Indeed, if Father wished to invite Lilias Trewman back to Sharottewood after the season, Isabella would despair. She’d have even fewer chances to sneak away and ride along the moonlit seaside, or explore deeper into her caves, or roam the beach for flotsam and jetsam.
Isabella continued her pace until they reached the northwest enclosure of Hyde Park. From here, the Serpentine River, the impressive park wall, and the distant Kensington Gardens were all in view—lovely as anything she’d ever seen.
In London, that is.
Nothing compared to Sharottewood and the seashore back home.Herseashore.
“Is it not grandly wonderful, dear?”
Lilias Trewman huffed and collapsed her parasol with a sigh. She fluttered a handkerchief from her reticule. “Exhausting, I say. You know I’ve just recovered from the most strenuous cold.” She blew her nose. “I cried all day and night yesterday because I could not attend the Sundland ball, even though Motherdidchide me that tears would only worsen my state. Was it a splendid ball?”
Splendid?
Of that she was uncertain. She had been curiously somber and reflective after Father’s reprimand, which was neither usual for her nor him.
But then Lord Livingstone had approached. He was an enigma in every sense and had swept her into more dances than she should have permitted. Why had she allowed him such liberties? Was it Father’s quiet admonishment? A sense of guilt and duty?
Or, for once, a true desire in herself?
“Sweet heavens, Isabella. You make me ready to cry again with strange looks like that.”
Isabella glanced at her companion. The girl was young, slender, and always modishly dressed—and though education and etiquette were inbred in her, she lacked the pleasing features to make her the object of very many suitors.
Perhaps that could account for her sour temperament.
But with no mother or aunt to fill the role of chaperone and companion, Isabella would have to do with Lilias. At least she was a loyal friend.
“Tell me now what I missed, or I shall simply go mad with wondering.”
“You are as wickedly curious as Bridget—except she has the good grace to only look at me with questions instead of asking them outright.” Isabella walked closer to the banks of the river, squinting as the bright sun played and danced on the rippling water. “You remember my father’s mention of a Lord Livingstone?”
“Of Wetherbell Hall?”
“The same.”
“La, yes. Indeed, Sophia Kettlewell wrote me only this morning to tell me of his charms, but that he seemed singularly entranced with one young—” Lilias grasped her arm. “Oh, do you mean to sayyouare the one he danced so many dances with?”
A laugh leaked out. “Indeed.”
Lilias groaned. “I knew I would miss something wonderful. Has he sent flowers? Or come to visit?”
“Not yet.”
“But I am certain he shall. You are too beautiful to resist. If I were half so lovely, I would have been married three seasons ago. I do hope it is not terrible to say, but I often wonder if you shall marry at all. Indeed, I shall likely write back to Sophia Kettlewell that she has no need to despair over Lord Livingstone’s infatuation, for you shall soon put an end to it, I am sure.” The girl wiped her nose again with the handkerchief and turned back the way they’d come. “Come along now, Isabella, for I am simply too hot to continue in this wretched heat and … why, who is that?”
Isabella tore her gaze from the river.
Approaching fast with a walking stick and a tall beaver hat was the very figure she had danced with the night before.
Emotion bubbled through her. Had he been following her? What sort of thing was that to do? Why had he not done the customary, like sending flowers or visiting her townhouse, instead of lurking behind her like a thief in alley shadows?
Within a few feet, he removed his hat and bowed, leaving her unsure if his actions delighted or unsettled. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Isabella and Lilias curtsied in unison. Neither spoke.
“Imagine the unlikelihood of a meeting such as this.” Did he really think she was simple enough to imagine he had not followed them?
She almost laughed or confronted his falsehood in jest—but his eyes pierced through her. Like daggers, they were dark and careful, coupled with an expression she could not read.
