Isabella blew out a shaky breath. “How do I look?” she asked her maid, Partridge. She studied herself in the mirror. Did the yellow of the gown make her hair look dull? “Perhaps I should wear the blue after all.”
“If you wish,” Partridge said, her voice carefully neutral.
Five gowns lay on the bed. Isabella had tried them all on. The pink had been too girlish, the blue too plain, the white too formal, the green too severe, and the cinnamon brown too matronly.
The yellow had seemed hopeful, joyful.
Isabella glanced at the clock. She was trembling with a mix of apprehension and anticipation. It lacked ten minutes to two. This gown would do—it would have to do—there was no more time.
But I want to look perfect for him.
“Perhaps I should try the blue again.”
“Miss Isabella,” Partridge said, with something approaching frustration in her voice. “The yellow suits you perfectly.”
Isabella swallowed and looked at the clock again. Nine minutes. And she still had to speak to her cousin and Harriet.
“Very well,” she said. “Yellow it is.”
She took a deep breath. She’d never imagined this moment would come: waiting for a man, wanting to marry him. It was exhilarating. Terrifying.
She smoothed her gown with damp palms and turned towards the door.
“Are you all right, Miss Isabella?” Partridge asked, with the acuity of one who had known her from her girlhood.
Or perhaps it’s not acuity. Perhaps I look as nervous as I feel.
“Perfectly,” Isabella replied. She blew out another shaky breath. First Elinor and Harriet, and then Major Reynolds. She squared her shoulders, crossed the bedchamber, and opened the door. Rufus scrambled up from a sunny square of carpet and followed her, his tail wagging.
Isabella’s steps were firm and purposeful as she walked along the corridor and down one flight of stairs. Her knock on the door of Mrs. Westin’s parlor was firm and purposeful, too.
Mrs. Westin looked up from her knitting. “Yes, my dear?”
“Major Reynolds will be here shortly. I’m going to tell him about Harriet.”
For a moment there was silence. Harriet stared at her, frozen, over the handkerchief she was embroidering.
Mrs. Westin nodded and laid down her knitting. “Very wise, my dear. Honesty is always the best course. As the good Lord said, Thou shalt not lie.”
“Tell him?” said Harriet, shrinking back in her chair. “But he’ll find me!”
“He’s not an ogre,” Isabella said. “However much you imagine him to be.”
Harriet shook her head. The blood had drained from her face.
Exasperation rose in Isabella’s breast. How could the girl be so foolish? “You have nothing to fear from Major Reynolds.”
Harriet shook her head again. Tears brimmed in her eyes, trembled on her lashes, spilled over.
Mrs. Westin tutted.
Isabella considered trying to convince Harriet of the major’s good qualities. A few seconds’ thought made her give up the notion as hopeless. The picture Harriet had painted of Major Reynolds was as inaccurate as it was ridiculous, but it would take more than a few words to persuade the girl she was wrong.
She gave her cousin a look of apology and left her to deal with the weeping Harriet. In the corridor she smoothed her gown again and took a steadying breath. A glance at her watch told her it lacked five minutes to the hour. Would Nicholas be on time?
Rufus took a step forward. His ears pricked.
Isabella walked to the head of the stairs. She heard the sound of men’s voices in the foyer below: her butler, Hoban, saying something in welcome, Major Reynolds replying.
Isabella received Major Reynolds in the library. The morning room was sunnier and more pleasant, but the kittens were in residence. She left Rufus in the morning room, too. She wanted no distractions, no witnesses. Just him and me.
The apprehension, the anticipation, were a hard knot beneath her breastbone as she stood beside the fireplace. She concentrated on breathing, on not fidgeting, but even so, her heart began to beat much faster as the door opened and the butler ushered Major Reynolds into the library.
She was conscious of him—the green of his eyes, the weight of his presence in the room. And she was conscious of herself in a way she’d never been before, of her appearance, of her nervousness.
Isabella swallowed. “Nicholas.”
“Isabella.” His voice gave nothing away, nor did his face. No smile, no softening of his expression. Was he as nervous as she? As awkward?
