Isabella (5 page)

The Marriage Mart was no different from Tattersall's. She only hoped that this cold and calculating business would not hurt Alicia. More than once she'd pictured her young cousin being snubbed by some overly fastidious member of the ton. More than once she had shook her head over her Aunt Pamela's obsession with status.

Well, it was too late now. Alicia would be thrust into Society, whether Society liked it or not, and she would have to endure the snubs and the slights. But Alicia was resilient. And intelligent. Perhaps less naive than she seemed—for she had an uncanny knack of knowing when Lord Tuttlehope was visiting, and would manage to be seen. Perhaps she would simply pass by the door, conversing with her cousin or her Abigail. Or perhaps she would stop in for a moment with an innocent question. These glimpses of the young lady seemed to leave Lord Tuttlehope in a state of stupefaction. He was inevitably tongue-tied if Alicia spoke one word to him.

Isabella smiled. There was evidence of mutual interest. If only Lord Tuttlehope's presence did not automatically signal that of his ever-present companion. Isabella awoke from her musings as Basil's shadow fell upon her. He had come to claim his dance.
Ah, well. One must make the best of it, for Alicia's sake.
If Basil persisted in trailing herself, then Lord Tuttlehope would not be far behind.

"Is it as dull as all that?" Basil asked as they took their places in the set.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Dull, Miss Latham. Though all at Almack's
must feel
it—at least those of any sensibility—you are the only woman here who clearly appears to wish she were elsewhere. In fact, so determined are you to be elsewhere that you travel here in spirit. It must be very dull indeed."

Firmly, Isabella brought her mind back from Alicia and
her
future to the present moment. "I assure you, sir, that this is all highly entertaining, and I was only tucking some observations into the back of my mind for later contemplation."

"Fortunate woman. I must do my contemplating now, and make the best of too few, too short hours," he murmured, as the requirements of the dance separated them.

She felt his eyes follow her as she moved away, and when, once or twice, she caught the intensity of his glance, she was forced to look away, suddenly feeling hot and angry. He had no business to stare after her in that way. It was most improper, and made her conspicuous.

When she rejoined him, she spoke out bluntly. "Mr. Trevelyan, it is most inconsiderate of you to stare at me in that hungry fashion. Lady Jersey is watching you and is bound to make a story of it."

"Hungry,
Miss Latham?" he queried, raising an eyebrow. "Your language is certainly most...most refreshing," he added with a chuckle.

"I have an unhappy habit of saying what I think—"

"And I an unhappy habit of showing what I feel." The topaz eyes narrowed, looking more cat-like than ever. "But I beg your pardon. I did not wish to embarrass you."

Although she somehow suspected that he
did
wish to embarrass her—or at least to make her uncomfortable—she dared not contradict. She was afraid that he was only too eager to explain his motives. Abruptly, she changed the subject, asking after his aunt.

"Oh, Aunt Clem's quite well—in her element, in fact, busy at finding a suitable wife for my cousin." Another would not have noticed the way her smile froze on her face, but Basil was watching her closely. He noted her reactions as carefully as he would those of his opponents in a card game.

"Is it so massive an undertaking?" she asked, wondering why she suddenly felt unwell.

"She's been after him to marry since he returned to England. Responsibility, you know. Carry on the title and all that. But it's only since Lucy came into his care that he's shown any signs of enthusiasm." He glanced in the direction of a handsome young woman in ivory silk with whom Lord Hartleigh was conversing. "Though it may be too early to tell, I'd wager that Lady Honoria will be the lucky bride."

Reluctantly, Isabella followed the direction of his gaze. Yes, the earl
was
paying rather special attention to Lady Honoria. But then, what concern was it of hers?

Basil did not like what he was discovering, but persisted, nonetheless. For one, her discomfort compensated somewhat for his; and for another, well, he preferred to know exactly how the land lay. Thus she was relieved of hearing about Lord Hartleigh's matrimonial prospects and the wagers at White's on Lady Honoria's chances only when the dance separated them. When it finally ended, she urgently longed to be home again.

Unfortunately, the viscountess was enjoying a comfortable close with Lady Cowper and clearly had no thoughts of departing. And then, as Basil brought Isabella back to her aunt, Lord Hartleigh appeared. This time Isabella was struck by the animosity between the two men. Oh, they were impeccably polite to each other, but the air fairly crackled with the tension between them. And when Lord Hartleigh led her away to dance, she knew that an angry pair of cat eyes followed them, watching every move.

Lord Hartleigh was not happy. He'd found himself walking toward her in spite of every intention of going in the opposite direction. For to speak with her meant enduring the presence of his insufferable cousin. Each and every time he'd seen her, he'd vowed to stay away. Yet each and every time, there she'd be, with Basil hovering nearby or stalking her with his eyes—and she looked so...so...in need of rescue, confound it! So the earl, relinquishing Lady Honoria to his rivals, would rescue Miss Latham, only to meet with, not gratitude, but an uneasy acquiescence. As though she mistrusted him as well. In fact, it was much the way in which Lucy looked at him...Isabella's voice called him from his meditations.

"I beg your pardon?" he responded.

"I was asking after your ward. I trust she's well?"
Why did he ask her to dance if he was going to be so inattentive?
Really, it was too bad. One cousin making her conspicuous by trailing her like a shadow and staring her out of countenance, and the other barely aware that she was alive—even when he danced with her.

"Quite well," he assured her. "At least in health," he added, after a moment. She was nonplussed to find him gazing down seriously at her, and wondered at the flicker of pain in his dark eyes. "I have little experience of children, yet it's clear to me she's unhappy."
Lonely,
he wanted to say. But to admit that the child was lonely, when everyone from the butler to the lowest scullery maid doted upon her, implied something wanting in himself.

