The Birthday Scandal (11 page)

“Very generous of you, Your Grace,” Gavin murmured.

“You may well think so, for it is! But that’s the end of it. You’ll live within your allowance from here on, or I’ll know why—and I promise you’ll regret it if you try my patience. Now off with you. I’ve wasted enough of the day.”

Gavin rose and bowed politely. As he crossed the room, something made him look over his shoulder, and he saw the duke lay his head back against the puffy pillows as if he was exhausted.

Gavin ran the pad of his thumb over the band of the signet ring and wondered how long he would wear it before the day came to put it away and don the duke’s ring instead.

No matter how long it was, he did not expect to feel ready.

A thousand guineas…

Emily had been right, Isabel thought. Such a sum would feel like a fortune just now.

Yet the reality was that for Isabel—as for Lucien—even a thousand guineas wasn’t much. It was one thing for Emily, living quietly in Barton Bristow. But for Isabel, who must keep up appearances, such a sum wouldn’t last long. Emily didn’t need elegant gowns. She didn’t even have to provide vails for servants, as Isabel was expected to whenever she stayed at a friend’s country house.

Besides, a thousand guineas was simply a number Lucien had pulled out of the air. It was clear to Isabel from what her brother and sister had said that Uncle Josiah had made no promises to any of them about what they might expect.

Not even the most irritable peer would deliberately impoverish his heir—though of course a thousand guineas given to each of his cousins would leave plenty for Cousin Gavin. But they could hardly hope that Uncle Josiah would be more generous than that.

Still, a thousand guineas—or whatever sum Uncle Josiah might provide—would keep Isabel going for a while, and perhaps something else would happen to make her situation easier.

Something like accepting the Earl of Maxwell’s bargain?

For a moment, she didn’t even realize the direction in which her thoughts had wandered. Not until she stared out the breakfast room window to the garden, where her husband—resplendent in a dark-blue coat, buckskins, and top boots—was strolling back and forth among the roses. He looked as though he had not a concern in the world. As if he was certain to get what he wanted, just because he wanted it.

Well, he wouldn’t—not this time. Isabel would die before giving in to his coercion—and she should have told him so last night. If she hadn’t been stunned by the audacity of his demand, she would have spoken up right then and reminded him of exactly why they’d found themselves in this situation to start with. If he hadn’t taken sides with Philip Rivington, he would have stayed with his bride on their wedding night. There would have been no betrayal, no white-faced confrontation on the morning after. She would have had no reason to refuse him his marital rights; by now, he might even have the heir he so badly wanted.

No, it was not Isabel’s fault that things had gone so badly askew. But now she was caught in a trap. Maxwell had played his cards shrewdly. He had given her a full year—and to all appearances, he had done so patiently and quietly, simply waiting for his unreasonable wife to see the light. Now, if she rejected what he had so carefully called a compromise, she would be the one who was in the wrong. All of society would agree there—for when a wife’s only duty was to produce an heir, a wife who stubbornly refused to do so was the guilty party, no matter what her husband might have done. Maxwell might even be able to win a divorce because of her refusal.

Being divorced might not be such a bad thing. At least she would be free of him—unless she was left in such desperate straits that she had to return to her father’s house and to her father’s control. If she was the disgraced party, she would not even have the little pin money she received now—and as a divorced wife, she could not claim her dower rights. The estate that had been deeded over to Maxwell as part of the marriage settlements would remain in his hands, and Isabel would have nothing.

But there was another way.

Let me know when you decide to accept the bargain,
the Earl of Maxwell had said. As though she was only waiting for an excuse to back away from her principles!

But it was a bad bargain when one of the parties had set all the terms. What if she was to do some negotiating of her own? And what if the earl was the one who didn’t like the offer? If he refused to meet her conditions…

Isabel stood up so suddenly she almost knocked over her teacup. “If I’m to ride with the party this morning, I must go and change.”

“Sorry,” Lucien said. “Didn’t mean to drive you away.”

“No—this is just something I must attend to.” She scooped her skirt up in one hand and hurried out of the breakfast room.

“I wonder what bit her,” she heard Lucien say.

“You have to ask? The more we snarl at each other, the more we sound like our father. Is it any wonder she’s heard enough of that?”

No wonder at all, Isabel thought as she went out of earshot.

She didn’t go upstairs to change. She didn’t even pause for a hat before going out to the rose garden. Her best chance of speaking privately with her husband was right now—or else late tonight, after the household had retired. And this was not a conversation she wanted to hold in his bedroom, or hers.

He obviously saw her coming, for he paused beside a particularly robust bush bursting with late yellow roses. He might almost have planned the pose, for the light fell perfectly across his face and the yellow blooms showed to advantage against his dark-blue coat and buff buckskins.

“Dare I hope you have a decision to announce?” he asked gently.

Only when she tried to speak and found herself breathless did Isabel realize that she had hurried too much. No doubt he thought she was desperate to seize his offer, in case he might withdraw it!

“Not quite,” she managed to say. “I have questions which must be addressed before I can give my answer.”

“Then ask away, ma’am.” He pulled out a pocket handkerchief and dusted a nearby seat, but Isabel shook her head and remained on her feet.

“You made an offer, sir.”

“I did—and I stand by it.”

