Later that day, Cousin Maria, recuperated from her illness, arrived in London. Ensconced on a sofa in the drawing room, she sighed with satisfaction at being home once again. “Being both bed-bound and house-bound for so long has severely affected my spirits, my dears. But I am feeling so much more the thing that I am quite giddy at the thought of company.” She tittered. “At my age, it may seem ridiculous that the prospect of the upcoming Season could fill me with delight, but I have always preferred town life to being confined in the countryside.”
“Well, we will ensure you get out and about, now that you are so much better, won’t we, Belle?” Her mother smiled warmly.
And so began a whirl of activity, which Isabel, preoccupied with her own concerns, was unceremoniously caught up in. Her mother would not hear of her staying home instead of paying morning calls upon Cousin Maria’s various friends and acquaintances, and when Isabel objected to a proposed visit to Mrs Wetherby, her mother shook her head. “But you must accompany us, my dear. It will look like a decided snub if you don’t, particularly as the Wetherbys were our guests so recently at Chernock Hall.”
“But, Mama! Captain Wetherby is a vile man. I have no desire to associate with any members of his family.”
“A number of our acquaintances own slave plantations, my dear, and we do not give them the cut direct.”
Isabel sighed. “It is not only that. Mr Wetherby makes me feel uncomfortable. I am concerned he may see my paying a visit to his mother as some sort of encouragement.”
Her mother frowned. “He will most likely be out when we call, my love. Most young gentlemen have no desire to entertain their mamas’ visitors! Besides, he knows Cousin Maria and his mother are old friends. I am sure he will not make anything of your visit.”
So Isabel found herself sitting in the drawing room in Wetherby House a few days later, making stilted conversation with Miss Wetherby while her mother and Cousin Maria chatted to Mrs Wetherby.
“Is this your first visit to London, Miss Wetherby?” Isabel asked civilly.
The younger girl lowered her eyes and said in a coy voice, “I came out last year, your ladyship – but we have high hopes of a betrothal before long.” She darted an artful look at Isabel. “Mr Bateman has been most assiduous in his attentions since my arrival in London.”
“Indeed?” Isabel said, with a quick intake of breath.
Miss Wetherby absently picked at a loose thread in her embroidery. “He visits us frequently in order to see Papa on business matters, but I am convinced he is using it as a cover to see me.” She raised her head and smiled. “There is a limited amount of business a gentleman can undertake while in Town, is there not?”
“I would not know.”
“Well, I –”
The door opened at that moment, and the subject of their conversation entered. Isabel sat in frozen stillness, only rousing herself from her stupor when he crossed to her and murmured a greeting. She did not raise her eyes to his, however, and when he sat down and engaged Miss Wetherby in polite discourse, she turned away to speak to Mrs Wetherby.
When it was time for their family party to leave, Isabel rose with alacrity, inclining her head in a distant manner when Mr Bateman stood to wish them farewell.
They were making their way across the length of the drawing room when the door opened again and Mr Wetherby came in. Isabel tripped on the edge of a rug on the polished wooden floor, and her mother, walking beside her, grabbed her arm to steady her.
Mr Wetherby bowed in an elaborate fashion as he halted before them, and he looked at Isabel with such a predatory expression in his eyes that she repressed an instinctive shudder. He greeted her companions carelessly, before turning to her. “Enchanted, your ladyship! I plan to call on you in the near future.”
His words were accompanied by a revolting smirk, and Isabel gave him a haughty nod as she mumbled a greeting and stalked past.
When they returned home, she made her excuses and went straight up to her bedchamber, where she threw herself onto her bed and gave in to such a storm of weeping over Mr Bateman’s perfidy that she lay limply on her pillows afterwards, like a wrung-out ragdoll.
At last, she rose and crossed to her mahogany dressing table, where she sat on the matching velvet-covered stool, and examined her face in the mirror. Her skin was dreadfully red and blotchy, so she rubbed a small amount of fine talcum powder onto her nose and cheeks, before wandering over to the window.
She stared blankly out into the Square until a sudden knock on the door made her jump. A housemaid peeked into her room, after she bid her enter. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but Mr Bateman is waiting downstairs in the drawing room.”
Isabel was about to inform the maid that she was not at home, when a wave of fury shook her out of her apathy. That man needed to be told a few home truths. Throwing her shoulders back, she hurried across her bedchamber, and marched downstairs.
