Authors: Patricia McAllister
But Isobel had refused to resort to such chicanery, even to
secure Kit’s attentions. What a pity, Anne remarked, that Isobel had to be so prim
and proper when it came to winning Papa’s heart. After all, they hadn’t much
time left now. Only four days, and that horrid old toad would come back and
steal their Isobel away!
Grace knew she couldn’t let it happen. After glancing at
Anne, who was still absorbed in the scene outside, she quietly picked up
Judith, her doll, and left the nursery. She ran downstairs and out the rear
door of the house. There, she slipped past Susan, who was furiously whacking at
a Turkish carpet with a broom, and proceeded to the garden where she’d first
met the mysterious lord.
Only he wasn’t like any other lord Grace had ever seen.
Those Papa had brought home from court in the past ware dandified rakes who
sported curlicued hair and funny pointed beards and fashionable sneers. This
one looked like Saint Nicholas himself, all plump and jolly and rumpled, though
he’d denied any relation to a saint with a twinkle in his eye.
He actually glowed, too, as if the Star of Bethlehem itself
was suspended behind his head. He’d told Grace the most wonderful stories about
kings and queens and knights of old; but best of all, he assured her that
Isobel was meant for her Papa and Destiny would eventually triumph over the
crafty machinations of men.
But right now, Grace realized, Destiny needed a helping
hand. Or a subtle shove.
K
it hadn’t felt
so alive in months. Or years. Riding always brought out the best in him, but
today it was better than ever; and the only possible reasons he could attest it
to were that Elspeth was gone or that Isobel was here.
The latter possibility startled him. Riding alongside
Isobel, atop his own golden mount Aurelius, Kit felt liberated. It was a
beautiful day. It had been a long time since he’d even bothered to notice
whether it was cloudy or sunny; and yet the very air seemed vibrant now, heavy
with the rich scents of summer, exhilarating to the depths of his soul.
Dear Jesu. He was in love. The emotion was almost foreign to
him, so rarefied that he hadn’t recognized it for what it was. He loved his
girls, of course. With all the fierceness and devotion a proud father was
capable of. But this was different. This was the love of a man for a woman.
What woman? Surely not Isobel, his coltish little ward, the
brown-haired waif with her great grey eyes! Nay, Kit thought, it must be simple
lust, the sort of desire a lonely man feels upon meeting a likely wench. A
wench like that dazzling
Madame Mysterie
from the masque.
’Twas the first natural male impulse he’d felt in years.
After all, he’d been without benefit of female companionship for a long time.
In twelve long years, Elspeth had never welcomed his affections; and aside from
one brief, ill-fated affair, he’d never stepped outside the bonds of matrimony
to seek relief. He was, Kit thought bitterly, the consummate family man.
The
consummate fool, more like.
Many men kept paramours at court. Lord knew he’d had enough
offers. Obvious offers delivered via batting eyelashes and coy simpers. Nothing
mysterious about that, he supposed, though he was intrigued by “Madame
Mysterie.” She was the first woman to truly capture his interest. It hadn’t
merely been her luscious figure; but of course, there was no overlooking the
prospect of that …
“How am I progressing?” Isobel asked. She sounded
breathless, but not nearly as nervous as she had been just a half-hour before.
Distracted from his reverie, Kit glanced over and saw that her cheeks had a
healthy flush and her grey-blue eyes were sparkling. Though she still clutched Mystery’s
mane in a death-grip, at least her posture was more relaxed and she almost appeared
to be enjoying herself
“Marvelous!” he assured her, punctuating his praise with a
broad grin, which flagged the color in her cheeks even higher. “Why, I predict
within a week you’ll be tearing across this very same meadow at a gallop.”
Something changed in Isobel’s expression then; he realized
too late what he’d said.
“But I leave tomorrow,” she said softly as her brow furrowed
and her gaze fixed on the trail ahead of them.
“Well, surely your husband will keep a horse or two about,”
Kit said, awkward as a green lad as his renowned silver-tongue failed him for
once.
She shook her head. “I doubt it. The Plummers are very poor.
Peasants, really. I’m sure they can’t afford to keep magnificent animals like Mystery.”
