All those years defending her so-called honor. The bitter scald of betrayal he’d felt when he’d learned the truth. And every time he thought about what she’d done.
And yet to his shame, he still loved her.
The spider finished repairing his web—her web?—and scuttled off to hide under a leaf and wait for prey. A rose petal fell, drifting down to land on Leo’s thigh. He picked it up, inhaled its faint scent and fingered its texture, as soft as Isobel’s skin.
Race was wrong, claiming Leo couldn’t trust any woman. There had been one woman in Leo’s life that he’d trusted completely, and who’d never let him down: Mabel, his first serious lover.
He’d been nineteen when he met her, and was feeling beleaguered on all sides. Hauled abruptly out of school, he’d been struggling to come to terms with a difficult invalid father and the shattered image of a mother who was the opposite of the angel he’d believed her to be. And at the same time he was trying to learn how to rebuild a badly neglected estate for which he was now solely responsible.
Almost ten years older than he, Mabel was a childless widow who ran the farm her late husband had owned, though it had been in her family for generations. She ran it much better than he ever had, and declared she had no intention of marrying again and having her farm ruined by another husband—not after all the good work she’d done to bring it back into productivity.
Her outspoken words had struck a chord in Leo, who had been working hard to bring his family estate back from the state his father’s wastefulness and neglect had created. And so their friendship had begun, at first just an exchange of views about new farming methods. In Mabel he found an intelligent conversationalist, and a farmer who wasinterested in some of the new scientific practices. Her insight and farming successes gave him the confidence to push his own tenant farmers to adopt some of the new practices he was advocating.
Comfortably rounded and as wholesome as fresh-baked bread, Mabel was also earthy and frankly bawdy. After several weeks of friendly conversation, she’d told him bluntly that the only place she missed a man in her life was in the bedchamber. She’d led Leo, still a callow youth, up the stairs to her bed and proceeded to teach him how to please a woman, as well as himself.
He took to dropping in on her several times a week, where they’d pass an evening of good conversation interspersed with vigorous and extremely satisfying bed sports. It was fondness and friendship, rather than love, and the arrangement suited them both.
But when Leo turned twenty-five, Mabel had put an end to their affair, saying that it wasn’t fitting any longer for him to be dallying with a farm woman, and that it was high time Leo went out into the world, found himself a pretty young lady and made her his bride.
Hence Lavinia. And what a mistake that had been. He’d thought her as innocent as she’d appeared—and acted.
His experience with Lavinia had made Leo cynical about the much-vaunted innocence of society misses. And being stalked for the sake of his title by many a fawning society miss had only deepened the cynicism.
Though not all young ladies cared about his wealth and his title. Isobel had not a penny to her name, and yet...
Take your self-importance and your arrogance and your stupid suspicious mind and... and... bottle it!
He smiled to himself. He could think of no other woman who would dare to scold him so roundly. And she’d done it twice. Isobel’s straightforward anger was refreshing. Each time she’d told him exactly what she’d thought of him. She hadn’t held back for fear of angering him. She hadn’t sulkedand sighed and pouted, forcing him to try to guess what the matter was. No, she’d given him a right royal trimming, not caring in the least what he thought.
She’d forced him to reconsider. And she’d been right and so he’d apologized, and though it had been risky, producing the letter and digging up her mother’s past like that, at least it was all out in the open now. And she’d accepted his apology and they’d cleared the air.
He rose to his feet and took a deep breath.
At least he hoped so.
Chapter Eleven
For the next few days, Izzy’s and Clarissa’s lives, though very busy and entertaining, continued more or less undisturbed. Invitations kept arriving addressed to Lady Scattergood, who simply passed them on. She enjoyed a wide correspondence, she informed them, but had no interest in society invitations, so Clarissa, as the eldest Studley sister, could respond on her behalf. Which Clarissa happily did, writing acceptances to almost every one.
And contrary to their expectations, Lord Salcott didn’t interfere. It was probably too good to be true, Izzy thought, but she was determined to enjoy herself while she could.
They attended the next literary afternoon at Lady Beatrice’s, and to their great pleasure, Lady Scattergood came in Matteo’s closed sedan chair. It worked even better for her than the carriage, as it transported her from inside her own entry hall to indoors at Lady Beatrice’s. It wasn’t company that Lady Scattergood couldn’t tolerate, it was the outside world.
“I think she secretly enjoys being transported like some kind of grand potentate,” Clarissa had commented quietly as they set off for the literary society meeting, the two girls walking behind the sedan chair.
Izzy grinned. “She’s certainly dressing the part.” Lady Scattergood’s maid had fashioned some of her numerous colorful Indian shawls into magnificent turbans.
Lady Scattergood even held an occasional card party at her home—she was a demon card player, they soon learned. Her guests, all older women who also attended the literary society, were likewise utterly cutthroat and competitive. Izzy and Clarissa, not being skilled in the games the ladies preferred, quickly learned to stay in the background. “It’s nerve-racking, playing with them,” Clarissa whispered, and Izzy could only agree.
Lady Tarrant and her husband had invited them out to the theater, and several times, when she was attending the same party, she’d acted as their chaperone.
And each time they attended an event, the web of their acquaintances widened, and the number of invitations increased.
“Are you finding mixing in society easier now?” Izzy asked her sister as they cut through the garden to Lady Tarrant’s house. They were all going to Lady Benton’s rout together.
Clarissa nodded. “I do find the very crowded parties a bit of a trial, but the smaller ones, now that I know so many people, are quite tolerable.”
Izzy laughed. “ ‘Quite tolerable’? I’m sure our grand hostesses would be utterly thrilled by such a glowing encomium.”
