Isabella (Trevelyan Family 1)

Lord Hartleigh, who had been more intent on watching her lips and eyes than on listening to her lecture, found himself in a turmoil. His instinct was to take her in his arms and comfort her. But this was a crowded dance floor, and she was the object of considerable speculation as it was, and, well, it just wasn't done, no matter how one longed to do it. He willed himself to speak calmly as he asked, "Miss Latham, have I said something to distress you?"

"No." She wouldn't meet his eyes. "No, of course not. But I believe that between the crush of the people and the heat of the candles—"

"Yes, of course," he interrupted. "We must find you a quiet spot and a cool drink." Calmly, he led her away from the dancing, gracefully discouraging the several guests who attempted to stop their progress with chatter. As they reached the doors to the hall, he asked, "Shall I send one of your cousins to you? Or your mother?"

She smiled up at him, grateful for his thoughtfulness, even though it made her ache all the more. Of course it wouldn't do to wander off alone with him. Not in the circumstances. "My mother, please. To the small parlour."

He nodded and was gone in search of Maria. But Mrs. Latham was much too fatigued to leave her comfortable chair. "Pray, bring the child a glass of lemonade," she drawled. "Isabella has a frighteningly strong constitution, and I'm sure will recover completely in a very few minutes." Seeing his hesitation, she added, "It's obviously the heat of the room. I'm sure she can be safely entrusted to your care for five or ten minutes, Lord Hartleigh. And if she's not recovered by then, I shall send a servant to attend her to her room."

"Five or ten minutes?" Was she telling him to take advantage of the opportunity? It was absurd, yet he hurried to procure the glass of lemonade. His practiced calm served him well as he hastened, without appearing to do so, from one room to another, seeking this mysterious "small parlour." At length he saw the slender form in the gown of sapphire-blue silk he'd studied so carefully. The room was crowded with the excess furniture and bric-a-brac which had been moved out of the rooms in which the festivities were taking place. She was standing by the window, her back to him. One silky blonde tendril had slipped from its pins to caress the soft white skin of her neck, and he found himself wanting to plant his lips on the spot. Instead, he gently touched her shoulder. She started, and when she turned, he saw the tears in her eyes.

"My m-mother?" she gulped, looking past him to where there was...nobody. And then, hastily, she wiped her eyes.

There was that great treacherous ache again. He deposited the lemonade on the nearest horizontal surface and took her into his arms. It was instinctive. He meant only to hold her, comfort her, but when she raised her head to speak, he saw the slight tremor of her lips, and could not keep his own from touching them. And that, too, suddenly wasn't enough. Her mouth was so soft, so warm. A faint scent of lavender seemed to tease him closer. His arms, of their own accord, tightened around her, and his lips pressed hers, gently at first, and then, as he felt her hands creep up around his neck, with increasing urgency. His pulse raced at her touch, and for a few delicious moments, as she responded to his kiss, he gave himself up to desire. The warmth of her slim body, its surprisingly sensuous curves molding to the hard muscle of his own, sent his blood rushing through his veins. He could feel her heart beating in the same wild rhythm as his own, and his lips moved from hers to draw a trail of kisses along her neck...to her shoulders...to the creamy flesh swelling at the neckline of her gown...and then she began to pull away. He wanted to lift her in his arms and carry her away—to...to...good God, what was the matter with him?

Summoning all his willpower, while inwardly cursing the place, the circumstances, all the rules and duties that made it impossible to take her now and make love to her, he released her.

"Forgive me," he whispered as she backed away.

"Yes. Yes, of course. These things...happen."

Her voice was calm, detached, yet her lips trembled, and he ached to kiss them again. But it wasn't right. And there was so little time. Twisted one way by guilt and the other by the passion she'd so quickly, so surprisingly aroused, he found it impossible to gather his wits, and his words came out in a confused rush.

"It isn't what you think—that is, I don't know what you think—but I didn't mean to distress you. I couldn't help—Isabella, I want you to be my wife."

The blue eyes which met his for an instant were filled with longing—and sadness—but when she quickly looked away again, he wasn't sure that he hadn't imagined it.

"That really isn't necessary, My Lord. After all," she added ruefully, "I didn't offer much of a struggle. None, in fact. Which makes me equally to blame."

"Blame?" he repeated, taking her hand. "When you've given me a glimmer of hope?"

The colour deepened in her face. "Please—we must end this...this...conversation. My family will be looking for me." She tried to pull her hand free, but he clasped it tighter still.

"Only tell me that you'll consider—"

"I cannot."

"No. Don't say you cannot. I know this is not the right time or place. I know it's too sudden. But I spoke to your mother this morning."

Her head went up in surprise, but he went on, oblivious to all but his urgent need to hear just one hint of encouragement. "Isabella, surely you must realise—you must have recognised by now that I hold you in great regard." Oh, why would the words be so stiff? But it was either that or confess to a passion which he hadn't suspected until a moment ago. And he'd shocked her badly enough already. Blindly, he plunged on. "And though I can't expect you to return those feelings now, will you not at least allow me the hope of earning your affection? We share so many interests; we're not entirely unsuited. And Lucy, who adores you, would be the happiest girl in the world."

"Please," she begged, "no more."

"You will not let me hope? Have I so disgraced myself?"

"No. It isn't that. But I cannot consider your proposal."

The words chilled him, and he tried to keep the frustration from his voice as he asked, "Is there someone else?"

There was a rustling of silk at the door, and a bored voice enquired, "Are you here yet, Isabella?"

The earl immediately released her hand, and Isabella hurried to her mother's side. "I was just returning, Mama. Lord Hartleigh was kind enough to...to..."

"Yes, of course. Well, your aunt is asking for you, my love, in the most insistent way." Maria Latham allowed her daughter to leave, then turned to the earl. "Time, my lord. It is always the enemy, is it not?" Then she, too, was gone.

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Isabella retired briefly to her room to compose herself and rinse away the evidence of tears. "Regard." "Shared interests." "Not unsuited." And, of course, Lucy. If there had been but one word of love. No, affection would have been enough. And if he chose to press her, she'd settle for even less. For regard. For tolerance. And that was impossible. Because every one of her senses had responded to his kiss. His kiss. Even now she could not believe she hadn't dreamed that embrace, for it was so like the other dreams that had come to her, unbidden, so many nights.

Gracious God, what had she done? No protest, no faint pretence at distress or disapproval. He had touched her, and she had gone to him, unthinkingly, returned his kiss with a hungry passion which even now swept through her in waves, making her tremble—and making her ashamed. What had driven her to humiliate herself in that way? It was shameful enough that she wanted him so badly, but she, sunk to the very depths of immodesty, had shown him she wanted him. And he? He had only wanted a mama for Lucy. But instead he'd found himself with a love-crazed woman in his arms. What choice had he but to politely accept that love?

He'd felt sorry for her—Lucy's prospective stepmama— and sought only to comfort her. And then, when she had behaved in that shameless way, he'd gallantly blamed himself for her behaviour. It was unbearable. She loved him past all reason, and he...he "held her in great regard." To be his wife on those terms was unthinkable.

No, her course was plain. She would accept Basil this very night, for by tomorrow her resolve would weaken again.

She was left to cool her heels for some time, however, for when she returned to the ball, Basil was oblivious to her efforts to catch his eye. He had seen her exit the room and his cousin follow shortly after. He had seen her mother follow some minutes later. The mother had returned, and the cousin had returned, but there was no Isabella for a quarter hour. Things looked promising. If Edward had offered and been accepted, would not the two have returned together, happily? But Edward was looking like a thundercloud, and Isabella's company smile was frozen on her face.