committed. I have some words to utter in my own defense—words which, in all fairness, you must consent at least to hear, and which do not fall easily to paper and ink.
I beg your pardon for the garbled way in which I have scratched down these few sentences. I write in haste, in the hopes of being able to deliver this to you at a time when you cannot refuse it.
I shall be riding in Hyde Park at nine tomorrow morning, and will look for you then.
She looked up at the flourish of his closing, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. This was the man her aunt wished her to marry. This fanciful schemer and dreamer who dared to threaten her with a kiss—to be reported dutifully to the head of the family, and paid for with marriage. He had transgressed, had set the rumour mills going. He had kissed her, and now he expected to be rewarded with her hand and her fortune.
Under the tutelage of her Uncle Henry Latham, Isabella had learned a great deal about business. He had explained the various ploys and promises which had led her father to near-ruin. Compared to the machinations of men of business, Mr. Trevelyan's trick was a child's game. And it would take more than that and an outraged viscountess to bring Isabella Latham to the altar.
Well, I will meet you, you horrid creature, she thought, tearing the note into pieces; if for no other reason than to show how little I care for your pathetic threats—and to put an end to this nonsense, once and for all.
***
Although the earl was pleased to see his ward so animated, as she eagerly plied him with questions all the way home, he found himself unable to give her his full attention. Over and over, his mind replayed the visit to the gallery, calling up Miss Latham's image and the delectable sound of her laughter as he'd told his frog story. What had possessed him to relate that tale? For a few moments he'd felt young and carefree himself; the painful memories of war, the burden of his responsibilities had vanished briefly, and he was simply a man, entertaining a pleasant young woman. What was there in that? It was only her enticing laughter and its secret, intimate promise that unsettled him.
No, there was more. While somewhat absently replying to Lucy's questions, he found himself wondering if he would have told that story to Lady Honoria. And he wondered why, though that lady possessed every requisite for a satisfactory—nay, superior—wife, he was not drawn to her. She was beautiful, yet he gazed on her with no special pleasure. She was reputedly clever, yet he quickly wearied of her conversation. She was—even Aunt Clem agreed—the best of the lot, and yet, and yet...He shook himself out of his reverie as Lucy's voice became insistent.
"Then when, Uncle Edward?"
"What was that, child?"
With an exasperated little sigh, Lucy repeated, "When may we see Missbella again?"
"I don't know." When indeed? "Her family is to give a ball in a few days and she'll be quite busy. Perhaps after that. If you remember the special task you were to perform for me."
"My special task?" The hazel eyes looked away from his as she concentrated, trying to remember.
"Now you see, Miss Latham has put it quite out of your head. The pony. You were to decide what colour pony we should have."
"Oh yes! I know!" She bounced up and down, excitedly. "A silver one. Like the one in the picture. With the white on his face."
"Ah, well, that's a difficult order—" Then, meeting her look of disappointment, he went on, "Indeed, it is a dangerous mission, you propose, madam, but I, Edward Trevelyan, seventh Earl of Hartleigh, shall undertake it."
Lucy giggled in delight, and rewarded him with a fierce hug.
"Lucy talks of nothing but Miss Latham," Lady Bertram remarked as she poured herself a cup of tea. "She seems almost as much taken with the girl as your cousin is."
The smile on Lord Hartleigh's lips tightened. "I doubt my cousin is taken with much else besides himself."
"You're very hard on Basil."
"He has
I beg your pardon for the garbled way in which I have scratched down these few sentences. I write in haste, in the hopes of being able to deliver this to you at a time when you cannot refuse it.
I shall be riding in Hyde Park at nine tomorrow morning, and will look for you then.
She looked up at the flourish of his closing, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. This was the man her aunt wished her to marry. This fanciful schemer and dreamer who dared to threaten her with a kiss—to be reported dutifully to the head of the family, and paid for with marriage. He had transgressed, had set the rumour mills going. He had kissed her, and now he expected to be rewarded with her hand and her fortune.
Under the tutelage of her Uncle Henry Latham, Isabella had learned a great deal about business. He had explained the various ploys and promises which had led her father to near-ruin. Compared to the machinations of men of business, Mr. Trevelyan's trick was a child's game. And it would take more than that and an outraged viscountess to bring Isabella Latham to the altar.
Well, I will meet you, you horrid creature, she thought, tearing the note into pieces; if for no other reason than to show how little I care for your pathetic threats—and to put an end to this nonsense, once and for all.
***
Although the earl was pleased to see his ward so animated, as she eagerly plied him with questions all the way home, he found himself unable to give her his full attention. Over and over, his mind replayed the visit to the gallery, calling up Miss Latham's image and the delectable sound of her laughter as he'd told his frog story. What had possessed him to relate that tale? For a few moments he'd felt young and carefree himself; the painful memories of war, the burden of his responsibilities had vanished briefly, and he was simply a man, entertaining a pleasant young woman. What was there in that? It was only her enticing laughter and its secret, intimate promise that unsettled him.
No, there was more. While somewhat absently replying to Lucy's questions, he found himself wondering if he would have told that story to Lady Honoria. And he wondered why, though that lady possessed every requisite for a satisfactory—nay, superior—wife, he was not drawn to her. She was beautiful, yet he gazed on her with no special pleasure. She was reputedly clever, yet he quickly wearied of her conversation. She was—even Aunt Clem agreed—the best of the lot, and yet, and yet...He shook himself out of his reverie as Lucy's voice became insistent.
"Then when, Uncle Edward?"
"What was that, child?"
With an exasperated little sigh, Lucy repeated, "When may we see Missbella again?"
"I don't know." When indeed? "Her family is to give a ball in a few days and she'll be quite busy. Perhaps after that. If you remember the special task you were to perform for me."
"My special task?" The hazel eyes looked away from his as she concentrated, trying to remember.
"Now you see, Miss Latham has put it quite out of your head. The pony. You were to decide what colour pony we should have."
"Oh yes! I know!" She bounced up and down, excitedly. "A silver one. Like the one in the picture. With the white on his face."
"Ah, well, that's a difficult order—" Then, meeting her look of disappointment, he went on, "Indeed, it is a dangerous mission, you propose, madam, but I, Edward Trevelyan, seventh Earl of Hartleigh, shall undertake it."
Lucy giggled in delight, and rewarded him with a fierce hug.
"Lucy talks of nothing but Miss Latham," Lady Bertram remarked as she poured herself a cup of tea. "She seems almost as much taken with the girl as your cousin is."
The smile on Lord Hartleigh's lips tightened. "I doubt my cousin is taken with much else besides himself."
"You're very hard on Basil."
"He has
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