An Unexpected Gentleman (19 page)

The remnants of sleep drained from Isobel’s face. She eyed her sister warily as she rose to stand. “Your mood is very peculiar.”

Her mood was
foul
.

“Well, it isn’t every day a lady must forgo the affections of a coward for the fortune of a scoundrel.”

The
pretend
affections, she amended silently.

“I see.” Isobel gave her a bolstering smile. “It’s to be Mr. Brice, then, is it? I must say, I am glad you’ve decided against the dragon—”

“I did not want to decide!” Adelaide threw her bonnet down on the foyer side table. “Why must I
always
be the one to make the decisions, Isobel? Why am I always the one to make the sacrifices?” She didn’t want to be the one with the choices. She didn’t want to be the one with the abysmal expectations. “I’m not the maiden of this kingdom, I’m its whipping boy! It’s pathetic, ridiculous—!”

“No! No! No!”

George’s angry shout cut Adelaide off mid-tirade. Horrified, she looked to the second-floor landing, where she found him peering through the bars of the banister, blue eyes wide with confusion and anger. Remorse gripped her like a vise. She hadn’t seen him there. She’d been so swamped in her own resentment that she’d not even thought to look for him.

“Oh, Georgie, I’m sorry.” She climbed the steps two at a time. “I’m so sorry. You’re absolutely right. No more shouting.”

“I just put him down for a rest,” Isobel said. “I thought he’d fallen asleep.”

Clearly he hadn’t. A bit of shouting wouldn’t wake George from a nap. Cannon fire wouldn’t wake George from a nap. A more sound sleeper was not to be found in Scotland.

Adelaide picked George up and settled him on her hip. He felt soft and warm in her arms, his weight a familiar and comforting burden. “Did I give you a fright, darling? I didn’t mean to. Aunt Adelaide is very naughty. And very sorry.”

She brushed his curls back from his forehead and kissed his nose. That was all it took to appease him. His eyes cleared, he gave her a distracted kiss in return, and then he squirmed in her arms.

“Down.”

Adelaide sighed and considered. She ought to put him back down in bed. Heaven knew, without a proper rest during the day, the boy became impossible by evening. But she wanted to coddle him a minute longer. He deserved a bit of coddling.

“Yes, I’ll take you downstairs, but only—”

“Down!”

“You are not climbing down the steps, Georgie. Not until—”

He struggled harder, made an indecipherable statement of dissent, then broke into a loud, harsh, and entirely counterfeit cry.

Adelaide smothered a smile, carried him downstairs, and set him on his feet. The wailing ceased instantly, and he made a dash to the steps. She caught him up and twirled him around to provoke a giggle, and set him back down. She wasn’t the least surprised when he charged right back to the steps. The child was nothing if not determined.

She decided to make a game of it and let him run, over and over again, for the steps. She chased after him, caught him at the last moment, and swung him up into the air. It did wonders for her mood to hear him squeal and shout with laughter, the sort that came straight from the belly.

Her arms began to ache after the tenth go-round, but she ignored them, determined that nothing should detract from those few minutes of silly, carefree pleasure.

Isobel’s next words sliced through that pleasure like a hot knife.

“Sir Robert is here.”

Adelaide picked a giggling George up and went to stand next to Isobel at the parlor window. Sure enough, there was Sir Robert striding toward the house from the old stables. Just the sight of him sent her blood to boiling all over again. Perhaps she’d made her promise to George in haste. Perhaps there would be just a bit more shouting.

Isobel looked to her, to the window, then back again. “I’ll send him away.”

Adelaide watched as Sir Robert stopped ten feet from the door to smooth his hair forward. It clung to his face in golden waves. Like butter on a misshapen piece of toast, Adelaide thought.
How
she loathed his hair.

“No. I’ll speak with him.”

Isobel eyed her with reservation. “Are you certain that’s wise in your current mood?”

No, but she was certain it was going to be most gratifying. “Yes.”

“He is a baron, Adelaide.”

Which was why she would refrain from mentioning the bit about the buttered toast. She walked to the foyer. “Will you let him in, or shall I?”

