She didn't answer, only laying in the darkness. She knew the answer, and it scared her. So did he.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Her eyes shot open. Once again she had refused to sleep in her master's bed - and so she slept alone, stewing in her thoughts in a spare room, connected to the maidservant's chambers. After arriving in curious silence, Lilian had again pressed Isobel for details - and Isobel had begun to get the feeling the maidservant had grown bored in her duties here, and searched for scandal and gossip as a side hobby with all the questions the pretty young woman asked of her.
The sun crept along the empty armoire in the at one end of the cramped, nondescript room; translucent curtains hung across a window facing the sunrise, and she lay in only a simple nightgown among a sea of snow-white sheets. She yawned, feeling terribly embarrassed at having slept long past the rise of the sun; Isobel had hoped to take a daybreak stroll through the garden at the rear of the estate to ponder on all that had been troubling her for the last few days. The thoughts still clung like leeches to her mind; she had dreamed of him last night, and awoke disgusted with the thought of him and his ribald, philandering lifestyle. But no matter how much she denied the things he said or tried to hold her head above the water, she found herself breathing and drinking deep from what he said, more and more, each time their bodies met. She felt she couldn't even deny it now - and that the more she did, the more lost she felt.
"M'lady? Are you decent?" Isobel groggily heard the pound of knuckles on the small door to her cramped room; in sitting up from the bed she nearly banged her head on the sloped ceiling. The room felt more akin to a broom-closet than a guest room, and perhaps it had been in the past.
"What is it, Lilian?" Isobel said with a yawn. She couldn't quite tell what time of the day it was, but from the bright gleam blazing through the curtains, she felt it was likely at least ten in the morning. She pushed away the sheets, her head still foggy from the previous evening, her mind still awash in the sensation of submitting; how it had felt, and how she wished to feel it again, as much as she disdained the thought.
"I've fetched you tea! I thought perhaps you could use with some company, given the disposition of Lord Brighton," Lilian responded dutifully. Isobel blinked; a cold terror gripped her blood, and she rose from the bed, her tired limbs carrying her to narrow doorframe, which she pulled open quickly to reveal the maidservant bearing a small tray, smiling weakly.
"...Yes, thank you, I quite appreciate it, Lilian, but—" Isobel cleared her throat, straining to look past the maidservant. She saw only the bowels of the scullery and the hallway behind, nothing to indicate to her whatever may be happening in the remainder of the manor. "...What did you mean, the disposition of Lord Brighton? Has something happened to him?"
"H-happened? Oh, no, I—" Lilian chuckled politely, setting the tray of tea down on the quaint, short table next to the door. "...Have you not seen the master yet, this morning? I had thought you would have been out already, and had returned to your room after he... well, after he began his... m-meeting." Her shaky words drew Isobel's skeptical glare.
"Meeting? With whom is he 'meeting', exactly?" Isobel felt something twist in her stomach that tore deep into her sense of dignity. She had felt the pangs before, and so they came as quite familiar, which only worsened her mood. Jealousy - strange pangs of jealousy, jealousy over this man who seemed bent on twisting her away from maintaining her family's dignity. But she felt it in her bones, and could scarcely keep it contained, her face twisting in slowly simmering fury.
"Oh, he's... I apologize, m'lady, I'm not certain I should be saying, if you don't already know," Lilian responded sheepishly, her eyes downcast in mute shame. "I... I apologize for bringing the subject to bear, I hadn't a clue you were unaware of his business this morning, m'lady."
"Don't speak so evasive, Lilian, just answer my question," Isobel pressed, her voice shaky.
"O... okay, but, I'm not the one who woke you, if the master asks... please?" Lilian's smile turned sideways in contention.
"Yes, of course, just tell me, Lilian," Isobel hurriedly insisted, gathering herself quickly, throwing a small shawl over her nightgown to at least give the appearance of social decency.
"I'm not... certain of her name, though she's visited the estate on a few occasions, to meet privately with the duke," Lilian's voice trembled. "M'lady, I'm certain it's simply a business meeting—"
"Why would it matter to me? What business is it, of mine?" Isobel lied, maintaining this illusion that her presence at the state was merely a matter of convenience.
"M'lady, you, and the Lord Brighton," Lilian stammered, "are you... not... well, I mean, is he not... courting your hand, for...?"
