marriane’s gloved hand lifted to her mouth.The doors stood open, making Giles’s entrance grand with the backdrop of his elegant vehicle and matched pair.
“Yes,” he said, giving it a brief glance over his shoulder.“I am quite pleased with it.I hope you will find it suitable.”
“Of course,” Marriane said, moving toward the door.“Oh—where is Isobel?”
Giles was already aware of her absence.He followed her sister’s gaze up the quiet, vacant staircase.
Pemberton cleared his throat.“I may have left some correspondence on the table this morning.”
Marriane narrowed eyes on him.“Whatcorrespondence?”
Pemberton produced a letter from his breast pocket, the severed seal flapping in the breeze by the open doors.Marriane snatched it, her dark eyes flitting across the page.Giles spied over her shoulder, willing his eyes to make sense of the words.He picked up just enough to know it was bloody awful.
You are aware her beauty is not a match to yours, or perhaps I could make an exception … I recall you telling me she is a bit of a hoyden … heard plainly that she is on very intimate terms with a Captain Sempill … if word spreads, she may not be suitable as a governess, either …
Giles felt his body giving in to anger as plainly as if he’d burned his flesh.Had the Sempills divined Isobel’s plan for a Season, and spread the rumor she was compromised to prevent it?It was an unconscionable act of cruelty.Something only a desperate, heartless person would do.
But it seemed the Sempills were desperate.
“I recall leaving it by my plate, but when I went to retrieve it, it hadmigratedto the entry table,” Pemberton said, his lips thinning in disapproval.
“Can I not take breakfast on a tray for even one morning?”Marriane asked.Her tone had risen to infuriated heights.“Excuse me, Lord Trevelyan, while I go find my sister.It seems everyone sees fit to read my correspondence before me.”
Marriane stalked up the stairs.
“Who the hell wrote that?”Giles asked quietly, afraid he already knew the answer.
Pemberton’s face was stoically neutral.“Lady Hambly.Better known as the second and final rejection for a sponsor.”
