A virgin, came the very next thought.
She swallowed. “Thank you, Lord— Percy.”
He gestured that she take the lead. “After you.”
At the head of the trail that splintered off toward the bridge below, he and Isabel waited with a silence that was the loudest, tetchiest silence he’d ever endured. He couldn’t press her now for here was Lucy sweeping past him. She hooked a sharp right and marched ahead without a single glance his way.
Next came Miss Radclyffe. Isabel inquired about the ruins as she fell into step with the girl. Miss Radclyffe launched into a detailed explanation about tonight’s unique confluence of astronomy and archeology, to which Isabel listened with an attentive ear and asked questions where appropriate. Percy was likely the only one who could see the tension radiating off her. The woman was damned accomplished at pulling her wits together.
Percy waited for Hugh, who arrived last. The boy maintained a persistent silence as they brought up the rear together. Brow furrowed with the variety of deep contemplation uniquely available to those of teen years, Hugh’s eye never wavered once from the tall, elegant form of Miss Radclyffe. The lad’s uncompanionable silence suited Percy fine.
Here were the facts as Percy knew them.
Isabel was a dressmaker.
She was the daughter of minor Spanish nobility.
She was a Jewess.
She was a virgin.
Which changed nothing, not truly, not when one considered her connection to Montfort. Yet . . . a virgin involved in the Number 9 scheme with the Earl of Pembroke as the target?
Coercion was clear. Montfort was just such a man to compel a virgin into seducing a future Member of Parliament for political gain.
Percy needed to keep Isabel close. So, too, he needed to stay away from her.
For another man, the mad kiss of minutes ago would have already begun to fade into memory, suppressible and distant. Not so for Percy. The madness pulsed through his veins with every beat of his heart. Now that it had been awakened, it would lie in wait for its next opportunity. His wickedness was patient in that regard.
Really, what he wanted at his deepest, darkest core was to sink into the feeling and become addicted to that woman. It would be the easiest thing he’d ever done in his life.
And the worst.
Chapter 12
“Should it be this hot in England?” Miss Bretagne asked, dramatically fanning herself as if on the verge of a swoon.
Even Lady Bertrand had foregone a fichu. “After all, it’s only us ladies.”
Although a torpor hung about the usually airy library, Isabel didn’t find it particularly oppressive. Neither did Eva, given the quick Can you believe these English? glance she shot Isabel. When Lady Exeter excused herself for a “bracing lie down” before afternoon tea, Eva shot Isabel another such glance, and Isabel had to hide a smile as she continued mending the Duchess’s cloak.
Miss Bretagne dragged herself to the piano and lifted the fallboard, exposing black and white keys. “Mina, come and compose a song with me. This Bach concerto is in dire need of lyrics.”
Miss Radclyffe checked her pocket watch. “I shall be reading for the next seventeen minutes.”
Miss Bretagne gave a little pout, but said no more as she began picking at piano keys.
“Are preparations proceeding for your citrus breakfast, Duchess?” asked Lady Bertrand.
“Citrus breakfast?” Eva’s needle suspended mid-air. “You have citrus groves on the estate?”
“We have a conservatory, Mrs. Gardiner,” explained the Duchess.
“And it’s bursting at the seams with every manner of citrus fruit you can imagine,” Lady Bertrand cut in.
“And you have a day for it?”
“Well,” continued the Duchess, “it’s a rather impromptu thing. In a few days’ time, the village will put on their summer musicale, which shall be—”
“Dreadful,” Lady Bertrand interjected.
“Delightful,” corrected the Duchess. “I am quite looking forward to being treated to the local talent. I’ve always enjoyed that sort of thing. In return, we are inviting the village round for a breakfast the following day to partake in all the oranges, lemons, and limes we can’t possibly consume ourselves alone. Citrus is the best fruit for summer.”
“Oh, Lucretia, I still don’t understand why you’re offering this to the public. How can you tolerate such people in your home?” By you, it was clear Lady Bertrand meant I. “We would never have such a gathering at Little Spruisty Folly. Bertie wouldn’t hear of it.”
As if Lady Bertrand hadn’t spoken, the Duchess continued, “Then I thought, well, since we’re having the village here for the day, why not set up a tent and extend the gathering into the evening for a country dance? Which, I must confess, is quite selfish of me. I do delight in lively fiddles and country reels. Mrs. Gardiner, you must consider shedding your widow’s weeds for the occasion.”
Miss Bretagne’s fingers struck a discordant key on the piano. “A dance? You never mentioned a dance.”
“I hardly needed to, Lulu.” The Duchess flicked a dismissive wrist at the girl. “You, my dear, are not yet out. And neither is Miss Radclyffe, for that matter.”
“But ’tis a country dance,” Miss Bretagne whined. “No one in London need ever know.”
A naughty smile quirked about the Duchess’s mouth. “I must confess to having attended one or two country dances when I was your age, Lulu.” A dreamy look entered her eye. “They are such jolly fun.”
Lady Bertrand emitted one of her signature oh, dear’s, and Miss Bretagne squealed with the knowledge that she’d won the day.
The Duchess settled her gaze onto Isabel. “Dearest, if the day is a success, this is just the sort of thing that could become a tradition for Gardencourt Manor. It’s vital you put your stamp and establish traditions early on, don’t you agree?”
Every eye—except Miss Radclyffe’s—swung toward Isabel. “Why, yes, of course,” she sputtered.
The Duchess’s head canted to the side, quizzical. “Hasn’t Percy told you?”
“Told me?” Isabel remembered who she was. Well, who she was supposed to be. “Oh, yes, that. I am, um, so looking forward to it.”