Page 8 of The Lover's Eye
Isobel sighed relief when her heavy travelling dress came off.Now, if she could just get to that basin of warm water on the dressing table.This house was unconscionably cold.
“Have you met the earl?”Betsey asked in a half-whisper, as if she expected the man to be hiding in the armoire.
Isobel ducked her chin.“No.”
Betsey did not say more, but her hands momentarily stilled over the laces of Isobel’s stays.The weight of shame increased a measure.She could only hope the sun would shine in the morning and make the remainder of their passage possible.It was detestable, knowing she was imposing herself on anyone, much less a stranger.
Years of living with her irritable widower of a father, and mingling with the snuffish Sempills, had trained Isobel to be quiet.One breath shy of invisible.Anything she could accomplish for herself, she did without complaint.And any tactic she could employ to avoid troubling other people, she used.The more at ease they were, the sooner she could escape to her books and her moorland walks.
Books.She thought of the library she’d just vacated.Shelf after shelf of titles, their spines dusted clean but softened from years of attention.She had fought the impulse to walk the room and peruse the beautiful collection, because some part of her had been holding out hope that Lord Trevelyan might walk in at any moment.
How wrong she had been.
Isobel stayed awake long after Betsey left.The exhaustion that weighted her limbs didn’t extend to her active imagination.
She hated to think of what tomorrow might hold.Her earlier curiosity about this man seemed ludicrous, now that she was in his home—and worse, in one of hisbeds.
Isobel’s cheeks stung with embarrassment, and she wished for the thousandth time that she knew more.More about Marriane’s condition, more about whatever connection existed between her sister and this strange Lord Trevelyan.
For a brief second, she did indulge herself and imagine what Lady Sempill would make of this turn of events.A young woman, travelling alone, hurtled into a bachelor’s house.
It was the singular spot of humor in an otherwise unamusing predicament.
4
Giles woke early, his eyes assailed by the brightness of the palatial windows in his bedchamber.He threw a wool banyan over his shoulders and crossed the room to look out.The sky was still overcast, but an early sun threatened to break through the haze.
The icy mix had continued to fall overnight, and though it had ceased now, left a considerable cover over the sloping hills.The trees were etched with hoarfrost, a shade of white so delicate and brilliant it was painful to stare at.
“We’re terribly unlucky, aren’t we, Smooch?”Giles asked the yawning spaniel who strode up to share his view.
He had not seen this amount of wintry weather dumped so close to the coast since he was a boy, and he was nine and twenty now.He wished there was someone to aim his resentment at.Why did these travelers have to be passing Cambo House when they finally got stuck?
Giles thought they must be damned fools to travel in such conditions at dark.That, however, wouldn’t stop him from enticing his guests to go at it again by the light of day and leave him in peace.A knock sounded at the door, and his valet entered.
“Sleep well, my lord?”he asked, smiling hesitantly.The man always approached Giles thus in the mornings, when he was usually at his most sleep deprived and agitated.
“Tell me, what breed of chit awaits me downstairs?”he asked as he dressed, adjusting the folds of his white cravat.“An overtired one, I hope.I would like an hour to myself before I’m obliged to startentertaining.”
He spoke the last word with disgust.Perhaps the unwarranted arrival of a young lady was his proper punishment for turning down so many invitations and snubbing the whole of polite society in the process.He had been unable to bear them, and really, why should he have?All anyone ever spoke of was Aurelia.
The few that possessed the good scruples not to mention her by name were forever looking at him with glossy eyes and tiny pouts, finding opportunities to speak kind words of vague reassurance.
No, until society could quit handling him in such a way, Giles Trevelyan would not be returning to it.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much, sir,” said the valet, reaching for a navy morning coat.
Giles shrugged into it, the closely tailored fabric stretching over his broad back.“Tell me all you can.I’d prefer not to be so ill prepared.”
“Well …” The valet struggled for words.Apparently, the new arrival hadn’t supplied the servants with much to talk about.“She was mighty thankful for your opening the house to her, and had not a cross word to say.Her lady’s maid says she is a sister to Lady Pemberton.”
Giles’s dark eyebrows lifted.“Finch said she was Pemberton’s acquaintance, but a sister?”
“I believe that’s right, sir.”
Giles grimaced as he made his way down to the library.The task laid upon him had just grown in complexity.Lord Pemberton was his oldest friend and neighbor—and about the only person he still shared company with.The man had innumerable connections, so Giles had thought little of it when he first heard Pemberton’s name mentioned the previous night.He’d assumed one of those loose acquaintances had scrambled to mention the marquess, hoping to assure their bed for the night.
But a sister?Not just any grouchy countenance would suit where his friend’s family was concerned.And what did it say about said relation, that in all of Giles’s visits to Shoremoss Hall, this woman had never been mentioned?
