“The poor darling,” said one lady of advanced years as she fidgeted with a set of gold bangles. She could only be the Duchess.
Another lady’s platinum blonde eyebrows shot toward the ceiling, equal parts dismay and disdain shining in her glacial blue eyes. She could be none other than the ’oity toity Lady Exeter.
The discreet clearing of a throat drew Isabel’s eye. There sat her pretend husband, cup of black coffee before him, dressed in gentleman’s day attire—forest green jacket, loosely tied cravat, presumably buff trousers beneath the table—and studying her as if ice wouldn’t melt in his mouth.
Isabel clenched her hands into fists to stay their trembling. About her heart that threatened to hammer its way out of her chest? Well, she couldn’t control that.
Tall, dark, aristocratic . . . handsome. She’d left off that last word when she’d told him the description she’d been given last night.
Lord Percival already knew he was handsome. A man didn’t stride through life with his assuredness without knowing it and using it to his advantage. The scar along his right cheekbone only enhanced his dangerous, male beauty.
Again, the word for him came to her. Devastating.
Not a single remnant of the last twelve hours hung about him, except for the faint bruise below his left eye.
Well, that wasn’t precisely true. She was a remnant of the previous night still hanging about him.
“So,” cut in a young voice, the same that had delighted in imparting tattle about the Savior of St. Giles to the room. Isabel met the gaze of a blonde-haired girl of middle teen years whose dark brown eyes were regarding her with equal parts curiosity and hostility. “You’re my new step-mama?”
Chapter 7
“Lucy,” Percy heard himself say, a warning in his tone that both surprised and unnerved him.
Lucy’s gaze flashed to meet his, rebellion glinting in her eyes. She’d heard it, too, a distinct fatherliness. And she wasn’t having it.
Every Thursday at one o’clock sharp, Percy arrived at the Cleveland Row mansion where Lucy lived for the fifteen minute, weekly call to which she’d consented. A footman would escort him into a formal drawing room—the one used for guests, not family—where he would find Lucy curled up in a blue damask Queen Anne chair, face buried in a book. He would sit on the sofa opposite her and let her direct their conversation.
Well, conversation might be a stretch. Every visit she poured them each a cup of tea, opened her book to a dog-eared page, and proceeded to read for the remaining fourteen minutes of his call.
He simply sat across from her and marveled at this girl of thirteen years who was his daughter.
Isabel cleared her throat. “Our, um, wedding happened so suddenly—in an instant, really.” Her eye met his in an anxious flash. “Your father has spoken so highly of you that I look forward to furthering our acquaintance.”
Rather well done of Isabel, Percy could admit. The woman had nerve.
All eyes at the table swung back to Lucy, as if they were observing a tennis match. On her end, Lucy was giving Isabel a glare equal parts appraising and dismissive, as only a girl of teen years could. Percy knew the look well for he’d been its recipient on every occasion he’d met with her. She was a force, a fury, a wonder, his daughter, and how he wanted to know her better.
From his place at the far end of the table, the Duke peered over his second newspaper. The man read three a day. Besides Percy, he was the only one not staring at Isabel like she was a circus curiosity. “My dear, serve yourself from the buffet. Then we shall endeavor to put on our best behavior and introduce ourselves.” He directed a pointed gaze toward Lucy. “Like the polite family we surely are.”
Lucy stared down at her plate and stabbed a sausage with a single, sharp thrust, twin patches of scarlet on her cheeks. Percy, too, felt strangely chastened. His father had always been good at that, at being a father. Percy, on the other hand, knew nothing about it. He felt the compulsion, but not the right. He hadn’t yet earned it.
Isabel skirted the edge of the room as she made her way toward the sideboard stocked with all manner of breakfast foods. Percy took a moment to observe his wife.
She wore the same plain blue dress from last night. When one looked closely, however, one noticed its cut was sharp and precise, its lines clean. This was no slovenly homespun dress. It had a bit of dash, even if the cloth was a wool on the cheaper end of the spectrum. That sturdy wool set her apart from the other women at table, who were clad in delicate muslins and fine silks.
During his years on the Continent, Percy had been careful to remark these seemingly small details about a person for, in fact, they weren’t small at all. They told a person’s story without them having to open their mouth, which was useful in a line of work where people held their secrets close. What secrets did this woman hold?
Why had she been in Number 9 last night?
If she would just tell him, it would make his life a sight easier. Certainly, she had her reasons, but in the end, he would uncover them all.
It was what he did.
At last, she settled onto the chair to Percy’s left, the one the Duchess had insisted on saving for his bride, even after he had protested the necessity since his bride suffered from debilitating megrims on a daily basis and therefore wouldn’t be joining them for meals.
The Duke met his gaze and lifted a single eyebrow. The time had arrived for Percy to introduce the newest addition to the family. He cleared his throat, and all eyes landed on him. They had been waiting.
“It is my great pleasure to introduce—” The next words stuck in his throat. He cleared it again to allow them passage. “Lady Percival.”
The Duke nodded approvingly and smiled. A measure of the room’s tension dissipated. As head of the family, the Duke’s approval meant everyone must welcome her. “Lucretia,” he began, addressing his own recent bride, the former Dowager Duchess of Dalrymple, “is it too early for a celebratory round of champagne?”
“Is it ever?” replied the formidable woman. Percy had always rather liked her.
While the Duchess made the necessary arrangements with the servants, everyone at the table returned to their own private conversations. Everyone, except Isabel, who had tucked into her breakfast, bite by relentless bite, with an unexpected gusto. She was eating like a woman famished. Percy experienced a twinge of guilt. He’d expected her to have partaken of the breakfast he’d arranged to have delivered to Rosebud Cottage.