aunt. For as brave as Lady Watson might be, Isabella had last evening seen a chink in her armour in the shape of the lady’s nephew, and she had no intention of allowing that chink to be penetrated by a weapon of the heart or mind.
* * * *
Waiting in the parlour, Isabella found it hard not to fidget. The room was cool, dark and uncomfortably quiet. Lady Watson sat on a high backed chair next to the fire, warming her feet and appearing engrossed in her embroidery while Henrietta sat next to Isabella at the window seat.
She looked round the familiar room, trying to distract herself from the nauseating churning in her stomach, and she crossed and uncrossed her ankles; unable to make them comfortable.
Why did she feel so nervous? It was ridiculous to think that it had something to do with the enigmatic Lord Crawford. Yet try as she might, she was unable to banish his handsome countenance from her mind.
Fool!
She had been here before, taken in by a fine appearance, softly spoken words and the tenderest of touches. And where had it got her? Regardless, this James Crawford had the power to wound the lady Isabella cared so dearly for. She would not allow him to affect her so deeply that she lost focus on her duty to Lady Watson.
Isabella glanced around the room, trying to distract herself from her errant thoughts but everywhere her gaze landed, it met the stern face of a family member of Lady Watson, captured forever in oil paint on canvas. It was ridiculous to think that the subjects of these portraits could possibly be looking at her with disapproval, yet it felt that way, that they were peering down their aristocratic noses at her in the same way as most of London society – in the same way that Lord Crawford certainly would do when he learnt more about her past.
She stood and wandered around the room. She paused to make slight alterations to the arrangement of dried flowers on a corner table. They were brittle beneath her hands and despite the maid’s cleaning, dust had settled between the folds of their petals. She ran her fingers over the cover of the family bible, the only object placed upon the main parlour table, she shuddered as she thought of the tales of persecution and retribution within its covers. The great book made it clear how a young woman should behave and what awaited her if she strayed from the path of righteousness. Yet, Isabella smiled wryly, the ton’s treatment of young ladies in possession of what it deemed to be loose morals, probably made the biblical punishments pale in comparison.
‘Isabella!’ Lady Watson’s tone was uncharacteristically sharp. ‘Please sit down. You are making me feel most uneasy.’
‘I am so sorry, Lady Watson.’ Isabella had not realised that her own anxiety would affect her companions and she certainly did not want to add to Lady Watson’s tension. She hurried back to the window seat where she sat next to Henrietta. The pretty girl was absorbed in her sketching, her blonde ringlets falling forwards over her pink cheeks as she concentrated on her artwork.
Isabella peered over Henrietta’s shoulder expecting to find a picture of a rolling landscape or a child playing with a kitten. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene before her and she sucked in a tremulous breath.
‘Henrietta!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why on earth would you draw that?’
The girl’s eyes were hazy with confusion. ‘I am sorry, Isabella,’ she blushed and made an attempt to cover the drawing with her hands, ‘but it was so clear in my mind and I felt the need to capture it on paper.’
Isabella balled up her fists and pressed them into her skirts as vivid memories flooded her mind.
‘What is it, girls?’ Lady Watson asked, glancing up from her embroidery.
‘Nothing, it is nothing, Lady Watson,’ Isabella muttered, putting out a restraining hand to prevent Henrietta from rising.
‘But it must be something interesting if it has brought such a flush to your cheeks, dear,’ Lady Watson smiled. ‘Is it an image of a man, mayhap?’ Her smile broadened.
Isabella was so relieved to see the older woman’s smile that she removed her hand and allowed Henrietta to rise and hand her drawing over.
Lady Watson began to chuckle. ‘Why, Henrietta this is excellent. You have captured the scene quite well. Did Isabella really appear so furious with Lord Crawford?’
Henrietta looked from Lady Watson to Isabella, her lips twitching, and Isabella began to laugh then for the sketch really was excellent. She felt the joy bubbling low in her belly then spreading outwards so that it shook her whole chest. Had she really appeared so startled, so ridiculous as she sat there on Rotten Row, covered in horse muck and surrounded by the ton?
When she could catch her breath, she replied. ‘Yes, Lady Watson, Henrietta has recreated the scene of my fall at Hyde Park in perfect detail.’ From the startled fury upon her face to the bemused concern on Lord Crawford’s, every detail brought yesterday’s incident to life. But now it seemed less serious, less important, less humiliating.
Isabella stood and walked over to Lady Watson, peering at the picture over her shoulder. She gazed at the sketch and placed a hand over her thudding heart. Was Lord Crawford really that handsome… or had Henrietta been overly generous? Isabella’s eyes followed the face that sat beneath his black hat, took in his strong, square jaw line and wide sideburns and wallowed in the deep dark depths of his eyes.
Lady Watson sighed. ‘Is he not a very fine figure of a man, Isabella?’
She swallowed hard before replying, ‘Indeed he is, my lady.’
His shoulders were broad, his waist slim and his legs so shapely, so muscular.
Had she missed these details yesterday? In fact, had she really overlooked these details or just not allowed herself to acknowledge them? She felt quite lightheaded.
Lady Watson passed the sketch to Isabella and she allowed her eyes to wander slowly over the gentleman’s form, absorbing every detail, before returning it to Henrietta.
‘No, Isabella, you keep it. It is a gift.’ The girl put out her hand and gently pushed the sketch away.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled, ‘I think.’ But what I shall do with it I do not know for I cannot allow myself to keep staring at Lord Crawford like a lovesick debutante. I barely know the man… if it is possible to really know a man at all.
All three women jumped as a loud knock echoed through the hallway and Isabella’s heart somersaulted into her mouth.
Was that him? Was he here?
Her eyes moved from Lady Watson to the door, where they waited expectantly, the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She tried hard to slow her breathing and to regain her composure before Lord Crawford was admitted to the parlour but heat surged through her cheeks.
She must get a hold on her emotions now… quickly… before she made a fool of herself all over again. And that could not happen.
Suddenly aware of a rustling noise, she looked down and frowned, for Henrietta’s perfect sketch lay crumpled within her restless hands.
The door to the parlour opened and the butler announced, ‘Lord James Crawford.’
The young women rose and stood behind Lady Watson’s chair.
Holding her breath, Isabella watched as Lord Crawford strode into the room and swept into a graceful bow that took in all three women. Something in the way that he moved suggested power, control and confidence and he filled the room with his masculine presence.
She forgot her sensible resolutions made just moments ago and inhaled deeply, yearning to catch his scent and to feel that strange excitement that it had aroused in her yesterday. The feeling that she could only describe as lust had been delicious, and she wondered if his presence would stir it again. Though clearly wrong and unjustifiable, it made her feel so good. So alive. And it had been