Chapter Ten

Isadora stared at him, her heart beating rather fast. What did he mean? Sudden shyness attacked her. It could not be that, in spite of all, he liked her—could it? Enough to wish to—? No, of what was she thinking? After the way she had treated him? She rushed into speech.

‘Well, of course you feel you must provide me with some sort of dowry, but I assure you—’

‘Let us not discuss your dowry at this precise moment.’

Dared he speak now? If her sentiments were not what he hoped, then anything he said would surely alienate her totally. Then it would be impossible even to remain upon terms with her. And that, now, would be unendurable.

‘I was only going to say that you need not concern yourself about it,’ Isadora pursued anxiously. ‘I could not bear to be the cause of involving you in any more expense at the present time. You must have enough on your hands as it is.’

He was touched. Though he might have guessed that Isadora would be as generous an ally as she had been implacable an enemy. Was she not a creature of extremes?

‘Isadora, that is a generous thought,’ he said warmly. ‘But what concerns me the most is that no one should suffer for my father’s depredations upon the estate. Besides, in a way I owe your family more than my own. The inheritance of your father’s property must be counted a godsend. I am heartily glad of it, but only insofar as it will enable me, by raising capital, to provide for us all eventually.’

‘Then you don’t intend to pay Syderstone with the proceeds?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Heaven forbid! Though his purpose in seeking me out was to persuade me to do so.’

‘For my part, I think you should refuse to pay him at all.’

Roborough gave a short laugh. ‘Unhappily that is not a solution that is open to me.’

Isadora frowned deeply. ‘Do you suppose he would release you from the obligation if I married him?’

‘Since you are going to do no such thing,’ he snapped, ‘we shall never know.’

‘Well, but—’

‘Loath as I am to reopen hostilities, Isadora, I warn you that if I hear any more on this head I shall be obliged to take strict measures of prevention.’

Isadora was conscious of the oddest sensation as she stared at him—a glow that seemed to spread right down to her toes, and a feeling of intense satisfaction.

‘You don’t wish me to marry him?’ she asked, as if driven to the question.

‘I don’t wish you to marry anyone,’ Roborough retorted in a harassed sort of way.

God, but in a moment he would be saying precisely those things he had determined not to say. Not yet. Why she was not cutting at him for daring to dictate to her on such matters he could not fathom. He drew a steadying breath, trying for a measure of calm.

‘All I am trying to say is that there is no necessity for you—or anyone, for that matter—to be thinking of personal sacrifices. We are not out of the woods by any means, but once the Pusay house is sold we may at least look to a promising future.’

Isadora was silent. If she had hoped for a declaration she had been deservedly set down. Not that she had. She could not imagine why she was even thinking of such a thing. It was not as if she wished to marry Roborough. Why, if Harriet had not persisted in holding him up as the ideal, it would never have occurred to her. Yet she was conscious of disappointment out of all proportion to the event. With an inward sigh, she turned her attention to the matter in hand.

‘All very well to be thinking of the future,’ she said slowly, ‘but what of the immediate present? Is the situation very bad?’

‘I have told you, Isadora,’ he said mildly. ‘There is no need for you to worry your head over it.’

Her temper flared. ‘Don’t treat me like a child!’

‘Did I do so? I beg your pardon. I just don’t want you to become involved.’

‘That is absurd. I am involved. Why in the world should you not trust me with the truth?’

A short laugh escaped him. ‘That is rich, coming from you.’

‘You mean because I would not trust you? Whose fault is that, I should like to know?’

Roborough raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘I might have known. It is my fault, of course, that you could not find it in yourself to trust me—despite the fact that you discovered me not to be my father, who had given you cause for offence, despite the fact that you were the one listening at doors, not I—and making what you chose out of everything you overheard.’

‘All of which you could readily have avoided,’ returned Isadora wrathfully, ‘had you been honest enough at the outset to tell me the truth. But of course I am merely a stupid female who cannot begin to understand matters of business.’

‘Nothing of the sort, but—’

‘Roborough,’ she said ominously, ‘you are conducting yourself precisely in the same way as you have done all along. And that, let me tell you, is certain to end in my quarrelling with you all over again.’

He grinned. ‘I am scarcely fool enough to suppose that you are done quarrelling with me merely because you have choked yourself over an apology.’

She laughed but, reaching out her hands towards him, she said earnestly, ‘Pray tell me the true situation. I want to understand it all, truly I do.’

He automatically grasped her hands, holding them hard. ‘You compel me to answer you. Perhaps I did contribute to your mistrust.’

Her fingers clung to his, although she scarcely noticed, so important did it seem to her that she should gain his confidence. ‘You did, and you continue so to do every moment that you deny me access to your thoughts. How can you expect trust and—and faith, if you will not be open with me?’