"What have you got in your head, Lilian?" Isobel frowned. She hated denying it, lying to perhaps the only soul willing to listen to her problems. "It's... just a business matter, between your lord, and I." She stumbled over her lies as she hurriedly pushed past the maid. "...Which, is why, his business negotiations with other lords, and ladies, is a matter of some importance to me." She passed the cabinets of dishes and foods, passing into a short hallway with irritated curiosity in her expression; Lilian followed behind. "I don't need a shadow, Lilian," Isobel insisted, though her convictions sounded only scarcely convincing.
"Are you certain?" Lilian smiled. Isobel sighed, and continued, her friend behind her. He could hear her voice already - disconnected, but controlling; that put-upon sort of angelic ring to each syllable. She heard Lord Brighton's voice, too - wearing the same amused charm that he spoke with around her. Yet, it felt... forced. Uncomfortable. Not natural, the way it had with her. Isobel's heart squeezed hard inside her ribs, and she felt an ire rising through her fiery blood.
"Well, certainly, m'lady, we could come to some manner of agreement about the disposition of the lands east of Laurel, can't we," Lord Brighton commented, and Isobel could hear the edge in his words.
"All business with you," the feminine voice giggled. Isobel swallowed her rage. She stayed put. She rationalized in her head that that's what she ought to be doing. Waiting. Keeping her presence out of sight. But the urge to confront this woman boiled over, in no small part due to the whisper Lilian offered.
"That's not right, m'lady... if you'll be having my input," Lilian murmured. "He shouldn't be doing that to you." Isobel's fists tightened, her knuckles white; she closed her eyes, as the bruises and marks of passion all across her body stung with pain. Rounding the corner out of the side hallway, Isobel stormed in to the living area, happening upon a sight that turned her inside-out in furious fear. She saw Lord Brighton, on the overstuffed couch therein, inches away from Lady Maryweather - the woman in the flowing gown, her ethereal face, pale skin, perfectly-styled hair and puffy dress covered in bows and flowers something to behold. She shimmered in the sunlight, blinding; overwhelming. She leaned close to Lord Brighton, whispering now; his expression appeared charmed, if conflicted, and he leaned to one side of the couch to further the distance between the two. Nevertheless, her hand crept along his thigh, gloved fingers pressed tight to the fabric of his slacks, his eyes growing progressively wider the
more she touched him.
"Haven't you considered a... fine woman, one you'd like to wed yet, Ellery?..." she asked, her voice full of her brand of icy, manufactured feminine charm. "A strong marriage could mean the world to your future, and the future of whichever lovely woman you chose to court..."
"I h—have, in fact," Ellery gasped, feeling her fingers pressing harder into his skin. Isobel watched from the corner of the room, keeping quiet, save the rapidly increasing pace of her steamy, enraged breaths.
"You have?" Lady Maryweather quipped, a songbird's note of curiosity in her question. "And... which lucky lady have you had your mind on, m'lord?..." she spoke in a deepening tone, like the throaty call of a boisterous lark. "I just wish... perhaps, it could be me..."
"M-M'lady, do you take this as entirely proper?" Lord Brighton said, from behind a hectic and harried grin. Lady Isobel huffed - she huffed loud enough at the comment that it drew the eyes of both of the people on the couch. Lord Brighton's eyes opened wide, while Lady Maryweather's eyes narrowed; silently predatory, hunting at the rather scantily-dressed Lady Duskwood with her sharp, pretty features.
"Am I interrupting your meeting?" Lady Duskwood asked, holding back a storm of emotions; some threatened to force sobs out of her reddened, tired eyes, while others drove the want in her to ball up a fist and strike Ellery square in his cheek. Her gaze met the frozen eyes on Lady Maryweather's face; she could sense nothing in those eyes, no emotion; no life. Only a faint undercurrent of barely-tangible contempt.
Perhaps this is what Ellery had meant, all those times he said he could read Isobel - just by her eyes.
"L-Lady Duskwood, I'm—I'm certainly glad—I pray you enjoyed your time in the garden, with Lilian?" Lord Brighton asked. Isobel glanced over one shoulder to see the scrappy maid had followed her out into the sunbathed foyer. Ellery stared through the two women, hoping they'd play along with the charade - ironically, they had become a lie all their own, one even Lord Brighton felt bound by. Isobel realized she, herself, had been a lie - perhaps Lord Brighton was not so free as he wished to portray himself as.