With a shake of her head, Isobel followed and opened the door. Sir Robert stepped inside without showing even a hint of embarrassment at having arrived for a visit today after she had expressly requested otherwise.

“Ladies,” he said smoothly and gave an eloquent bow. He flicked a glance at George. “Young man.”

As always, he looked uncomfortable, and just a trifle put out, in the boy’s presence. Adelaide was a trifle tempted to have the boy stay. Just out of spite.

“Take George upstairs, please, Isobel.”

“No! No! Down!”

“Oh, yes, up,” Isobel informed him. She transferred him from Adelaide’s arms, adjusted her hold when he squirmed, then headed upstairs. “And this time, you shall sleep.”

“No! Down!
Down!
” George demanded. When Isobel failed to comply, he broke into a howling wail that gained in volume and pitch with every step she took. The sound echoed in the foyer, floated down the steps, then faded when Isobel reached the nursery. Given the ferocity of his battle, Adelaide guessed he was but moments from succumbing to sleep.

Sir Robert shook his head and headed to the parlor without invitation. “We must see about procuring a proper nanny for that boy. He ought to be better behaved by now.”

The slight fed Adelaide’s anger. She no longer cared that he was a baron, that he held her brother’s last debt. He could take his title straight to the devil. Grinding her teeth, she followed Sir Robert into the room and watched him fiddle with the sewing kit on the window seat. He looked sure of himself, perfectly confident in his right to be in her parlor, touching her things, criticizing her nephew.

It would be a pleasure to disillusion him. “George is the very definition of civilized . . . compared to some.”

Sir Robert looked up and frowned. “I cannot fathom what you mean by that.”

“You’ve lied to me.”

“Are we back to this—?”

“You said Mr. Brice’s awareness of me was a result of our courtship. But you know full well his interest preceded your own.”

“He told you that? And you believed him?” He closed his eyes on a sigh, and when he opened them again, they were filled with condescending patience. “Of course you did.” He reached for her hand. “My darling girl, you are too generous of nature for your own good. You would believe the best of anyone, wouldn’t you? Even the cad—”

She snatched her hand away. “Why not pronounce me a twit and be done with it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tell me, Sir Robert, what color is my winter coat?”

“Your coat?”

“My
winter
coat.”

His expression was one of perfect bafflement. “I . . . It’s . . .”

“You don’t know, do you?” She tilted her head, smiled sweetly, and mocked his patronizing tone. “Of course you don’t. Our courtship began in the spring.”

“What has that to do with anything? What nonsense has he put in your head?”

“There was no nonsense. Just an image. A perfect image of me in my blue winter coat.”

“He could have learned the color of it from anyone.”

Connor could have, but not about the torn hem. That mishap had occurred on the road that morning and been repaired when she’d returned home.

“He learned of it with his own eyes.”

Sir Robert blew out a long breath. “Perhaps you are right. And I confess, I would be much relieved to see the proof of it. I have regretted,
bitterly
regretted, bringing you to the attention of that scoundrel. If, by some twist of fate, he had set his sights on you before we met, it would do a great deal to ease my burden—”

“Oh, stop,” she snapped, disgusted with him. “Have the decency, at least, to admit to a lie when you’ve been caught in it. Even your brother has managed that much.”

Sir Robert pinched his lips. “Do not compare me with him.”

“How could I do otherwise, when your motivations for marriage have been the same all along? There was no twist of fate,” she said bitterly. “He took an interest in me, and you learned of it and began a courtship for the purpose of thwarting him. It is as simple and infantile as that.” She made a derisive sound in the back of her throat. “The pair of you, like five-year-olds fighting over a marionette, when all they really want is to hit each other on the nose.”

“Marionette?” Sir Robert shook his head. “Adelaide—”

“It is Miss Ward until such time as it becomes Mrs. Brice.”

He looked as if she’d slapped him. “You can’t mean it.”

“I assure you, I do.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, and shook his head again as color began to crawl up his neck. “You’re being unreasonable.”

And there was that condescending tone again. It fed her temper like a fan to flame. “And you are being an ungracious loser. The game is over, Sir Robert. Mr. Brice is the victor.”

“I don’t lose to the likes of Brice,” he snapped and reached out to grab hold of her wrist.

