Authors: Rumors
Louise Allen
What does it matter if society spurns me?
Following a disastrous incident at a house party, Lady Isobel Jervis is exiled to the country to avoid further scandal. At the imposing Wimpole Hall, she meets architect Giles Harker. He is as eye-catching as the elegant house, but shockingly arrogant—and infuriatingly dismissive.
Despite himself, Giles is strangely drawn to the haughty Isobel, and stuns her with a secret kiss in the gardens. As the illegitimate son of an infamous scarlet woman, he knows love can be dangerous. Their growing attraction could come at the cost of both their reputations.
“I would give a year of my life
for one night in your arms.”
His voice was muffled against her skin as she lifted her hand to touch his hair.
Isobel gasped. It was all her fantasies about Giles, all her wicked longings, offered to her to take. All she needed was the courage to reach out.
Almost as soon as he said it, she felt him hear his own words. The enchanted bubble that surrounded them shattered like thin glass. Giles’s body tensed under her hands, then he released her and stepped back.
“I am sorry. I should never have spoken, never touched you.” His face was tight with a kind of pain that his physical injuries had not caused. “I did not mean— Isobel, forgive me. I would not hurt you for the world.”
He turned on his heel and walked away without looking back.
* * *
Rumors
Harlequin® Historical #1153—September 2013
Author Note
To be asked to write about a place I know well and love is a rare privilege and I did not have to think twice when it was suggested that I set a novel among the real inhabitants of Wimpole Hall, a magnificent National Trust property in Cambridgeshire, England.
Everything I read about the Yorke family, who lived at Wimpole at the beginning of the nineteenth century, convinced me they must have been delightful people and I knew my hero and heroine would relish their company, too. I hope you enjoy exploring Wimpole Hall and its lovely park alongside Isobel and Giles as they fall in love. It is a love that seems doomed, but then, as now, Wimpole Hall has a certain magic and things may not be as black as they seem!
Rumors
Louise Allen
Available from Harlequin® Historical and
LOUISE ALLEN
The Earl’s Intended Wife
#793
The Society Catch
#809
Moonlight and Mistletoe
#830
A Most Unconventional Courtship
#849
Virgin Slave, Barbarian King
#877
No Place for a Lady
#892
*
The Dangerous Mr. Ryder
#903
*
The Outrageous Lady Felsham
#907
*
The Shocking Lord Standon
#911
*
The Disgraceful Mr. Ravenhurst
#951
*
The Notorious Mr. Hurst
#955
*
The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst
#959
The Viscount’s Betrothal
#982
ΔThe Lord and the Wayward Lady
#996
ΔThe Officer and the Proper Lady
#1020
§
Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress
#1052
§
Vicar’s Daughter to Viscount’s Lady
#1056
§
Innocent Courtesan to Adventurer’s Bride
#1060
¤
Ravished by the Rake
#1076
¤
Seduced by the Scoundrel
#1080
¤
Married to a Stranger
#1084
Snowbound Wedding Wishes
#1111
“An Earl Beneath the Mistletoe”
~
Forbidden Jewel of India
#1121
~
Tarnished Amongst the Ton
#1137
Rumors
#1153
Other works include Harlequin Historical
Undone!
ebooks
*
Disrobed and Dishonored
§
Auctioned Virgin to Seduced Bride
Harlequin Books
Hot Desert Nights
“Desert Rake”
Together by Christmas
“A Mistletoe Masquerade”
*Those Scandalous Ravenhursts
Δ
Silk & Scandal
§The Transformation of the Shelley Sisters
¤Danger & Desire
~linked by character
Did you know that these novels are also
available as ebooks? Visit
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.
LOUISE ALLEN
has been immersing herself in history, real and fictional,
for as long as she can remember. She finds landscapes and places evoke powerful
images of the past—Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favorite
atmospheric destinations. Louise lives on the North Norfolk coast where she
shares the cottage they have renovated with her husband. She spends her
spare time gardening, researching family history or traveling in the U.K. and
abroad in search of inspiration.
Please visit Louise’s website,
www.louiseallenregency.co.uk
, for the latest news, or find
her on Twitter,
@LouiseRegency
, and on
Facebook.