For a moment he was tempted—to be utterly open. But the thought of seeing that mercurial temperament turn once more against him—no, he could not endure it. Too dangerous. By comparison, the prospect of relaying to her the details of his sorry situation seemed ridiculously simple. He could not fathom now why he had not done so before.

‘You are right. I have been too cautious. Let us sit down a little.’

Leading her to the fallen tree-trunks, he obliged her to take a rather precarious seat there, himself perching beside her. Supporting his hands on the tree beneath him, he looked over to where the two horses were quietly cropping at the grass.

‘The situation is extremely serious. There is no ready cash, and nothing with which to realise any. Not here, in any event. About the only thing my father did not do—and only because he could not—was mortgage the house. The rents have been raised beyond what is either fair or acceptable, and many of our tenants have moved away as a result. No repairs have been effected for several years. In a word, we are cleaned out.’

‘But did not your father ever win?’

‘Of course he won. But your true gambler loses as much as he wins—and more.’

His voice was so full of bitterness that Isadora ached to comfort him. She spoke the thought in her mind.

‘I see what it is. You feel cheated.’

Roborough turned to look at her. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do.’

‘There is every reason why you should. Why, in your place, I should be livid.’

He grinned briefly. ‘I don’t doubt it. But I am not proud of such a feeling. I wish I might take it all in my stride. After all, I have known for years what I was likely to find.’

‘Knowing something will happen does not necessarily arm one against the shock of it, or lessen the feelings involved,’ Isadora offered. ‘Papa’s death—’ She hardly noticed that she used the dread word with unaccustomed ease ‘—is a case in point. We knew he was dying. He was even glad of it, for he told me so. But we were devastated when it happened none the less.’

‘Yes, I think I see. My mother, who had as I thought been soured forever, was thrown into deepest gloom when my father died.’

‘She must have cared for him, in spite of all.’

Isadora scarcely realised what she had said. It was as if a key had turned suddenly, opening her mind to her own inspection. She had cared—in spite of all.

She stared at Roborough’s profile, for he was no longer looking at her, but gazing at the horses. Was it possible? Had he insinuated himself so thoroughly into her affections that she had been fighting against the feeling—all this time—because of what she had thought she knew to his discredit?

‘What is it?’

The question came softly, and she realised that he had turned, was meeting her eyes, a concerned frown in his own. What could she say? Heat—the unpleasant heat of embarrassment—swept through her.

‘N-nothing,’ she stammered, quickly rising from the trunk of the tree and moving away.

He was up at once, following her. He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. ‘Isadora, don’t you shut me out now.’

Involuntarily she looked up, meeting his anxious gaze. It was not in her to prevaricate. Yet her tongue would not utter the words she wanted so desperately to say.

‘I am…confused,’ was all she could manage.

‘What confuses you?’ he asked gently.

‘You do. You confuse me. I thought I knew—understood at least, but…’

She meant that she had understood her own emotions, only to find them overturning in a manner that both shocked and appalled her. She could not be feeling this.

But Roborough took her words quite differently. ‘You are having doubts of my character again? Why, what have I said?’

‘Nothing. I don’t mean that.’

‘Then what do you mean?’

‘If I knew, I would not be confused, would I?’ she threw at him, overwhelmed by the bewildering sensations in her breast.

He laughed and released her. ‘Now I am confused. I’m damned—if you will forgive the expression—if I know what to make of you, Isadora Alvescot.’ He made a move towards the horses. ‘But come. We shall be missed.’

On the whole, Isadora was rather relieved as she settled herself after Roborough had helped her into the saddle. She needed time to sort this all out. There was no need to converse as they cantered back towards the mansion and her confusion began to subside. She was rather inclined to suppose that she must temporarily have taken leave of her senses. For a few perilous moments she had actually believed that she had come to care for Roborough.

Now that they were riding companionably side by side, however, the odd sensations had left her—fortunately. God knew she did not wish to feel like that about him. He might not be the villain she had taken him for, but one did not, all in a minute, alter one’s mind about someone to that degree. Great heavens, she had been mad! Or perhaps she had imagined it. Moved, no doubt, by compassion, she had mistaken that feeling for something warmer. Her attention was recalled by the viscount as they came within sight of the stables.

‘Good God, who is this turning up at such an hour?’

Glancing in the direction of his gaze, Isadora perceived that a travelling carriage stood beside the stables. It had evidently only just arrived for the grooms were still releasing the team of horses from the shafts. A dreadful thought struck her.

‘Don’t say it is Syderstone come to plague you again.’