“Let go,” she gasped. “Let—”

“He’s a bastard,” Sir Robert snarled. “The illegitimate son of a grasping whore.”

“Let
go
!” She twisted her arm and yelped at the feel of his fingers digging cruelly into her skin. Spurred by pain and fear, she clawed at the restraining hand until it released her.

Sir Robert swore and moved so quickly, she didn’t recognize his intention until it was too late. He caught her across the cheek with the back of his fist, and the force of the blow sent her reeling into a side table. Her hip slammed against the wood, and her feet tangled beneath her. Blindly, she reached out for something to hold on to and caught the edge of a picture frame on the wall behind the table, but it wasn’t strong enough to hold her weight. She, the picture, and the table crashed to the floor.

The pain was shocking. Disoriented, she shoved wildly at the debris from the table and scrambled to move away. There was a flash of movement, Sir Robert’s dark form was in front of her . . . And then it wasn’t.

Isobel was there, their father’s old dueling pistol in hand. Sir Robert was on the floor. For one horrifying moment, Adelaide was certain her sister had killed the man. But that didn’t make sense. There hadn’t been a shot.

She struggled to think clearly through the pain, to hear over the roar of blood in her ears. Isobel grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. The room tilted briefly before righting itself.

“Take this.” Isobel pressed the gun into her hand. “Take it.”

Adelaide grasped the weapon without looking at it and shoved Isobel behind her. Her focus was on Sir Robert. Slowly, he gained his feet, a thin stream of blood trickling from his temple. Adelaide blinked at it. Not a wound from a bullet, she realized. Isobel must have hit him with the gun.

“Bitch,” he snarled and took a lurching step toward them. “I’ll—”

“Out!” She lifted the gun, aimed it straight at his heart, and prayed she had the courage to use it. “Get out!”

He came to an unsteady stop. Feral eyes darted from her, to the gun, to Isobel, and back again.

“You’ll regret this,” he spat at last and stabbed a finger at them. “You mark my words, you will regret having crossed me.”

She regretted having ever crossed paths with him. There were a thousand insults she wanted to hurl at him, an ocean of threats and promises of retribution. She bit them back. They would only tempt him to retaliate, and she wanted him to leave. It seemed an eternity before he obliged. With a final curl of his lip, he turned and strode away.

When the front door shut with a bang, Adelaide sank to the floor. Isobel followed, wrapping her arms tight around Adelaide’s shoulders.

“Are you all right? Did he hurt you terribly?”

Yes, and yes,
Adelaide thought. Her cheek throbbed with every wild beat of her heart. But she would live. They were all safe. Rather than answer, she reached up and gripped her sister’s hand.

Adelaide would never be sure how long the pair of them sat in a daze amidst the glass and broken wood, their silence broken only by their labored breathing, the howl of a building wind, and the familiar creaks and groans of the house. It might have been two minutes; it might have been half an hour. But eventually, her pulse began to slow, and the sick fear in her belly abated.

Isobel let go of her shoulders. She drew the gun away and turned it over in her hand, studying it with a rare furrow of concentration across her brow. “Do you know why you’re the one to always make decisions?”

Adelaide closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think of that now. “Isobel—”

“Do you?”

Adelaide sighed. “Because I am the eldest.”

“No. It’s because you’re the bravest of us.”

“I’m not.”

“Every time you make a choice, it’s for all of us. And every time you make a decision, you take the risk of being wrong.” She ran her finger along the pearl handle. “I can’t do that. I’m not brave, like you.”

“You’re the bravest person I know. You would emigrate to the Americas given half the chance. You would explore the wilds of Africa, seek adventure after adventure, and—”

“I would do those things alone. It’s a sight easier to take risks when one need think only of oneself. There’s so much less to lose if one makes a mistake.”

“Wolfgang had plenty to lose. He hadn’t any trouble taking risks or making mistakes.”

“Yes, because he hadn’t the courage to think of anyone but himself. He hasn’t the spine to hold himself accountable for those mistakes. But you . . .” Isobel lifted a hand and brushed gently along Adelaide’s back. “You think of us all the time. You’ll always hold yourself accountable.”