She reached down and patted the mare’s coppery neck — with affection, rather
than fear, he noted. Isobel was coming along quite nicely in her riding lessons.
Kit had no idea what the real source of her fear was, and
even gentle coaxing had been unable to bring the story to the surface, but he suspected
something traumatic had happened to her by way of a horse, long ago. Pity he
didn’t have more time to work with her. He saw potential there. Isobel had a
graceful seat and light hands. Her respect for the power of such an animal
meant she could become an excellent rider, in due course.
He was silent for a moment, thinking. At last he said, “I
don’t want you to give up riding, Isobel. ’Tis important to me. In fact, my
wedding gift to you shall be the choice of an animal from my stables.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.”
“I insist. I caught you admiring that little pale gold filly
by my white dam. Her sire was Aurelius, y’know. She’s already broke, so she’s
yours from this moment on.”
“Thank you, but no.” She shook her head, looked away, and
Kit was distressed by her poignant misery. He knew the prospect of her marriage
held no joy for Isobel; indeed, it held no especial delight for him or his
girls, either.
Kit was stunned to recognize this harsher emotion.
He was
jealous!
Jealous of the notion of Isobel leaving them, of proceeding meekly
to the altar to wed a man she didn’t love, and bedding the same ungrateful
fellow. In fact, the very thought sent a fierce flush of heat coursing through
his blood; he felt his neck redden and his hands tighten on the reins.
“Let’s stop at the river.” They were almost there now, and
Kit focused his attention on the broad silver ribbon winding through the alder and
willow trees. He tried again to understand what was happening to him.
He’d felt the same peculiar possessiveness when helping Isobel
select her trousseau, On the one hand, he wanted her to have the very best, as
befitted one of the family; but on a deeper, more instinctive level, he hated
the thought of a crude Cornish peasant mauling Isobel, tearing the gossamer-thin,
hyacinth night rail from her body, carelessly shredding it and her heart in his
rough, callused hands.
“Isobel.” His voice was unusually husky. When the horses
stopped at the river’s edge and she looked at him, so trusting and innocent
with her ash-brown hair swirling about her shoulders, Kit felt something tug at
his heart. Sweet Jesu, his heart.
So he still had one, after all.
Just as their gazes met, and locked, Mystery shied. A shadow
seemed to wing across the serene water — was it a cloud? — and the next he knew,
the mare had reared and Isobel screamed. She tumbled to the grassy bank as Mystery
kicked up her hooves in a final display of upset and fled the scene.
Cursing, Kit leapt down from Aurelius and ran to the young
woman.
“Dear God. Isobel!” The fear Kit suffered was very real, as
was his concern. To his relief, she was conscious. He knelt in the grass in
order to support her head and shoulders. “Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Damme,
Isobel, answer me.”
To his considerable surprise, she sat upright, brushed the
dirt from her outfit, and laughed. Not a chuckle, but a definite and hearty
show of mirth. “I — I can’t believe it!” she gasped.
“What? That you fell? It happens. Even to the best of
riders. Look, the important thing is that you keep smiling, and get right back
on again — ”
“I don’t think I can.”
“I know you’re frightened, but you weren’t really hurt. I
don’t know what spooked Mystery, but ’twas probably just a marsh bird, or
something — ”
“Nay, I mean
I can’t
.” She reached down to massage
her right ankle, and winced, even through her laughter. “You see, I think I’ve
sprained my ankle.” And for some reason, this seemed enormously amusing to her.
Somewhat nonplussed, Kit said, “Well, I suppose we could
ride double on Aurelius — ”
The second he suggested it, the stallion he’d left
peacefully grazing suddenly jerked up his head, snorted suspiciously and took
off at a full gallop for home.
“What the devil’s going on?” Kit exclaimed. “Maybe it’s a
ghost.”
“Or one of Grace’s angels?”
“We’re far closer to the cemetery than heaven.” Kit shook
his head. “But I don’t think my staid, serious father would ever pull such a
stunt.”
“Cousin Elspeth, then.” Isobel spoke lightly, but there was
tension behind her words. “Mayhap she doesn’t approve of our outings.”
“Then hang her, I say.” The words slipped out before Kit
could stop them; surprised, they looked at one another, and a second later both
chuckled easily, companionably.