For the staff at Wimpole
who were a mine of information and
who were so patient with my endless questions.
Contents
Chapter One
February 2nd, 1801
—the Old North Road, Cambridgeshire
T
he chaise rattled and lurched. It was an almost welcome distraction from the stream of bright and cheerful chatter Isobel’s maid had kept up ever since they left London. ‘It isn’t
exile
really, now is it, my lady? Your mama said you were going to rusticate in the country for your health.’
‘Dorothy, I know you mean to raise my spirits, but
exile
is precisely the word for it.’ Lady Isobel Jervis regarded the plump young woman with scarce-concealed exasperation. ‘To call it
rustication
is to draw a polite veil over the truth. Gentlemen rusticate when they have to escape from London to avoid their creditors.
‘I have been banished, in disgrace, and that is exile. If this was a sensation novel the fact that it is completely undeserved and unjust would cast a romantic glow over the situation. But this is not a novel.’ She stared out through the drizzle at the gently undulating farmland rolling past the post-chaise window. In reality the injustice only increased her anger and misery.
She had taken refuge in the country once before, but that had been justified, essential and entirely her own doing. This, on the other hand, was none of those things.
‘That was the sign to Cambridge we’ve just passed,’ Dorothy observed brightly. She had been this infuriatingly jolly ever since the scandal broke. Isobel was convinced that she had not listened to a word she had said to her.
‘In that case we cannot be far from Wimpole Hall.’ Isobel removed her hands from under the fur-lined rug and took the carriage clock from its travelling case on the hook. ‘It is almost two o’clock. We left Berkeley Street at just before eight, spent an hour over luncheon and changing horses, so we have made good time.’
‘And the rain has eased,’ Dorothy said, bent on finding yet another reason for joy.
‘Indeed. We will arrive in daylight and in the dry.’ The chaise slowed, then swung in through imposing gateposts. From her seat on the left-hand side Isobel glimpsed the bulk of a large brick inn and a swinging sign. ‘The Hardwicke Arms—we are in the right place, at least.’
As they passed between the gateposts Isobel began to take more interest in the prospect from the window: it would be her home for the next two months.
The tree-dotted parkland rose gently on the left-hand side. She glimpsed a small stone building on the top of one low knoll, then, as the carriage swung round, the house came into view.
‘Lawks,’ Dorothy observed inelegantly.
‘It
is
the largest house in the shire,’ Isobel pointed out. ‘I thought it might be a small palace from what Mama said, but it looks curiously welcoming, don’t you think? Quite like home at Bythorn Hall.’ It was no simple mansion, to be sure, but the red brick looked warm, despite the chill of the sodden February air.
The chaise drew up close to the double sweep of steps that led to the front door.
Too soon
. Isobel fought the sudden wave of panic. The Earl and Countess of Hardwicke had offered her shelter for the sake of their old friendship with her parents—Philip Yorke, the third earl, had met her father, the Earl of Bythorn, at Oxford—so they were hardly strangers, she told herself, even if she had not met them for several years.
‘Be on your best behaviour, Dorothy,’ she warned. ‘The earl has been appointed the first Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, so he will soon be the king’s representative.’
‘Foreign, that’s what Ireland is,’ the maid said with a sniff. ‘Don’t hold with it.’
‘It is part of the new United Kingdom,’ Isobel said repressively. ‘You enjoyed the celebrations at the beginning of the year, do not pretend that you did not! I must say I would like to see Dublin when the earl and countess move there in April, but they will have far more important things to worry about then than a house guest.’
In fact it was very kind of Lord Hardwicke and Elizabeth, his witty blue-stocking countess, to give sanctuary to their old friend’s disgraced daughter at such a critical juncture in their lives. It might suit the Jervises to put it about that Isobel was helping the countess with her preparations, but she was sure she would be more of a distraction than a help.
She had wanted to flee to her friend Jane Needham’s cheerful country manor in the depths of the Herefordshire countryside. It was remote, it was safe and it held warmth and love. But Mama had been adamant: if scandal forced her daughter to retreat from London, then she would do so, very ostentatiously, under the wing of a leading aristocratic family.