“Please be seated.”
He didn’t sit. He walked past her to the window. He stood looking out for a moment, his figure silhouetted against the daylight, and then turned to face her. His features were in shadow.
Now.
Isabella took hold of her courage. She clasped her hands together and inhaled a deep breath. “Nicholas,” she said. “There’s something I must tell you. About Harriet Durham.”
“I know,” he said.
“You do?” Isabella began to walk towards him. Relief swelled inside her.
“Yes.” Major Reynolds laughed. It was a harsh sound. He stepped away from the window.
Isabella halted. She saw his face, saw the hard glitter in his eyes, the tight line of his mouth, the anger. “Nicholas . . .”
His mouth tightened still further. “I trusted you.”
The apprehension and anticipation were gone. In their place was something close to panic. “Nicholas—”
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” His voice made her flinch. “Congratulations, Lady Isabella. You succeeded admirably.”
“No,” she said. “It wasn’t like that at all!”
His mouth twisted. “Wasn’t it?” There was a derisive edge to his words, a bitter, mocking note.
“No!” Isabella cried. “Of course not! I was trying to make it better, to stop people laughing at you!”
The major’s mouth tightened. His hand lifted to touch his left cheek. “I’d forgotten to thank you for my new name.” He bowed, a sardonic movement. “Thank you for reminding me.”
Shame flushed her cheeks. “It was a mistake, Nicholas. I never meant for any of that to happen!” She clutched her hands more tightly together. “I only said it once. Once! But Sarah Faraday heard me, and you know what her tongue is like. She—” Isabella bit her lip. Stop. It sounds like excuses.
Major Reynolds said nothing, he merely shook his head. Anger was etched on his face. He turned away from her to look out the window again.
Isabella took a hesitant step towards him. She moistened her lips and spoke quietly. “I never intended to harm you, Nicholas. And once it had happened I did my very best to undo it.”
He didn’t look at her. “You lied to me.” His voice was as quiet as hers had been.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to! But you were so angry. I was afraid to tell you—”
He turned to face her. His expression made her flinch. “You lied to me.”
Isabella gripped her hands more tightly together, swallowed, and said, “Yes, I did. I’m very sorry, Nicholas.”
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes cold and hard and unforgiving, then bowed stiffly and stepped past her. “Good day, madam.”
“Wait! Nicholas!”
“I have nothing more to say to you.” He opened the door and closed it quietly behind him.
Isabella was left standing in the empty library. The silence seemed to echo with Major Reynolds’ parting words: I have nothing more to say to you.
She smoothed her gown with trembling hands. The gown she had chosen so carefully, with such hope. Yellow.
The Sèvres figurines on the mantelpiece blurred. I am not going to cry, Isabella told herself fiercely.
It was too late. She already was.
Nicholas had never been so furious in his life. Furious with Lady Isabella for lying, furious with himself for being duped, for thinking her perfect when she clearly wasn’t, for imagining himself in love with her. The afternoon passed in a blur: striding back to the hired house on Albemarle Street, ordering his horse brought around, riding as hard as he could out of London. Vaguely he noticed that paved streets had given way to winding dirt lanes, that tall buildings had been replaced by trees and hedgerows and paddocks where sheep grazed.
He chose an inn at random and shouldered his way into the busy taproom. A tankard of ale quenched his thirst; a second and third began to quench his anger. It came surging back, tiredly, when he remembered his defense of Lady Isabella to Mr. Shepherd. Such a damned fool. But he couldn’t whip himself up into fury again. He stared at the empty tankard and rubbed his face wearily.
The shroud of rage that had cloaked him had kept the other patrons away from his corner of the taproom. They clustered at the counter, leaning against the scarred wood, their voices loud. Farmers in patched smocks, a blacksmith, a couple of coal-haulers with soot-stained clothes. Where am I?
It didn’t matter. Nor did it matter, when he asked the publican if a bedroom was available, that the chamber he was escorted to was small and smelled of stale sweat. The mattress was lumpy, the pillow thin, and he had no idea whether the linen was clean or not, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.