‘No, no. He always drives himself in his curricle.’ Then Roborough’s tone altered, something of pleasurable excitement entering it. ‘I fancy I know those horses. Ursula, by all that’s wonderful!’

He spurred his horse as he spoke, cantering quickly up to the vehicle. Automatically, Isadora urged her own mount to a faster pace. But before she could catch up she saw Roborough raise a hand in salute, calling out a jovial greeting.

‘I knew it was you, you rogue!’

All at once, Isadora caught sight of a female figure moving out of the shadow of the house towards the stables. Bringing her horse to a standstill, she watched the viscount leap from the saddle and stride towards the woman.

A feminine laugh rang out, and the female, an elegant vision in a black pelisse with a fashionable feathered bonnet perched on a riot of golden locks, held out welcoming hands.

‘Titus, my dearest!’

‘Ursula, my love!’ came the glad cry in response as the viscount seized the proffered hands.

Isadora sat as if turned to stone. Blank emptiness stifled every thought but one. Roborough was hugging this female as if his life depended upon it. Her pulse started up again, her heart hammering painfully in her breast. Who was she? Did it matter who she was? All that mattered was what Roborough had called her. His love?

Something stabbed in her chest. Nausea came up from her stomach to choke her. Then an alien voice penetrated.

‘Miss? Can I assist you to alight?’

One of the grooms was standing at her horse’s head.

‘Oh yes, th—thank you,’ she managed to say through lips that were numb and stiff.

Her limbs felt as if they did not belong to her as she made ready to dismount, sliding to the ground with the groom’s assistance. She was amazed that her legs did not buckle under her. Thank heaven they did not, for she must get away. Go inside. Escape. On what pretext? Her brain did not seem to wish to operate. But yes, she must change. It was breakfast-time, was it not? She could not breakfast in her riding dress.

As she began to move towards the house, she could hear the buzz of voices. His—and hers. But the words were meaningless, until—Oh no, Roborough was leading the female towards her. She could not meet her. But she must. Where was the actress in her when it was so sorely needed?

‘Ursula, I want you to meet Miss Alvescot.’

From somewhere, Isadora summoned a smile.

‘Isadora, this is Lady Ursula Stivichall, a very great friend of mine—of the family.’

Registering the hasty correction at the back of her mind, Isadora extended a hand and found herself looking down—for the female was half a head shorter than she was herself—into a countenance somewhat older than she had expected.

Surprise caused the dreadful inner turmoil to dull slightly. Why, the woman was thirty if she was a day. Nor was she beautiful. Pleasing, yes, but not as lovely as Harriet, for example. And, like all of them, Isadora suddenly realised, she was in mourning. The costume, for all its elegance, was unmistakably significant.

Lady Ursula smiled—more warmly than Isadora cared for. ‘I am delighted to meet you. I have heard of you all, of course. Titus wrote about you.’

‘Did he indeed?’ responded Isadora in a fair approximation of her usual tone, albeit somewhat dry. ‘He mentioned nothing, on the other hand, of you.’

She had not meant to place that undue emphasis on the word. A swift glance at Roborough showed her that he had taken instant notice of it, for a quick frown creased his brow. What did he expect?

She must pull herself together. After all, what right had she to behave so? She forced another smile.

‘I am happy to make your acquaintance. We appear to share a common state.’

‘The mourning, you mean,’ said Lady Ursula calmly. ‘My husband. But my year is almost up.’ She cast a mischievous glance at the viscount. ‘Though it seems to me a lifetime, which is why I am here. You, Titus, are to entertain me before I go out of my mind with boredom.’

‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ he responded, ‘only I trust it will not greatly inconvenience you if I breakfast first?’

Lady Ursula went into a peal of mirth. ‘That is just what I mean.’ She turned laughing eyes on Isadora. ‘Isn’t he the most outrageous jokesmith? I vow he keeps me in a ripple of amusement—which of course is why I have come.’

Privately Isadora doubted this was her only reason. She was tempted to say that Roborough kept her rather in a fever of fury, but she was conscious just at this moment of a welling of something that was decidedly not fury. It threatened to spill over if she did not get away immediately.

‘Excuse me, if you please,’ she said as calmly as she could, ‘but I must change.’

‘Oh yes, off you go, Miss Alvescot.’ Lady Ursula tucked her hand in Roborough’s arm. ‘I shall detain Titus but a moment, and then he shall change too.’

‘I thank you. Perhaps you would care to organise the rest of my morning also?’

Isadora escaped into the house, hearing the ripple of Lady Ursula’s laughter break out again behind her. Lifting the long skirts of her riding habit, she sped as swiftly as she could up the back stairs and through the corridors of the great mansion. It was not until she had gained the safety of her bedchamber, and closed the door behind her, that she allowed her burgeoning emotions rein.