He leaned against the drawing room mantelpiece, arms crossed. His relaxed stance inflamed her anger even more. “Mr Bateman.”
“My lady.” He straightened and crossed the room to her, a cautious expression in his eyes.
“Don’t ‘my lady’ me in that manner!”
“How else am I meant to address you?”
Isabel gritted her teeth. “It is not the – the words in themselves. It is the way in which you say them. As if they are some sort of a caress. Well, I am not taken in by your blandishments any longer! I cannot believe I once thought you a man of principle.”
“Why have you changed your mind?” he drawled.
“You dare ask me that after I have discovered you consorting with the Wetherbys?”
He raised one eyebrow, but said nothing, and Isabel resisted the urge to stamp her foot. She eyed him scornfully. “Miss Wetherby informed me you visit her father frequently to discuss business matters. What do you have to say to that, sirrah?”
“You are quite delightful, my dear, when you become melodramatic.”
“I am not being melodramatic! I am about to entrust an abused servant-girl into your care. I cannot do so with any peace of mind if I know you are on good terms with her master.”
“I assure you, Lady Axbridge, you need have no concerns in that regard,” he said slowly. “I do not like Captain Wetherby any more than you do. However, I do have some – er – business concerns which overlap with his. I am no supporter of slavery, though. You must know that.”
She scrutinised him. “Very well. I accept your word. Besides, if what Miss Wetherby told me is true, the reason you have been visiting Wetherby House is not to see her father, but to fix your interest with her!”
“And if that is indeed the case?”
Her eyes smouldered. “Then you are a – a dishonourable rogue!”
“Why is that, your ladyship?” he asked, in a cool voice. “I am not a married man, nor even betrothed. If I pay a morning call on a lady – in the company of her relatives, moreover – surely that should not blacken my character?”
“How can you say that when you know you have been flirting quite shamelessly with me?”
“Ah.” His smile was sardonic. “We come to the crux of the matter. You cannot have it both ways, Lady Axbridge.”
“What do you mean?” She folded her arms.
“I will leave you to figure that out.” And with a curt nod, he strode from the room.
Isabel fought a strong desire to burst into tears again. Even though she had swept into the room on a tide of righteous indignation, now she felt small – and if she was honest with herself, embarrassed. How could she have been so lost to all sense of propriety as to question Mr Bateman about his visits to another lady, especially when she had told him in no uncertain terms that she did not seek his suit herself?
When he had taken his leave of her, the expression in his eyes had been glacial. Her unwise comments had stripped away the warm cloak of his regard, and she sank onto a nearby sofa and absently rubbed her arms. The dull ache in her wrist brought to mind the care Mr Bateman had taken of her the other day, and she sighed deeply. She had well and truly burnt her boats with him, and she doubted he would easily forgive her for questioning his honour.
Mr Bateman, although a light-hearted and amusing companion, possessed a steely core, which she had glimpsed on more than one occasion. Now she had placed herself in the ignominious position of having to beg his pardon for her unladylike behaviour.
She was pondering the best way to apologise to him, without opening herself up to awkward questions about her jealous remarks, when Watkins entered the room. “Mr Wetherby, your ladyship.”
She gulped. Could her day get any worse? Mr Wetherby’s hard eyes, which were strangely at odds with his round, youthful face, raked her from head to toe, as he sauntered towards her.
“Your ladyship.” He bowed deeply. “I am delighted to find you at home as I have something of a particular nature I wish to ask you.”
“I was about to retire to my bedchamber with the headache,” Isabel said, standing up quickly. “I – I am not feeling at all well. Pray excuse me.”
“What I have to say will not take long, Lady Axbridge.”
He attempted to take her hands in his, but Isabel snatched them away, and put them securely behind her back.
An ugly smile played about his sensual lips. “You will have to be more open to my advances, your ladyship, once we are man and wife.”
“Man and wife?” Isabel’s mouth dropped open.
“Will you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage, Lady Axbridge?”
“No – I will not. Good heavens! I cannot believe that you have asked me.”
She reached for the bell pull and rang it. “I bid you farewell. Watkins will see you out.”
She hurried from the drawing room and upstairs to her bedchamber, where she dropped into an armchair, her limbs trembling in reaction. Although she had not allowed him to see it, Mr Wetherby frightened her.