Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (15 page)

Isobel agreed it would be a pleasant way to pass the
morning and consoled herself with the thought that they would be
back in London before two days had passed.

After lingering over a light breakfast of coffee and
rolls, they went back to their rooms and changed to the obligatory
blue riding habits. While they waited outside the stable for the
groom to saddle their horses, Julia scratched the ears of a
brown-and-white dog that was followed by a chubby brown puppy. It
wasn’t long before the rest of the litter appeared and Isobel bent
down to play with them. A black-and-white puppy bullied its way to
her and she picked it up to hold it to her face. “What a little
darling you are!” she said when it licked her face. She put it down
reluctantly when the groom brought out the horses. He helped Isobel
to mount a bay gelding named Boots, and she waited for Julia before
trotting out toward the forest.

“
Ashdown Grey has been standing
since the crusades,” Julia told her. “The first marquess acquired
the place when he was elevated from earl of Northern for some favor
rendered to Henry the Eighth, though I understand the ‘favor’ was
something along the line of a few thousand pounds. For some reason
he never lived in it. My grandfather had the place remodeled. He
added the south wing and was going to do the other side, too, but
then he dismissed the architect and by the time he found another to
suit him, he hadn’t the inclination anymore. My father added the
north wing. He spent much more on the inside than out—and I’m
afraid he let the lands go rather dreadfully. Hartforde has made
them pay ten times what they paid under my father. He’s enclosed
thousands more acres and now, I’m told, the lands turn a handsome
profit. Sussex,” she continued after a pause, “is almost as lovely
as Hartfordeshire. Someday you and I must visit there. I expect,
though, you will have your fill of them both after you and
Hartforde are married.”

“
Married? To your brother?” She
felt she ought to protest the idea, though she didn’t quite know
why.

“
Who else would he
marry?”

Angelica Vincent, thought Isobel.

“
You are the perfect wife for
him.”

“
But, would he be the perfect
husband for me?”

“
But, of course!”

“
I don’t think your brother wants
to marry anybody.” She remembered very well his warnings to her on
the subject. “And, Julia, begging your pardon, I think your brother
is an arrogant, self-important—”

“
That must be why you like him so
much!”

“
Is it so obvious?” She felt
herself blushing. “I’m afraid he has made it clear he does not like
me. The thing is impossible. Surely you have noticed his affections
are very much engaged?”

“
If you want to think so.” At her
ball, Hartforde had danced with Isobel twice, something he never
did with any woman. He’d looked in Isobel’s direction several times
throughout the evening, and, if that weren’t enough, Julia knew for
a fact he hated the opera. And never before had she known him to
take an interest in bedeviling one of her friends; yet, whenever he
and Isobel were together, the atmosphere was positively thick! She
felt quite sure her brother had met his match in Isobel St. James.
All that was required was for her to continue her careful
management of the situation. Nature would do the rest. “So,” she
said, “tell me about Lord Strathemoore.”

“
Lord Strathemoore? There isn’t
anything to tell, Julia.”

“
Why haven’t you told me he sends
you roses every day? Everyone is talking about his terrible
extravagance.”

“
Surely not everyone!”

“
Everyone.”

“
He’s awfully nice.” That much was
true. Lord Strathemoore was very nice to her. He had taken her
twice to see a play and had escorted her to the Kensington Gardens
one morning when she had wanted to avoid the crush at Hyde Park.
“What about you, Julia? Have you made up your mind about Lord
Burke?” She decided it would be best to change the subject to one
less uncomfortable.

“
Oh, I don’t know what to think! I
am convinced he loves me, and I should not hesitate to accept him,
but he is so restrained.” She sighed. “I’m positive the man is
incapable of passion! But, then, he is so terribly attractive…I
wish I knew what to do!” Julia kicked her horse into a gallop and
Isobel took off after her, cursing under her breath when she nearly
toppled off the animal’s back. She denigrated the sidesaddle for
being a dangerous contraption designed for the sole purpose of
discouraging women from getting any real enjoyment from
riding.

II

The next night while they were having supper and
Isobel was telling Julia about the progress she was making on her
music, the butler announced Lord Hartforde’s arrival and his intent
to join them at table. Isobel shook her head when Julia gave her a
meaningful look.

“
Hartforde! What are you doing
here?” Julia asked when he joined them.

“
Is it so unusual that I visit my
own home?” he responded as he sat down at the head of the table,
where a place was always kept set for him.

“
Well, of course it is always a
pleasure to see you, Hartforde. ’Tis only, we did not expect you.”
Julia filled his glass with wine, trying to suppress a smile. “We
were sure you were too busy thwarting the Tories to bother with
us.”

“
I needed to get away from London
for a while. Besides, I have something to discuss with you, Julia.”
He looked at Isobel, as if suddenly noticing her presence. “Good
evening, Miss St. James.” He frowned because he had been telling
himself he would not find her half as pretty as she had seemed in
London, and now he saw that he’d been quite wrong. He clearly
recalled a particular Tuesday night when she had distracted him so
much he had been hard pressed to maintain his aloofness. He
certainly did not think he ought to remember so well how soft the
skin of her shoulder had felt when he had briefly touched her. He
gave a little smile of triumph when a particularly long look
succeeded in making her blush.

III

Isobel rose early the next day, and though she took
her time getting ready, by the time she had dressed and finished
with a not insubstantial breakfast, Julia was still asleep.
Sleeping late was one habit to which Isobel could not accustom
herself. She rarely stayed in bed past nine, and she could not
understand how her friend managed to stay abed until well after
noon. She sighed and decided to find the library so she could read
until Julia joined her. She was exceedingly anxious to discover
whether they were to return to London that day.