Her heart was palpitating so unevenly that she was breathless. She ought to ring for her maid, but instead she moved to the end of the bed and sank down, grasping one of the posts for support.

She needed some few moments alone to grapple with the dreadful truth. For there was no use in deceiving herself any longer. She could not mistake the significance of the violent feelings that had attacked her, and were still causing the most unpleasant sensations of nausea and, she conceded, with tears welling at her eyes, of grief. She was jealous! Uselessly, stupidly jealous, of the female who had just arrived.

The thought caused such a bursting within her bosom that she pushed herself to her feet, tearing at the hooks of the bodice, which had become suddenly too restrictive to be borne. The tightness at her chest eased a little as the bodice came loose. She left it hanging open over her silk chemise, drawing a few steadying breaths. Then she moved to the window which overlooked the walled gardens at the side of the house.

Roses bloomed below. An image flashed into her mind. Roborough, touching the roses to satisfy himself, as he had said, that he was really there. A little laugh escaped her, choking off into a sob.

When had it happened? How had it happened? All the time, while she had been hating him so fervently, fighting him at every hand, the wretch had been stealing away her heart. And for what? Because the female—Ursula, had he called her?—already had his. That much was obvious. Or was it?

In her mind’s eye she saw again his softened features, heard his voice gently—oh, so gently—asking in concern about her distresses. Could he behave thus to Isadora, if his heart was in the possession of another?

And the morning after they arrived had he not almost kissed her? Great heavens, now she was more confused than ever!

Except for one thing, of which she was now more certain than she had been of anything in her life. The thing she had determined would not happen. Only it had.

This was all Harriet’s fault. Had her friend not put the idea into her head, she was sure she would never have fallen in love with Roborough.

There, she had admitted it. Oh, but she hated him for making her love him so. She was the most miserable creature alive. For of course he did not feel about her the way he had made her feel about him. No, he was head over ears for that Ursula. And even had he not been—which she could not doubt he was—what hope had she of attaching him, after everything she had said and done, after doing all in her power to alienate him forever?

Well, let it be so. Isadora flung herself away from the window and bracingly tugged at the bell pull to summon her maid. She was not going to sue for the viscount’s affections. She would die rather. And nothing would induce her to allow the Ursula female to suspect for one moment that she envied her such a conquest. She would face her brazenly—and act. She had enough talent to fool her and Roborough both.

***

 

It was amazing the difference a single person made to the atmosphere of the house. Isadora was obliged to admit that the presence of Lady Ursula Stivichall had considerably lightened the general mood. Even her costume contrasted with the unrelieved black of that of the residents, for white twisted bugling adorned the black satin evening gown and her turban was ornamented with a white satin bandeau.

She was clearly a favourite even with Lady Roborough. Bettina and Corinne had fallen upon her in glee, and were now—having been permitted, at the guest’s earnest entreaty, to join the adults for dinner—hanging upon her every utterance and clinging one to each arm where they sat beside her on one of the elegant sofas in the receiving saloon.

Fanny seemed less enthusiastic. Or perhaps, Isadora decided fairly, she was feeling left out. In the absence of her brother—Rowland having been packed off to school—she was dependent upon the Stratton girls for company. Cousin Matty was very obviously disapproving, which Isadora tried hard not to be glad of, although Mrs Alvescot was pleasant enough to the lady.

But then Mama was ever ready to take people on trust. She would not recognise in Lady Ursula the snake that had caused her daughter’s heart to be broken—unless Cousin Matty drew her attention to matters that she might not otherwise notice.

Not that even Mama could have failed to notice the way Lady Ursula monopolised the viscount. No sooner did he come in from his solitary port than she left his young sisters flat and rose at once to curl possessive hands about his arm.

‘Titus, at last! I thought you would be at that wine of yours forever. Come and sit by me.’

‘Temptress,’ he said, laughing. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, but I must tear myself away upon this occasion. I came in only to ask you all to excuse me. Dalbury has set me some business and I must write some letters tonight, without fail.’

‘But I protest,’ objected Lady Ursula gaily. ‘This is merely an excuse, for you have been obliged to entertain me all day and you are tired of me.’

‘Alas, you have seen through my subterfuge,’ mourned Roborough.

That trill of laughter came, setting Isadora’s teeth on edge. The mock-chiding tone was sickening.

‘Wicked, wicked man. For that I shall force you to accept my escort to the study.’

‘Must you? It is all due to you that these letters have remained unwritten all day.’

‘Then you have no time to waste,’ said Lady Ursula, pushing him out of the door. She laughed back at the company. ‘I shall return when I have suitably punished him.’