The doors opened, footmen came down the steps, and Dorothy began to gather up their scattered shawls and reticules as Isobel tied her bonnet ribbons and strove for poise.
It was too late to back away now: the carriage door was opened, a footman offered his arm. Isobel put back her shoulders, told herself that the shivers running down her spine were due entirely to the February chill and walked up the steps with a smile on her lips.
‘My dear Isobel! The cold has put roses in your cheeks—let me kiss you.’ The entrance hall seemed full of people, but Lady Hardwicke’s warm voice was an instant tonic, lifting spirits and nerve. ‘What a perfectly ghastly day, yet you have made such good time!’
Caught before she could curtsy, Isobel returned the embrace wholeheartedly. ‘Thank you, ma’am. It was an uneventful journey, but it is a great relief to be here, I must confess.’
‘Now please do not
ma’am
me. Call me Cousin Elizabeth, for we are related, you know, although rather vaguely on your mother’s side, it is true. Come and greet my lord. You are old friends, I think.’
‘My lord.’ This time she did manage her curtsy to the slender man with the big dark eyes and earnest, intelligent face. Philip Yorke was in his mid-forties, she recalled, but his eager expression made him look younger.
‘Welcome to Wimpole, my dear Isobel.’ He caught her hands and smiled at her. ‘What a charming young woman you have grown into, to be sure. Is it really four years since I last saw you?’
‘Yes, sir. After Lucas...after Lord Needham’s funeral.’ As soon as she said it Isobel could have bitten her tongue. Her host’s face clouded with embarrassment at having reminded her of the death of her fiancé and she hurried into speech. ‘It is delightful to meet you again in happy circumstances—may I congratulate you upon your appointment to the lieutenancy?’
He smiled in acknowledgement of her tact. ‘Thank you, my dear. A great honour that I can only hope to be worthy of.’ Behind him one of the two men standing beside the butler shifted slightly. ‘You must allow me to introduce our other guests.’ The earl turned to motion them forwards. ‘Mr Soane, who is doing such fine work on the house for us, and Mr Harker, who is also an architect and who is assisting in some of Mr Soane’s schemes for improvements in the grounds. Gentlemen, Lady Isobel Jervis, the daughter of my old friend the Earl of Bythorn.’
‘My lady.’ They bowed as one. Isobel was fairly certain that she had shut her mouth again by the time they had straightened up. Mr Soane was in his late forties, dark, long-faced and long-chinned, his looks distinctive rather than handsome. But Mr Harker was, without doubt, the most beautiful man she had ever set eyes upon.
Not that she had any time for handsome bucks these days, but even a woman who had vowed to spurn the male sex for ever would have had her resolution shaken by the appearance of this man. He was, quite simply, perfection, unless one would accept only blond hair as signifying true male beauty. His frame was tall, muscular and elegantly proportioned. His rich golden-brown hair was thick with a slight wave, a trifle overlong. His features were chiselled and classical and his eyes were green—somewhere, Isobel thought with a wild plunge into the poetic, between shadowed sea and a forest glade.
It was preposterous for any man to look like that, she decided while the three of them exchanged murmured greetings. It was superfluous to be quite so handsome in every feature. There must be
something
wrong with him. Perhaps he was unintelligent—but then, the earl would not employ him and Mr Soane, who had a considerable reputation to maintain and who had worked for the earl at Hammels Park before he succeeded to the title, would not associate with him. Perhaps he was socially inept, or effeminate or had a high squeaky voice or bad teeth or a wet handshake...
‘Lady Isobel,’ he said, in a voice that made her think of honey and with a smile that revealed perfect teeth. He took her hand in a brief, firm handshake.
Perfection there as well. Isobel swallowed hard, shocked by the sudden pulse of attraction she felt when she looked at him. A purely physical reflex, of course—she was a woman and not made of stone. He would be a bore, that was it. He would talk for hours at meals about breeding spaniels or the importance of drainage or the lesser-known features of the night sky or toadstools.
But the perfect smile had not reached his eyes and the flexible, deep voice had held no warmth. Was he shy, perhaps?