"I think it's to be expected. The child still misses her parents, and her world now is vastly different from the world she knew. It will take time."

As she smiled up at him reassuringly, his throat tightened.

"I hope that is all it is..." His voice trailed off as he forced himself to look elsewhere—anywhere else—and thus met Lady Honoria's quizzical glance. He didn't mention that Lucy had asked for "Missbella" several times. Or that she had taken to none of the doting staff as she had taken to Miss Latham. Or that he had berated himself a thousand times for his behaviour that day at the dressmaker's—for had he been kinder and more patient, he might have learned Miss Latham's secret, and would not have this sad little ghost wandering aimlessly among her new toys and frocks. He mentioned none of these things, but they gnawed at him as he asked after Miss Latham's family and sought her impressions of London, now that she'd spent some weeks in town.

He was surprised to discover that her view of London had little to do with the balls and routs, the dinner parties and assemblies, the fashions and latest
on-dits
that occupied the minds of the women on his aunt's "list."

Isabella Latham was a different species, who spoke intelligently of books and art and even—gracious heavens!— politics; who could not for the life of her remember Brummel's latest witticism or Caro Lamb's most recent misbehaviour.

As he led her back to her aunt (and the infernal Basil), he puzzled over this odd young lady. Clearly, she had no thought of herself as a belated debutante—in marked contrast to Miss Elderbridge, now in her seventh Season. To Isabella Latham, this London visit was a practical matter of overseeing her cousins' first Season: no more, no less. Apparently, her small crowd of admirers was, to her, a puzzling nuisance, and (except for Basil) about as troublesome to her equanimity as ants at a picnic.
A curious, clear-headed, competent female,
he thought...
so why did she look so devilishly unhappy and vulnerable as Basil bent to whisper in her ear?

"Well, my love, it seems you have decided to take the shine out of your cousins' debut by snatching up all their
beaux
beforehand."

Isabella looked up in surprise from the neat hem she was stitching. She had thought her mother was asleep on the sofa among her many pillows.

"Mama, whatever are you talking about?"

Maria sighed. "It wants less than a week until our grand ball, and the house has been so overrun with your suitors that one hardly knows where to turn. I have not had a moment to myself to think."

What her mother possibly needed to think about, Isabella could not fathom. Lady Belcomb and Isabella had shared all the labour of preparing for the ball and making peace among the staff, while Mama's sole contribution had been an opinion of the colour of Alicia's gown.

"I do not recollect our being overrun by anything but servants, Mama. They are always so dreadfully in the way."

"Don't be coy with your mother, Isabella. Here is Mr. Trevelyan stopping by nearly every single day with his friend—the one who prates so interminably of horses." Another sigh. "Your father never showed the least interest in horses, Isabella, I am relieved to inform you."

Nor had he ever evidenced much interest in anything else
, thought Isabella. Not his business, nor his daughter; and barely his wife—though (she glanced at the still beautiful woman reclining languidly among the pillows) Mama may not have been the most stimulating of companions.

"At any rate," her mother went on, "as if that were not fatiguing enough, they are soon followed by a host of dandies and other fine gentlemen. And then comes that tall young man—Lord Hartleigh, is it?"

Isabella nodded, and bent quickly again to her sewing.

"And he was here again today, asking after you. I'm afraid your Aunt Charlotte is quite vexed."

A quick scan of her parent's features showed no evidence of distress at this state of affairs.

"He stayed only a few minutes, you know. And Charlotte was very cross with me after. You must not run about London breaking hearts, my love. It is very tiresome for your cousins." A throaty chuckle accompanied this last. It was a sound very much like that which had not long ago so overset the Earl of Hartleigh—who might have been relieved to learn that it was merely a family trait (like hair colour), and not some cruel siren trick.

"I'm sorry, Mama. I shall try to restrain myself in the future."

"Do, love. You have no idea how your aunt frets about these poor gentlemen. And I do sympathise. One can become quite suffocated with all these
beaux
sighing about the house." In illustration, she sighed once again.

"Mama," said Isabella firmly, "for one, if anyone is to suffocate us, it is the servants. For another, you know as well as I do that nobody is sighing, and certainly not on my account. And for a third—"

"I pray you will not indulge in higher mathematics, Isabella."

"For a third," her daughter went on, "this is a light spring shower compared to the deluge we may expect after Veronica and Alicia come out. And for a fourth, Mama, you are the most dreadful tease!"

"Yes, I know, darling. I can't help it." Mrs. Latham pulled herself up to a sitting position and invited her daughter to join her on the sofa. As soon as they were settled, she said, patting Isabella's hand, "We must speak seriously, my dear. About two matters. First, you were very naughty not to tell your aunt about your first meeting with Lord Hartleigh. She has got wind of it from the servants and told me that when he came today she did not know where to look, she was so mortified." A low chuckle indicated the extent to which Maria sympathised with her sister-in-law.

"Oh dear, Mama. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I was sure there would be a fuss and I just wanted to forget the whole episode." Isabella flushed. "I do hope Aunt Charlotte said nothing to Lord Hartleigh about it..."

"No, my love, she said all she had to say to me; at considerable length, I might add. But no matter. Apparently Lord Hartleigh bears no grudges." She gave her daughter a sidelong glance. "As I am sure you do not, Isabella—for it is quite wicked, you know, to bear a grudge."

"Yes, Mama."

"But to the other matter. What of his charming cousin? From what I have heard, he suffers from an excess of creditors. Not that there is anything so unusual in that." Maria paused, apparently distracted by another thought. "And if there is affection, of course—"

"I believe he is simply after my money," Isabella responded softly.

"In that case, perhaps you might send him about his business?"

"Perhaps."

"Unless you are fond of him," Maria added, as though she had not heard her daughter's reply.

"No."

"At any rate, you do not lack
other
suitors."