As she whisked from the room, Miss Callowell, who was present in company with her young charges, immediately called upon the girls to retire.

‘You will not wish to outstay your welcome,’ she said firmly when they protested. ‘Come along.’

Fanny, urged perforce by her mother, also left the room, leaving the field clear for Cousin Matty to pump Lady Roborough for information.

‘Lady Ursula is charming, is she not?’ she said unctuously, switching her seat for one nearer to the lady of the house.

‘She is attentive to the girls,’ offered her ladyship wearily.

And to the viscount, Isadora might have said. But there was no need for her to say it, for Cousin Matty was on to the item like a foxhound.

‘Cousin Roborough appears to be uncommonly attached to her.’

Her ladyship sighed. ‘Ah yes. So suitable, now that Stivichall has passed on. Whether Stratton will choose to marry her is another matter.’

Isadora felt her heart skip a beat. What could that mean?

‘But if he is so fond of her…’ suggested Cousin Matty.

‘Fond? Oh, they are fond, I make no doubt of that. Yet Stratton has ever set his face against matrimony. Although Stivichall left her very comfortably circumstanced, and if Stratton had any sense of what is due to the family—’ Lady Roborough broke off, sighing again. ‘But it is always the same. One meets everywhere with nothing but selfishness.’ She dragged herself to her feet. ‘You will forgive me if I retire. These late hours are so injurious, and I am never in the best of health.’

Cousin Matty solicitously aided her to the door and carefully shut it only after she had made sure that Lady Roborough had drifted off down the corridor. Then she turned to survey her cousin and Isadora.

‘Well!’ she exclaimed in a shocked under voice.

‘Oh, what is it, Matty?’ Mrs Alvescot quavered.

Cousin Matty came over to settle beside her once more. ‘Ellen, it is just as I suspected, I am quite convinced of it.’

Mrs Alvescot threw a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh! You don’t mean—’

‘She is Roborough’s mistress.’

Isadora jumped violently. What? Such a thing had never occurred to her. Convinced her relative was mistaken, she broke into speech.

‘Cousin Matty, have you run mad?’

Eagerly, the elder woman turned to her. ‘Only consider, Dora. Here is Lady Roborough debating that Cousin Roborough will not marry her, even though they are fond. I ask you, what else is one to make of that?’

At this inopportune moment, much to the general confusion, Lady Ursula herself slipped back into the room.

‘I have left him to his letters. I do believe he did have them to write.’ She looked about. ‘Oh, has Albinia gone to bed?’

‘I don’t think—’ began Mrs Alvescot doubtfully.

‘Oh, silly me. I mean Lady Roborough, of course. Poor dear, she has been quite broken by her wretched marriage. We are not all fortunate in our husbands, sadly.’

‘Very true,’ Cousin Matty agreed, recovering her poise. ‘I trust you were happily wed?’

‘Ecstatically.’ And the tinkling laugh rang out.

Then, to Isadora’s secret dismay, Lady Ursula came over towards her chair, leaving Cousin Matty and Mrs Alvescot whispering together.

‘How about you, Miss Alvescot? Oh, may I call you Isadora? I do so hate formality.’

‘Certainly, ma’am,’ Isadora said, with an assumption of ease she was far from feeling.

All she could think about was whether it might be true. Was she Roborough’s mistress? The very notion caused that distressing stabbing pain in her chest. She did her best to banish the thought, but another swiftly succeeded it. Had Lady Ursula indeed been ecstatically happy in her marriage? For if she had, then she would not wish to—

‘I have been telling Titus,’ said the lady herself, breaking into Isadora’s thoughts, ‘that he must, at all costs, make sure he marries you to someone both sensible and kind.’

Oh, had she? Sensible and kind? Mentally, Isadora wondered what in the world the viscount might have had to say to that.

Aloud, she said acidly, ‘As far as I know, he is not planning to marry me to anyone at all. What is more, I do not require his assistance in the matter.’

Lady Ursula went into her peal of laughter. ‘He told me you would say so.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Just what else had the wretch been saying about her—discussing her freely, no doubt, with his ‘love’?

‘Yes, for I asked him all about you,’ said Lady Ursula with artless candour. ‘Is it really true that you are as good an actress as Mrs Siddons?’

‘Better,’ Isadora said before she could stop her tongue. Then, ashamed of herself, she added, ‘At least, I am told that my knack with tragedy rivals hers.’

‘I can’t wait to see you perform, then,’ declared Lady Ursula. ‘But it is doubly important for Titus to discover the right husband for you. It must, of course, be someone who appreciates your talent. Now, can you think of anyone you know who fits this description?’