The two architects drew back as the countess gave instructions to the butler and the earl asked for details of her journey. Isobel realised she could study Mr Harker’s profile in a long mirror hanging on the wall as they chatted. What on earth must it be like to be so good looking? It was not a problem that she had, for while she knew herself to be tolerably attractive—
elegant
and
charming
were the usual words employed to describe her—she was no great beauty. She studied him critically, wondering where his faults and weaknesses were hidden.
Then she saw that the remarkable green eyes were fixed and followed the direction of his gaze, straight to her own reflection in the glazing of a picture. She had been staring at Mr Harker in the most forward manner and he had been observing her do it.
Slowly she made the slight turn that allowed her to face him. Their gazes locked again as she felt a wave of complex emotion sweep through her. Physical attraction, certainly, but curiosity and a strange sense of recognition also. His eyes, so hypnotically deep and green, held an awareness, a question and, mysteriously, a darkness that tugged at her heart. Loneliness? Sadness? The thought flickered through her mind in a fraction of a second before they both blinked and she dismissed the fancy and was back with the social faux pas of having been caught blatantly staring at a man. A man who had been staring at her.
The polished boards did not, of course, open up and swallow her. Isobel fought the blush that was rising to her cheeks with every ounce of willpower at her disposal and attempted a faint smile. They were both adult enough to pass this off with tolerable composure. She expected to see in return either masculine smugness coupled with flirtation or a rueful acknowledgement that they had both been caught out staring. What she did
not
expect was to see those complex and haunting emotions she had observed a moment earlier turn to unmistakable froideur.
The expression on Mr Harker’s face was not simply haughty, it was cold and dismissive. There was the faintest trace of a sneer about that well-shaped mouth. She was no doubt intended to feel like a silly little chit making cow’s eyes at a handsome man.
Well, she was no such thing. Isobel lifted her chin and returned his look with one of frigid disdain.
Insufferable arrogance!
She had hardly been in the house five minutes, they had exchanged a handful of words and already he had taken a dislike to her. She did not know him from Adam—who was he to look at her in that way? Did he think that good looks gave him godlike superiority and that she was beneath him? He no doubt produced an eyeglass and studied women who interested him without the slightest hesitation.
‘Shall we go up?’
‘Of course, ma’am...Cousin Elizabeth,’ Isobel said with the warmest smile she could conjure up. ‘Gentlemen.’ She nodded to the earl and Mr Soane who were in conversation, ignored Mr Harker, and followed her hostess through into the inner hall and up the wide staircase.
That snub on top of everything else felt painfully unjust. What was wrong with her that men should treat her so? Isobel stumbled on the first step and took herself to task.
She
had done nothing to deserve it—they were simply unable to accept that a lady might not consider them utterly perfect in every way.
There was a faint odour of paint and fresh plaster in the air and she glanced around her as they climbed. ‘Mr Soane has done a great deal of work for us, including changes to this staircase,’ the countess remarked as they reached the first-floor landing. She did not appear to notice that her guest was distracted, or perhaps she thought her merely tired from the journey. ‘There was a window on the half landing on to an inner court and that is now filled in and occupied with my husband’s plunge bath, so Mr Soane created that wonderful skylight.’ She gestured upwards past pillared balconies to a view of grey scudding clouds. They passed through double doors into a lobby and left again into a room with a handsome Venetian window giving a panoramic view across the park.
‘This is your sitting room. The view is very fine when the sun shines—right down the great southern avenue.’ Lady Hardwicke turned, regarding the room with a smile that was almost rueful. ‘This was one end of a long gallery running from back to front until Mr Soane put the Yellow Drawing Room into what was a courtyard and then, of course, the upstairs had to be remodelled. We seem to have lived with the builders for years.’
She sighed and looked around her. ‘We had just got Hammels Park as we wanted it and then Philly’s uncle died and he inherited the title and we had to start all over again here ten years ago.’
‘But it is delightful.’ Lured by sounds from next door, Isobel looked in and found that her pretty bedchamber had an identical prospect southwards.
Dorothy bobbed a curtsy as they entered and scurried through a door on the far side to carry on unpacking. Isobel saw her evening slippers already set by the fire to warm and her nightgown laid out at the foot of the bed.