To Love A Wicked Scoundrel. Anabelle BryantЧитать онлайн книгу.
head. ‘Your mother will not be pleased if she discovers I insisted the gardener occupy himself with other tasks so that I complete the weeding.’
Fortunately her stepmother rarely ventured into the garden as most flowering plants caused her to sneeze, and in this way the inconvenience of having an aversion for all things botanical saved Isabelle from Meredith’s vociferous chatter. She enjoyed the serenity found among her plants, except of course, if Lily chose to join her.
‘Mother is packing.’
Isabelle reached forward and plucked a forgotten leaf from her gown. She cast it aside before she gathered Lily’s hands in hers, the child’s eyes bright with excitement.
‘We are going to London!’ Lily tilted her head and her dark curls tumbled in disarray as she bobbed with impatience.
Isabelle’s brows rose with curiosity, the exuberance of Lily’s announcement unsettling. ‘Whatever are you talking about? We are not going to the city, of that I am sure.’
London was the last place Isabelle wished to visit. She preferred her comfortable life, tucked away in her childhood home in Wiltshire, a clear one hundred miles from the bustling clamour. No reason existed for her not to continue doing so. Theirs was a county family and Rossmore House the only home she’d ever known. Modest by most opinions, the house was composed of titian-coloured brick with few mullioned windows and an overgrown chestnut tree. Yet the entrance boasted a charming trellis of wisteria and clematis intertwined. Isabelle glanced towards the house and her heart warmed.
Releasing one of her sister’s hands, she bent to retrieve her gloves and the metal trowel, before placing both in the wooden box under the bench near the dog rose bushes. Then the two strolled the flagstone path towards the house as Lily’s maid arrived just in time to turn around.
‘It is true. We are going straightaway. Mother said she doesn’t want to wear black bobzine any more.’
‘Bombazine. It is called bombazine.’ With a wry smile at the mispronunciation, Isabelle considered the news. It was time for Meredith to come out of mourning. She had stopped wearing mourning gowns a few months prior. Certainly she could not dispute whether her stepmother was tired of the horrid black frocks. At thirty years, a mere four years older than she, Meredith was too young to be confined to widowhood. One did not always have the luxury of planning the path of life. No one expected her father to wake up on that particular Thursday, eat a vigorous breakfast and then clutch his heart, expel a few ragged breaths, and fall forward onto the damask tablecloth. Much to her dismay, life was full of unexpected experiences. Isabelle preferred predictability.
‘I think London will be grand.’
Isabelle eyed her stepsister’s enthralled expression and bit back an immediate retort as she fought hard against the leap of fear in her chest. London was crowded and busy and terribly noisy at the height of the season. Perhaps Meredith merely wished to shop for a new wardrobe. They could well afford it, her father having provided for them handsomely. But if it were just a matter of a new wardrobe, why would they all need to journey to the city?
Her thoughts raced as they entered the main house. Lily pranced to the centre stairs, her never-ending energy a challenge to any adult, even one accustomed to the child’s enthusiastic nature.
They found Meredith in her bedchamber, tossing gowns into a large traveling trunk as she hummed a cheerful melody. Two maids appeared equally busy in the adjoining dressing room. Lily climbed upon the four-poster bed and fell back onto the overstuffed pillows in delight as Isabelle swept her eyes across the room. Her gaze settled on the open trunk already halfway filled.
‘What is this about?’ Trepidation snuck into her voice.
‘I am so tired of these widow’s weeds. I need to embrace the life I hoped for before I married your father. And do not tell me I am not making sense.’ Meredith threw a glare in Isabelle’s direction as if to abbreviate any ready rebuttal; she paused, distracted by a tangle of stockings.
For once Meredith did not voice her true sentiments, but Isabelle knew well her stepmother’s opinions: My marriage to your father was a business deal more than a love match and I did my best to make him happy and give him the son he desired.
It was no secret in the household. Lord Rossmore wanted an heir above all else and viewed Isabelle, and later Lily, as disappointments. Isabelle suffered the worse for it and learned at an early age how to disguise her melancholy and accept her father’s disapproval under layers of practical rationalisations. When he remarried, her father selected his second bride for her youth and presumably fertile lineage partial to male offspring. How Isabelle hoped things would change and her father would come to love her once Meredith bore him a son, but that day never came. Unlike Isabelle, Lily was too young to experience the hollow ache of knowing she’d given her father nothing aside from unending displeasure by being born female.
Busy deciding between two pairs of shoes, Meredith offered no kind glance to soften the mention of the painful memory and prattled on, shoving the discarded brown boots to the side much like the former subject.
‘Surely you cannot expect me to live out the remainder of my days hidden away in the countryside without social interaction. Without male interaction.’
‘Meredith!’ Isabelle’s eyes flared as she nodded towards the bed where Lily remained preoccupied with piling ruffled pillows into a lopsided tower. Nary a word passed those tiny ears undetected.
‘Oh posh. You are for ever the worrier. This is an opportunity to live, truly live. Lily is excited to go and I will be taking her with me, so you need to make a decision. Do you stay here in the middle of nowhere tending your flowers or do you embark on a grand adventure with the two of us?’ Meredith paused and pinned her with a stare, expecting a prompt response.
The matter of Lily’s welfare weighed upon Isabelle’s conscience and the decision as to whether or not she would spend the season in London. They were inseparable, and Isabelle embraced the role of older sister, frequent mother and constant companion.
The trunk lid closed and startled Isabelle back to the conversation.
‘I think it is rather impetuous.’ She dared not suggest selfish. ‘To uproot Lily and bring her to London at the onset of the season.’
‘But I want to go. Mother told me there will be shops with new dresses and ribbons and toys and sweets!’ Clearly the child had been plied with inaccurately detailed visions. ‘And I can bring my collections!’
Isabelle arched a satiric brow at her stepmother. It wasn’t that she disliked Meredith or did not get along with her; the problem lay in their opposing natures. Meredith was vivacious, indulgent and, at times, reckless. Isabelle believed herself more practical, careful, and reserved. She held these attributes in high esteem as her very best qualities.
‘As usual, you foster unnecessary worry. I have everything planned from beginning to end, and Lily wants to go. Children are resilient and born to change. It is you who does not want to leave your quiet little existence here at Rossmore House. But I am finally rid of my widow’s weeds and I yearn for satin and silk and taffeta. I need scintillating conversation, tea parties, and most especially to dance in the arms of a fine gentleman. I am a countess and such socialising is my due.’ Meredith gave the tiniest sigh before she continued. ‘If I do not do it now, the years will pass and what remains of my beauty will be wasted. I need to live life while I can.’
The silence in the room spoke to Isabelle. Meredith likely believed the same would do her a world of good, but the thought of arriving in such a large city with no ready plan caused her pulse to skitter. She grasped onto the last argument to be made, now that the matter of Lily appeared resolved.
‘What of my Tuesdays with Lord Lutts? What will he think when he arrives at Rossmore House for tea and we have all hauled off to the city?’ She hoped her words held the smallest degree of conviction.
‘Lord Lutts? You are not entertaining the notion he is courting you? He has visited every Tuesday at precisely four-thirty in the afternoon for two years and