‘Lady Ursula,’ Isadora said, an edge to her voice, ‘I cannot think that the subject of my possible marriage can be of interest to anyone other than myself.’

To her intense astonishment, far from being properly snubbed, Lady Ursula’s eyes began to dance.

‘Can you not? Dear me, I rather thought I detected a great deal of interest from someone other than yourself.’

Isadora frowned. What in the world was the woman at now? ‘I do not take your meaning.’

The lady laughed. ‘Never mind. I dare say it will astonish you to hear that even I—a comparative stranger—take an interest in your prospective husband, Isadora.’

It did. In fact it astonished Isadora so much that she refused to believe it. What game the woman was playing she was unable to imagine. The only possible interest she might have had—if she had been able to see into Isadora’s heart—would have been in the knowledge that she coveted Lady Ursula’s own prospective marriage partner. If indeed she did plan on marrying Roborough. And that titbit she could not know, for Isadora flattered herself that she hid the state of her emotions very well.

It cost her an effort of will to do so, but she discovered the very next morning—after another of those painfully sleepless nights with rather more shedding of useless tears than she thought either acceptable or deserved by the unnamed subject of them—that her will had barely been tested in the presence of the Ursula female. The sensations that attacked her when she realised that Roborough meant to ride with her— despite Lady Ursula’s more urgent claims to his attention—were far less susceptible of control.

Great heavens, why was he waiting for her? She had come to the stables with no such expectation. Indeed, she had refused to contemplate it, determining in the long night hours to ask one of the grooms to escort her. She knew she ought not to ride after such a night, but had convinced herself that if she did not get away from the mansion she would go mad. The very last thing she had expected was to be obliged to get away from the mansion with Roborough.

What was she to say to him? How was she to conduct herself? She could not—who could expect it of her?—behave towards him in her normal fashion. Already her betraying pulses were leaping in her veins, making speech well-nigh impossible.

As a result, she greeted him with a good deal of cool reserve—a shield hastily raised to guard her lacerated emotions—and watched, in dismay, the frown descend upon his brow. Now he would demand an explanation. And she did not have one, heaven help her.

Her instincts proved true. No sooner had they ridden the pair of horses out of earshot of the stables than the viscount immediately referred to her mood.

‘What is the matter with you, Isadora? Don’t you wish to ride…with me?’

The little addition drew her head round with a jerk.

‘Oh yes,’ she cried involuntarily. Then she quickly drew the shutter down again, for she must not reveal her feelings.

His frown deepened and she looked away.

‘I slept badly,’ she offered stiffly. ‘A headache.’

‘Again?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My dear Isadora, you must not expect me to be completely gullible. On each occasion that you have complained of a headache you have looked as if you tossed on your pillows all night. Every such occasion has, by some extraordinary coincidence, been followed by your picking a quarrel with me. Am I supposed to believe that this is an exception?’

Isadora bit her lip. She could not look at him, for the teasing quality in his voice was productive of a strong desire to burst into tears. She must not. That would be fatal. She tried for a light note, unaware of the husky quality in her own voice.

‘You are imagining things, Roborough. There is no reason in the world for me to pick a quarrel with you today.’

The viscount brought his mount up close and leaned across to catch her bridle. The two horses came to a halt. Isadora turned frowning eyes upon him, the desire to weep receding as surprise took its place.

‘What are you doing?’

He eyed her. ‘You, my girl, are a lying little devil.’

‘I am no such thing,’ she flashed, firing up.

‘Don’t argue with me,’ he snapped. ‘If you think I am going to endure another stupid misunderstanding only because you will not tell me what is troubling you, you are very much mistaken.’

Isadora pulled at her rein. ‘Let go of my bridle! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Oh yes, you do. We are going back up to that little clearing by the fallen trees and you are going to tell me what is in your mind. Do you understand?’

‘How dare you?’ raged Isadora. ‘By what right do you take this tone with me?’

His features broke into an abrupt grin. ‘That’s the Isadora I know. I had rather have you on your high ropes any day than moping in that uncharacteristic fashion.’

Isadora fought for control. ‘Do you—?’ She stopped, drew a firmer breath, and started again. ‘Do you mean to tell me that you deliberately provoked me? You—you—and don’t dare to put words in my mouth merely because I cannot think of anything at the moment!’

‘Certainly not,’ agreed Roborough cheerfully. ‘I shall wait until you have searched your mind for the exact adjective—failing, of course, your favourite one.’

‘You abominable man!’

‘Oh yes, that one. How could I have forgotten?’

Isadora’s fury faded rapidly and she erupted into giggles.

‘I hate you!’