“You said you would give me a portion of the income from Kilburn. What portion?”

“I believe you asked for a fair share.”

“And I want to know what you consider to be fair.”

“A very wise question—though I could find it in my heart to be hurt that you doubt my intentions to treat you equitably.”

As though he had a heart! “Let us stop fencing over the matter,” she said sharply. “I will tell you what I consider fair. Since the estate was my dowry, I believe that Kilburn should be mine—
entirely
mine.”

He pulled back a bit, as though he found the conversation distasteful.

Good enough.
She had startled him into showing his surprise. Press him now, and he would refuse. He might for once even lose that superior air and calm confidence and yell at her. How she wished her father could be present to hear that!

She went on inexorably. “The income, the house, and the lands—without restriction or reservation. Mine to do with as I like—to live in if I wish, and to sell if I no longer want it.”

“That is your definition of a compromise? You ask a great deal of me.”

Isabel was surprised that he could still sound calm, but she thought she detected a note of stress underneath. “Less than you ask of me. Kilburn is my dowry—the refore it should be my property.”

“Let us be perfectly clear, Isabel. You propose that on the day you give me my heir, I sign Kilburn—
all
rights to Kilburn—over to you.”

A shiver raked through her.
It will never happen,
she assured herself. He probably thought she was bluffing, hoping he might settle for half. But even half would be more than he was willing to give—she was certain of that. Kilburn was an old and prosperous estate; he would not lightly give up even a fraction of the income.

“Yes,” she said.

She heard the stamp of boots behind her on the crushed-shell path, but she didn’t blink or look away. Maxwell must not be allowed to think she would weaken. He must be convinced that his only option was to utterly refuse her preposterous demands.

“Isabel, I insist that you go and change right now.” The Earl of Chiswick was directly behind her. “The horses are waiting.”

“In a moment, Father,” she said, without taking her gaze off Maxwell.

Maxwell didn’t blink. “I agree.”

She almost laughed, because his words were so absurd. “You mean you agree that I should go and change, of course.”

“I agree to the terms you have offered,” he said softly. “We have a contract—and may I add that I look forward to consummating our arrangement?—Tonight, Isabel.
Tonight
.”

Mallowan, the Fletchers’ estate, lay a good half dozen miles from Weybridge Castle, a distance that was no more than a pleasant morning’s outing for riders who were used to being on horseback. Though Lucien had his doubts about Gavin—particularly after he chose a big, rangy, and temperamental gelding—they were no more than a mile away from the castle before it was clear that his new cousin knew what he was doing.

And a good thing, too. It wouldn’t do if their best hope of distracting Sir George Fletcher was laid up in plaster because he’d fallen off his horse. On the other hand…

Emily drew her mare up beside him. “I’ve seen that look of yours before, Lucien. What devilry are you plotting now?” “I’m contemplating ways to spook Cousin Gavin’s horse.” “It’s not that I object in principle, but whatever for?” “If he were to break a leg somewhere close to the Fletchers’ home, they’d have to take him in. He’d not only be on the spot, but as an invalid he’d be far more fascinating than an aging earl. She’d have to fall in love with him.” Emily gave a gurgle of laughter. “Don’t let our father hear you say anything of the sort.”

“No danger. Isabel’s keeping him beside her. That’s odd, though—she can’t really want to spend the morning with him.”

“She’s sacrificing herself for your sake, for he threatened to ride beside you all the way.”

Lucien shuddered. “And quiz me on matters of land management, I suppose.”

“I wonder if that’s what Lord Maxwell and Cousin Gavin are discussing. Say what you will about him, I’ve never heard that Maxwell doesn’t take care of his properties.”

“Oh, Max is swimming in lard. Not that you’d hear much gossip, stuck away in that tiny village. How do you stand the boredom, Emily?”

She frowned a little. “Routines can be comforting—and one can become accustomed to anything.”

“Well, I couldn’t. It’s London for me. And don’t tell me you never miss it, after you cut such a dash through society during your Season.”

“Oh, yes—
quite
a dash. No one will ever forget my Season, I am persuaded!”

“I wasn’t talking about Rivington, you know. He fooled us all—even Father, I think. I meant before that. How can you
not
miss being the Incomparable?”

“That all seems so long ago.” Her voice was wistful. “It’s true I miss dancing, and flirting, and parties. But mostly I miss hearing the news. Not many of my friends still write to me. Tell me all about the city, Lucien.”

Lucien whiled away the rest of the ride with tales—most of them carefully edited—about the doings in London, and when they came in sight of Mallowan, he was startled at how quickly the time had passed.

The Fletchers’ manor house was a square, upright brick structure with no pretense to architectural significance. Solid and unassuming—exactly as he’d always thought the Fletchers were, until they’d started this mad chase after a title.

The Earl of Chiswick must have warned the ladies of his plans, for the visitors were ushered into Lady Fletcher’s drawing room without a moment’s wait. The introductions left Lucien standing to one side where he had an uninterrupted view of Miss Fletcher.

Now he remembered her. He had never spent a great deal of time at Weybridge Castle, but now and then, on their random visits, there had been some local function in which they had all taken part. More than once, he recalled, the duke had thrown a huge gathering of all the surrounding neighbors. They had wandered around the castle grounds— eating, drinking, playing games.