His Wicked Embrace (12 page)

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Authors: Adrienne Basso

BOOK: His Wicked Embrace
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With shadowed eyes, Isabella watched him leave.
 
 
“I have finished drawing my flowers, Miss Browning. Can I paint them?” Catherine looked with undisguised longing at the fresh box of water colors Isabella was using.
“Certainly.” Isabella shifted the position of her easel, allowing Catherine easy access to the paints. “Light, even strokes,” Isabella advised as the young girl jammed her paintbrush onto the canvas.
Isabella offered a few more tactful suggestions before shifting her attention to Ian. The young boy had elected to forgo the watercolor lesson and instead was practicing his writing. Isabella joined him on the stone bench as he leaned intently over his slate.
“That looks good, Ian,” she praised the child, as he proudly displayed his writing. The letters were disproportionate in size, and two of them were written backwards, but they were legible. Certainly a fine effort for a three-year-old boy. “Now let's concentrate on our counting. One, two, three . . .”
Dutifully Ian chimed in, and Isabella's voice gradually faded away, allowing him to recite the numbers on his own.
Isabella returned to her canvas, pleased she had decided to conduct the afternoon's lessons outside. The weather was sunny and inviting, and Isabella was enjoying the fresh air as much as her young charges.
Catherine and Ian had suggested the rose garden on the north side of the castle for their lessons, and Isabella approved of their choice. It was the only garden on the estate that showed any attempt at maintenance. There were still many weeds in the flower beds and the unclipped hedges were unusually high, but the stone path was passable and the rose bushes healthy and blooming.
“Father!” Catherine's voice rang out with excitement. She dropped her paintbrush heedlessly and hastened toward the earl.
Damien appeared suddenly from behind a tall hedge. He sauntered casually into the rose garden, slapping his riding crop idly against the top of his muddy boots as he walked. He greeted his daughter warmly, then turned his attention to Isabella.
She hid her astonishment at his unexpected appearance and felt the now familiar pounding of her heart begin. “We are having our lessons outside this afternoon,” Isabella explained.
“So I gathered,” the earl replied with a slight smile. He moved in front of Catherine's easel to gain a better view and commented on her watercolor.
“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.” Ian, who had wandered behind a large, overgrown hedge, was not visible, but his singing numbers could be clearly heard.
“Ian is practicing his counting,” Isabella remarked unnecessarily.
“Yes,” the earl remarked. “I can hear him.” Damien parroted his son's unusual numerical sequence with a smile. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, twenty-ten, twenty-eleven. A new system I am unaware of, Isabella?”
“He is making progress,” Isabella proclaimed breathlessly, her color heightening. “Ian, come back here, please.”
“I've come to take the children riding this afternoon,” the earl said when Ian appeared. “If they have finished with their lessons for today.”
“I'm done, Father,” Catherine declared with a final swipe at her painting. “We'll change into our riding clothes and be right back. Hurry up, Ian.” Catherine threw down her paintbrush with a flourish, grabbed her brother's hand, and the two rushed off.
Isabella correctly interpreted the earl's frown and intervened before he could reprimand the children for leaving without waiting to be dismissed. “We really are finished for the afternoon,” she said softly.
“Will you join us, Isabella?” Damien stood by Isabella as she packed up the paints and paintbrushes.
“I don't ride.”
“Taken one too many bad spills?” Damien inquired with sympathy.
She did not answer immediately, frowning intently at the materials in her hands. “Actually, I don't know how to ride,” she finally admitted in a soft voice. She sat down on the stone bench and gracefully adjusted the skirts of her plain gown, hoping Damien would simply let the matter drop.
He lifted a dark eyebrow in surprise. “Didn't your grandfather, the earl, insist you learn?”
“No,” Isabella replied curtly. Damien moved closer, and Isabella slid along the stone bench away from him. Ignoring her movement, he braced his booted foot on the bench. Casually resting his elbow upon his upraised knee, he gazed down at her.
“And why is that?”
Isabella saw the open curiosity in his handsome face and contemplated her options. She was well within her rights to tell him to mind his own business, but she hesitated to do so. She was fast becoming attached to The Grange and prudently decided that if she wanted to make a home for herself here, it would be far better if the earl learned of her strange parentage sooner rather than later. If Whatley Grange was truly as unconventional as the earl claimed, it should not matter that the new governess was, for all intents and purposes, a bastard.
“My maternal grandfather, the Earl of Barton, took no interest in me,” Isabella stated flatly. “If memory serves me correctly, he spoke directly to me fewer than a dozen times in the three years I lived on his estate.”
Damien thought her statement rather odd and wondered at its accuracy. Emmeline always loved to be dramatic. Surely Isabella was overstating her case. “Did he take offense at your bold manner?” Damien asked, searching for a cause. “No, my lord,” Isabella replied slowly. “He took offense at my illegitimate birth.”
The statement was calmly, almost casually given, but Damien was not fooled. Isabella's hands were white-knuckled with tension as she awaited his reaction.
“You were ill-treated?”
Isabella contemplated her reply. “On the first morning I was in residence at the earl's estate, my great-aunt Agnes summoned me to the morning room. She greeted me hurriedly and instructed me to stand by sunny windows on the east side of the room so she could view me clearly. I wanted very much to make a favorable impression, and though puzzled, I did as she bade me.”
Isabella took a steadying breath before continuing her story.
“Great-aunt Agnes then paraded each and every male member of the household staff who was in service at the estate while my mother resided there through the room and told them to stand next to me.”