She opened the door to the library
and sighed with happiness when she looked around. The room was
large and books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The only
wall not entirely taken up with shelves had a fireplace with an
ornate marble mantel on which there sat a large ormulu clock.
Confronted with so many titles, she was at a momentary loss to
decide what to read, but at last she settled on a thick book
called
The London Spy
. She had never heard of its author, but it sounded too
promising to pass over.

Such a large room was not to her taste for reading
in; it was tomblike in its musty silence. She preferred to read in
a cozier drawing room or parlor. The library was in the section of
the north wing nearest the center of the house, and because she
remembered seeing a great many windows when she was in the rear
gardens, she decided the back of the old section held the most
promise for a pleasant place to read. In fact, she opened three
doors before finding a room that looked inviting. This one had one
wall taken up by windows overlooking the gardens. There was even a
comfortable-looking sofa facing the view. The floor was covered by
a red-and-gray Chinese rug that instantly reminded her of the
carpet in her father’s study in Boston. She had loved to walk
barefoot over it while he sat reading or writing out his
correspondence.

The fireplace was directly opposite the windows, and
above the gilt mantel was a huge Gainsborough portrait of an
ethereally beautiful woman with light blond hair and a wistful
smile. Isobel had been admiring the painting for some time before
she realized it must be Lord Hartforde’s late wife. She stepped
behind the desk to look at it more closely. He had to have been
terribly in love with this woman. She was holding a lily in one
tiny hand. Isobel was convinced there had been no need for
Gainsborough to improve upon the looks of his model.

Taking up her book, she settled down on the sofa
with a sigh. After only a few minutes she gave in to temptation and
took off her shoes and stockings to wriggle her toes in the soft
wool of the carpet. She opened the book and was soon absorbed in
the story. There was rather more cursing than she thought might be
proper; it reminded her very much of the kind of conversation she
had heard bandied about of an evening when she had stayed to supper
at Faircourt’s. She was nearly a quarter of the way through when
her eyes began to feel heavy. She lay down on the sofa and
continued to read until, finally, her lids drooped and did not open
again.

She did not stir when the door opened and Lord
Hartforde entered the room and seated himself at the mahogany desk.
He opened one of the drawers and pulled out three heavy ledgers,
and a stack of papers. He found a pen that satisfied him and,
setting an inkhorn and plenty of extra paper by his elbow, he began
sorting through the papers. Doing the estate’s accounts was a chore
he did not particularly relish, and he was always in a bad humor
when he could put it off no longer. It was a job he usually left to
an overseer, but he knew it was foolish never to check the accounts
himself. He had been engrossed in his work for several minutes when
a muffled thump startled him. He jerked his head up and glowered
when he saw a blond head appear above the top of the sofa.

“
What the bloody—” He took a deep
breath and began again. “What are you doing in here, Miss St.
James?”

Isobel turned around and looked at him, eyebrows
raised in an offended expression. “And how pleasant to see you,
too, Lord Hartforde.” She stretched lazily. “I was reading, and I
suppose I must have fallen asleep.”

“
I’m the only one who ever comes
in here.” He told himself he was irritated by her intrusion, but it
also annoyed him to notice the breathless disarray of her hair.
While she looked at him, clearly affronted at his sharp tone, it
was especially infuriating that he could not tell if her eyes were
blue or if there really was a purplish cast to them.

“
If the library wasn’t such a
mausoleum, I confess I could have stayed in there all
day.”

“
Indeed, you could have.” He
scowled when Isobel’s head disappeared from sight while she bent to
pick up her book.

“
You have my most abject apologies
for disturbing you, my lord, though I shall refrain from pointing
out that I was here first.” She brushed a few wisps of hair from
her face.

“
Do forgive me if I have disturbed
your invasion of my privacy.” He tapped his pen impatiently on the
stack of papers before him. When she sighed and began to stand up,
he said snidely, “Oh, don’t go on my account!” He pulled out his
penknife and focused his attention on recutting his pen.

“
Why, thank you, sir. How
uncommonly kind of you!” Her intention of leaving him to his work
dissolved in the face of his unbearable rudeness, and she sat back
down. “I do appreciate your letting me enjoy the view. ’Tis a
lovely morning.” She turned her back to him and opened her book.
Her heart was pounding from the way those green eyes had made her
stomach flutter in spite of her resolve not to let his
extraordinary looks disturb her in the least. She frowned when she
could make no sense of the words before her, and she turned the
volume right-side up before she could find her place.

After a few minutes he threw down his penknife in
exasperation. It was impossible to concentrate with her in the
room.

“
Am I turning the pages too
loudly, my Lord Hartforde?” Isobel asked sweetly, turning around to
find his attention focused on the point of the pen that he was
attempting to recut a second time.

“
Your sarcasm is wasted on me,
Miss St. James.” He glanced at her for an instant before turning
back to his pen.

“
Alas!” She stood up and walked
over to the desk, still holding the book in her hand.

“
Perhaps you’d care to do the
accounts, then!” he suggested facetiously when she stood behind him
and peered over his shoulder.

“
I’d be delighted.” She continued
to lean over him.

“
Are you quite finished?” he asked
after a moment.

“
Don’t be absurd! Nobody could do
figures that quickly.” She reached around him and ran a slim finger
down the columns of sums. “You’re off one pound ten. Are these to
be reconciled?” She pointed to the papers strewn about the desk.
When he nodded, she put down her book to pick up the papers and,
after neatly arranging them in a pile, began to sort through
them.

“
Perhaps you’d care for my chair?”
But Isobel was oblivious to his sharp tone. She simply nodded and
sat down in the chair he vacated for her. He looked at her book.
“Ned Ward?”

“
So?” she asked.