“Isobel,” he murmured, tasting her Christian name on his
tongue. ’Twas like summer itself, her name, sweet and ripe with promise, like
the woman beside him now lifting her lips to his. “Isobel,” he whispered again,
wonderingly, as his mouth shadowed hers with tender, hungry possessiveness.
Isobel was the first to break away. She could lose herself
too easily in fantasy, clinging to a ridiculously thin thread of hope. Kit
didn’t love her. How could he, when he was planning to meet his precious “Madame
Mysterie” this very night? Aye, she’d overheard him telling Jem earlier to
ready the coach, because he was going to
Summerleigh
. Kit was searching
for a fantasy just as she now desperately clung to hers. But hers was fading
fast, despite the desperation of her grip.
“No, I’m sorry. I can’t.” The words escaped her in a broken
rush; and despite the intense pain of both her ankle and heart, Isobel rose and
began a determined hobble back in the direction of the manor house. She had to
get away. She had to think. Most of all, she knew she had to pack. For tomorrow
was her wedding day ….
~*~
“
Y
ou
have
to go tonight, Isobel.”
“Don’t ask this of me, girls. Please!”
“You have to tell Papa,” Grace added, chorusing after her
sister. “You have to tell him the truth.”
“And since when are
you
the champion of truth,
Elizabeth Grace Tanner?” Isobel demanded, hands on her hips. Boxes and trunks
were scattered about the room, half filled with her new trousseau. A trousseau
that might have brought her joy was she to wed another man. But she couldn’t
stay angry at the girls for long. She was too upset and shaken by what had
happened at the river. Kit had kissed
her
, Isobel Weeks. Not his “Madame
Mysterie.” The thin ribbon of hope was fragile, but hadn’t broken yet.
Damme him
, Isobel thought. T’would serve Kit right if
he were forced to face the bitter, painful truth, just as she was doing now!
She surprised herself by suddenly saying, “All right. You two win. I’m going.”
Both girls clapped with glee and then rushed to help her get
ready. A few hours later, Isobel stood in the very same spot she had a
fortnight before, ushered limping into
Summerleigh
by her unusually
solicitous host; Lord Tempest. Nervously smoothing the folds of her
gold-embroidered gown, she peered through the eye slits of the velvet mask,
searching for the man whose heart she must break.
A few seconds short of midnight; Kit came into view. Her
heart pounded against her ribs, slamming against the whalebone busk with every
breath she took. How could she shatter him so cruelly? But she knew she must.
His obsession for “Madame Mysterie” would die tonight; along with her last
hope. It was the only way, she knew, to free them both from a lifelong prison
of futile dreams.
“M’lady,” he greeted her, raising her hand to his lips. He
whisked a burning trail of passion across the backs of Isobel’s fingers, and
she closed her eyes in secret pain. “I feared you might not come.”
“I had no choice,” she said, which was true. Tears pricked
her eyes, but she forced them back. “Perhaps the gardens would be more
discreet,
monsieur
?”
“As you wish.” Kit bowed again, releasing her hand to take
her arm instead, whereupon he drew her possessively to his side. Isobel was
careful to disguise her faint limp as a seductive sway as they walked together
into
Summerleigh
’s magnificent gardens. The flowers wore a shimmering
mantle of white, like their eccentric owner. White roses, white stock, towering
hollyhock and Isobel’s favorites, the Michaelmas daisies, all glowed like
pearls in the moonlight.
Turning to face Kit in the garden, she began, “I fear I can
lie no longer — ”
“Nor I. I must be blunt or I shall lose my nerve. You see, I
love another. ’Tis for this reason alone that I came tonight. I would not wish
for you to harbor false hope.”
“Hope?” The dazed echo left her lips as Isobel stared at Kit
through her mask. “Then you did not come to arrange an assignation?”
“I must admit, ’twas my initial reason for wanting to meet
you again. But much has happened in a fortnight.”
“I see.” Isobel bit her lip. She was relieved, on the one
hand, yet secretly crushed, for she knew the only reason Kit would have
surrendered an evening with his “Madame Mysterie” was because he had found
another woman. A noblewoman, surely, with royal connections to the queen, or
mayhap the daughter of an aristocratic neighbor whose lands he wished to adjoin
to his own.