“Whatever for?”
Isabella squeezed her eyes shut. “Apparently, my aunt had formulated her own opinion concerning my mysterious parentage.” Isabella lifted her head and forced herself to open her eyes and look directly at Damien. “Aunt Agnes was searching for the man who had fathered me. She hoped by viewing me next to these male servants, she might notice a resemblance.”
“What did you do?”
Isabella gave a short, self-mocking laugh. “Nothing. Not at first. I didn't understand what was happening.” Her lovely face sobered and she continued. “When I finally realized what Aunt Agnes was doing, I stormed out of the room. In a most undignified manner, I might add.”
“You had every right.”
“My aunt did not see it quite that way. Things deteriorated from that point on.”
Isabella made her comments with forced lightness, but Damien could see that the scars ran deep. He was moved by the hollowness of her voice, and he felt an odd twist of pity for the cruelty and humiliation she had suffered.
“Jenkins told me your father was a physician.”
“The man my mother married was a doctor,” Isabella corrected. “I have no knowledge of my true father.”
“That must be a difficult burden to bear,” Damien replied, trying to keep the sympathy from his voice. He did not want to further injure her pride by letting her believe he pitied her.
“I spent many a long night lying awake, wondering about my real father. I confess I often fanatisized about his identity,” Isabella responded in a faraway voice. Lost in her memories, she inadvertantly revealed secrets she had never dared to speak aloud.
“I remember at one point hitting upon the notion that my father was a royal duke. They were all known to have a great fondness for women and for siring numerous illegitimate children. I rather liked the idea of having royal connections. Of course later I overheard a gentleman repeating the Duke of Wellington's remarks concerning the old king's sons. He called them 'the damndest millstones about the neck of any government that can be imagined.' After that, I quickly revised my theory.”
Damien was amazed that she could speak so calmly about an incident that was clearly a deep and scaring wound.
“Why have you shared this with me?”
“I'm becoming fond of my life here at The Grange.” Isabella swallowed reflexively and forced her chin up. “I wanted you to know the truth about me, Damien. If you care to dismiss me, I'd like to leave before I become too attached to my charges.”
“Is that what happened? In your previous positions?”
“Not exactly,” Isabella hedged. She wiggled uncomfortably, not eager to recite her history of dismissals, but the earl obviously was waiting.
“My first employer thought I was attracting far too much attention from the men visiting the house, and my second employer falsely believed I had my sights set on capturing the affections of the eldest son of the household.”
“Did you?”
“Certainly not,” Isabella insisted emphatically. “There was only one small, stolen kiss, nothing nearly as passionate and exciting as those you have ...” Her voice trailed off in horror as Isabella stopped herself.
“Do go on,” Damien prompted, secretly thrilled that his kisses were far more stimulating than those of some nameless young dandy's.
Rattled, but forcing herself to ignore the earl's intense stare, Isabella continued. “My third post was as a companion, and my employer and I mutually agreed that I was not at all suited to the life. I am infinitely more successful coping with children than spoiled old dowagers. And I do believe you are aware, sir, of the circumstances surrounding my dismissal from the Brauns' household.”
Isabella couldn't be sure, but she thought the earl blushed. “Their loss is our gain, Isabella,” he responded gallantly.
Isabella acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod of her head. “Now that I have shared a secret with you,” she said, “I expect you to return the favor.”
Damien's body stiffened instantly in suspicion, but he kept his voice neutral. “What precisely do you wish to know?”
“Why does Jenkins address you by your given name?”
The guarded, wary look slowly left the earl's silvery eyes. “Jenkins managed to pull my injured body from beneath my fallen horse after the battle of Vitoria. If not for his stubborn insistence and perseverance, I might have been left for dead, like so many of my comrades. During my long recuperation in Spain, he began calling me Damien. Once we returned to England, it seemed ludicrous to insist he again adopt the formality.”
An ironic smile tugged at her mouth. “Impending death is a great equalizer,” Isabella murmured softly.
During the ensuing silence, a comfortable warmth settled over Isabella. She felt a closeness with Damien, a sharing of memories with the absence of judgment.
“We're ready, Father.” Catherine's voice rang out loud and clear.
Regretfully, Damien pulled himself away from the softness in Isabella's eyes. It had been oddly comforting to share this moment with her and unexpectedly establish a bond of understanding and respect between them. Damien couldn't remember if he had ever spoken of his wounding with so little pain at the memory.
“If you ever decide you are interested in learning to ride, I'd be pleased to instruct you, Isabella.” With that said, the earl pushed himself off the bench and stood upright. Before Isabella could muster an appropriate response, he was gone.
 
 
Sunday morning dawned gray and overcast. Nevertheless, it was a large group that set out from The Grange bound for the village church. Isabella rode inside the earl's carriage with Jenkins by her side, while the maids Fran and Penny, accompanied by their husbands, rode on top. Penny's husband, Joe, handled the ribbons.
“Did you enjoy last evening's supper with the earl and his children, Miss Browning?” Jenkins inquired politely, as the carriage ambled down the dirt road.
“No food or drink was thrown, Mr. Jenkins,” Isabella replied wryly. “I suppose that marks the occasion as a success.”
Actually, Saturday night's supper was not quite the disaster afternoon tea had been, but it was not without its mishaps. Catherine upset the gravy boat, which in Isabella's opinion was no great tragedy, since the gravy was bland and far too thick. But Ian made such a fuss over his sister's accident that he truly embarrassed her, and Catherine in turn promised retribution.

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