‘Thank God for that! I had begun to fear that you were altogether indifferent towards me, and that would never do.’

He released her bridle as he spoke and urged his mount onward, knowing that she would automatically follow suit. There was something troubling her. He might have distracted her for the moment, but he could read her countenance so well now that he simply knew. She was unhappy. He could feel it. He could no more stand by and let it alone than he could purposely give her cause for unhappiness.

Leading the way to the fallen tree-trunk, he reined in again. Looking around, he found that although Isadora had readily accompanied him to the spot she was looking extremely apprehensive. No matter. She might not wish to confide in him but he was determined that she should. He swung out of the saddle and tethered his horse.

Then he came up to her and held up his arms. ‘Come.’

Isadora looked down at him. Was there any way out of this? God knew she would give anything to enjoy his company thus alone. But it was not safe. In his presence, she did not know if she could conceal anything.

‘Come, Isadora,’ he repeated, a command in his voice.

She was in no condition to resist him. Making ready, she allowed him to help her down, pushing instantly away in a manner that he found highly suggestive.

‘It is to do with me, isn’t it?’ he asked, unable to help a harsh note from creeping into his voice.

Oddly, Isadora derived strength from it. An ungentle Roborough she could deal with. She rushed into speech.

‘It is nothing of the sort. If you must know, it has nothing whatsoever to do with anyone except myself. I am—I am bored. Yes—bored.’ She had hit upon a theme she might with advantage use. She pursued it ruthlessly. ‘I have nothing to do, you see.’

The viscount frowned. She was fluent enough with this excuse, but he thought it was just that. An excuse. Still, he supposed there might be something in it.

‘What were you used to do at Pusay?’

‘Oh, practise my speeches.’

‘There is nothing to stop you doing so here. In fact, it would be an excellent plan if you were to get up a play for Ursula’s benefit. She has been expressing a wish that you would perform.’

Get up a play for Lady Ursula’s benefit? That was to add insult to injury. Only he naturally would not realise that. She saw him frown again and knew that her face was giving her away.

‘I see that the idea does not find favour with you.’

Thinking fast, she turned this instantly to her advantage. ‘Of course it does not find favour with me. I do not wish to perform here, but on the stage. The real stage.’

Roborough’s frown deepened and his voice was dry. ‘You hold by that scheme, do you?’

‘I have never wavered from it,’ Isadora lied in a defiant tone, tossing her head. ‘Why should you suppose I have changed my mind? I am still determined on becoming an actress, and you will find that you can do nothing to stop me.’

‘Perhaps you are right,’ he said slowly. His gaze raked her from her head to her heels and back again. In a voice of soft menace, he said, ‘But if you do I am afraid there will be nothing for it but for me to follow you and set up as your protector.’

Shock held Isadora silent. She gazed at him blankly. That could mean only one thing. Was he mad?

‘My—my protector? You mean—you mean you would make me your mistress?’

Roborough held her eyes. ‘In the circumstances, no other liaison would be possible.’

‘No other liaison?’

He glanced about in a puzzled way. ‘There seems to be an echo hereabouts.’

Unheeding, Isadora burst out, ‘That is utterly absurd. I could not possibly become your mistress.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded, his gaze coming back to hers. ‘Would you dislike it?’

Isadora’s pulse began to thrum in her veins. Dislike it? No, indeed. Quite otherwise. Only she could not say so. All thought of any other mistress had gone quite out of her head. The only thing she was aware of was the disturbing sensation of her blood pumping passionately in areas of which she had never previously been aware.

‘That is a—a stupid question,’ she managed to say, though her lips quivered on the words.

Roborough’s gaze became riveted on her mouth. He could not fathom what had possessed him to get into such a conversation. He had spoken out of the ardour that he had been damping down for so long. She protested that it was a stupid question, but he would give his life for the answer. No, that was ridiculous. But this was ridiculous. He must stop at once.

But his gaze came up a little, and Isadora’s brown eyes were regarding him with something in their depths that he intuitively recognised. Acting on the knowledge, without intention, without thought, he kissed her.

Isadora, taken completely by surprise, responded instinctively. She kissed him back.

His arms crept round her, pulling her close. Driven by the movement of her lips under his, he pressed more firmly.

A wash of heat engulfed Isadora, and her mouth opened, allowing a velvet touch of softness to meet a welcome within. Fire rushed to the seat of desire and her body shrank involuntarily into the hardness of his limbs.

Roborough dragged her roughly against him and Isadora moaned softly as his mouth left hers, tracing a path of burning flame into the hollows of her neck. Isadora arched back in response, and, without will reached up her hands to his head, tugging him down that she might seek his mouth again.

As she did so, her eyes fluttered open, letting in a sliver of sky and trees and daylight, incongruous against the dark passion she was experiencing. It flung her back to reality.

Her eyes flew fully open. Even as she took in the enormity of what she was doing, she was pulling back, thrusting away, turning, retreating—oh, God help her, what in the world had she done?—to the fallen tree-trunks where she dropped down, panting and hanging on for dear life to one of the jutting dead branches.

It was a moment or two before she was able to get her breath, even longer before the quivering in her limbs began to subside and the pounding of her heart eased a little. She almost jumped when Roborough’s voice came from behind her.

She turned her head. He had not come close. He was looking grimmer than she had ever seen him. But his voice was ragged with some emotion she could not have identified if she had tried.

‘I will not ask your pardon, for that was unforgivable. In my defence I have only this to say: when you talk of becoming an actress, you lay yourself open to just such assaults.’

‘From men like you?’

He flinched. Isadora was instantly contrite. She had not wanted to taunt him. But she could not help it. That he had dismissed the experience in such terms hurt so very much. What to her had been the culmination—or at least the beginning of an expression—of her love for him had been to him merely the sort of treatment a gentleman meted out to that kind of woman. The protest burst out from the pain of his rejection.

‘You did it for that, I suppose? To show me the sort of attentions I am likely to invite if I pursue my ambition to be an actress?’

Roborough did not speak for a moment. He had not done it for that. He had not meant to do it at all. He had kissed her because he could not help it. And her response had so overwhelmed him that he was within an ace of disgracing them both, right there in the open.

But nothing of that must appear in his face or voice. It was tempting to suppose that her affections were engaged, but experience told him such an assumption might well be mistaken. He knew enough of women to understand that a first kiss—and he was certain it was Isadora’s first kiss, if one discounted the Witheridge boy’s juvenile attempt—could readily arouse passions that innocent genteel females were not even aware of possessing. One could set no store by such responses.

He took a decision. ‘That is exactly why I did it.’

Fire of a different kind swept through Isadora. The fire of pure rage. How could he use her so, and for such a reason? Sarcasm tore out of her throat as she rose from the tree-trunk.

‘I must then thank you, Roborough, for demonstrating your libertine propensities. I only trust your real mistress will not take it into her head to become jealous. Oh, don’t fear me. I shall say nothing. I would not wish to jeopardise your chances of gaining by the marriage—if you can bring yourself to marry her.’

The viscount was staring at her in the blankest amazement. ‘What in the name of all the gods are you talking about? My mistress? What mistress, pray?’

But Isadora was already regretting her hasty words.

Had she not known disaster would strike if she rode with Roborough? She must retract at once.

‘It does not matter,’ she said brusquely, pushing past him towards the horses.

He seized her arm. ‘No, you don’t. Explain yourself, if you please.’

‘But I don’t please,’ she snapped. She wrenched her arm out of his hold. ‘I have said too much already.’

‘You have not said nearly enough!’

‘Well, it’s all I am going to say!’

‘Is it indeed?’

‘It is indeed!’

He eyed her in frustrated silence. When she was in this mood, there was no doing anything with the wench. And he was too much moved himself to joke her out of it. He no longer knew what had or had not been said. Except—well, why the idiotic accusation of a mistress? She could not mean Ursula? Good God!

Isadora was already waiting at her horse’s side. Automatically he went to help her. She accepted his aid in silence, settling herself on the back of the horse. She would not look at him, but immediately set off at a trot towards the mansion. Remounting, Roborough followed her more slowly, lost in thought.

This opened up a whole new line of enquiry. She had spoken in venom, but what she had said was open to interpretation. Had his caution been unnecessary? Had he been mistaken in his reading of her response to his embrace? Could it be—? Or was this merely wishful thinking?

Isadora, meanwhile, riding back towards the mansion ahead of him, was beset by far different emotions—all of them uncomfortable. Shame and anger were the least of them. But most of all she was conscious of a yearning ache—for the feel of Roborough’s arms around her, Roborough’s lips on hers. How she wished she had never experienced them. Yet how deeply satisfying it was to have had even that tiny taste of a wine that she would never be permitted to drink.

The mansion loomed. The viscount caught her up, but although they rode into the stable yard neck and neck, Isadora kept silent just as he did. Vaguely she took in the presence of a familiar curricle standing in the yard by the stable-block.

Roborough regarded it frowningly as he swung out of the saddle. Forgetting what lay between them, he looked across at Isadora, who was dismounting with the help of a groom.

‘Another visitor,’ he said grimly.

Isadora, her consciousness receding as the same thought came to her, met his eyes in startled enquiry.

‘Is it—?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. My good friend Syderstone.’