A note of discord disturbed Isabel’s sense of rightness, reminding her that she and Eva weren’t in the before. “You know that isn’t the fact of the matter.”
“Ah, but that’s the fiction of it.” A cold smile curved about Eva’s mouth. “And your present reality.”
Isabel couldn’t deny that particular truth. But since Eva had opened the door, Isabel thought she may as well step through it, for she wished to discuss a related matter. “You seem to have taken a decided interest in my”—oh, what strange reality had her uttering the next word—“husband’s family.”
A degree of warmth entered Eva’s smile. “The Misses Bretagne and Radclyffe are splendid girls. They are well on their way toward becoming diamonds of the first water, wouldn’t you agree?”
Isabel nodded. She had no doubt of it.
“When we return to London, I would like to ask them to pose for sketches in a few of my original creations.”
“They are the daughters of aristocrats,” Isabel pointed out, gently. Eva’s ambitions could get away from her at times. “I’m not sure that is done.”
Eva flicked a stray stonefly off her sleeve. “Surely, my logical sister with a mind for trade can see how such exposure would benefit us.”
“I doubt you would be able to sew fast enough to keep up with demand.” It wasn’t the youthful branch of the estate’s guests that Isabel wanted to discuss, however. “And how about Lady Bertrand Montfort? You do seem to be devoting considerable attention to her.”
What little warmth had entered Eva’s smile, cooled in an instant. “Such a delightful woman,” she all but spat.
“She’s the wife of Montfort.”
“Her name does make that fact rather obvious, querida. Your point?”
“Such a friendship,” Isabel pressed, “isn’t the wisest—”
“Speaking of wisdom!” Eva exclaimed. “Have you heard the pearls that drip from Lady Bertrand’s mouth? Sometimes, their effect is such that I just want to slap her face.”
Isabel pulled Eva to a stop and met her sister dead in the eye. “That is something you simply can never do.” This was the Eva, the one who had become wild and unknowable, who Isabel feared. “Never.”
A spark of rebellion flashed in Eva’s eye and was gone in an instant, replaced by a careful flatness. “So serious, querida, I spoke figuratively, of course. Come and continue our little stroll.” She pulled Isabel’s arm, tugging her forward. “Enjoy the cool nip in the air before the heat presses down on us. Do you know I feel more myself with every minute I spend here? I sincerely thank you for bringing me along on your impromptu honeymoon. We all needed a little break from London. I mean, look at you.”
“Me?”
“Oh, yes, the estate has certainly worked its magic on you.”
“Oh?” A certainty entered Isabel’s mind that she wouldn’t like the direction Eva was leading their talk. While she’d experienced a momentary fear that Eva had again procured laudanum, this conversation put that anxiety to rest. Eva might be altered in many ways from the carefree person she’d once been, but her sense of mischief had returned. A good sign, even if Isabel was on the receiving end of it.
“This morning, you have a . . . a”—Eva’s eyes screwed up to the sky, as if she was searching for the perfect word—“glow. In truth, I’ve never seen you so radiant.”
Isabel cut Eva a sharp glance and pressed her mouth into a firm line. For her part, Eva kept her gaze trained on the trail before them, the picture of innocence.
“That said,” Eva continued, “I have detected but one botheration with our paradise found.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Rosebud Cottage has a ghost.”
“Eva, you don’t believe in such gothic silliness,” Isabel dismissed.
“’Tis true, I didn’t. Until”—Eva allowed a dramatic tick of time to pass—“last night.”
Sudden sweat slicked Isabel’s palms. “Last night?”
“Oh, indeed, the cottage was simply alive with all manner of creaks, moans, and groans. I even thought I heard a shout.”
Isabel couldn’t seem to draw breath.
“The noises didn’t wake you?” Eva asked.
Isabel gave her head a mute shake, sound unable to pass her lips.
“They didn’t wake Ariel, either.” Eva’s face had the look, the one Isabel had known since girlhood. The one that said she was going to toy with you and there was nothing you could do about it. “I suppose I was the only witness to the haunting. It did go on for a while, I daresay.” Was that a smile playing about Eva’s mouth? “Rather impressive.”
Isabel understood what Eva had done. She didn’t want Isabel to press her about her intentions toward Montfort’s wife, so she’d turned the conversation around on her. Touché. Isabel would let Eva’s sleeping dogs lie, if she would only return the favor. For here was the thing: Isabel wouldn’t discuss, or even think about, last night.
Her body, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have much of a choice. It tingled and ached with a delicious lightness that hadn’t stopped rushing through her since last night. Alive, that was how she felt. Her body had never been so aware of how very alive it was. No wonder she was glowing.
But it wasn’t a feeling she could bask in and enjoy, no matter how her body tried to convince her otherwise, for it further complicated matters that were already entirely too complicated. In doing a correct thing, the thing she was supposed to do—lose her maidenhead to Lord Percival—she’d done a very wrong thing—lost her maidenhead to Lord Percival without Montfort’s permission.
How that sequence of thought disgusted her.
What should she do? Steal the sheets and present them to Montfort as a fait accompli? She recoiled from the idea, body, mind, and soul.
Yet she couldn’t have it both ways. She couldn’t save her family, or what was left of it, and keep her integrity intact. After all, she’d only done what she was supposed to have done that first night in Number 9 with another man. But . . .
It felt so very different to have done it with Lord Percival.
“I can help you.”
How perilously close she’d come to accepting his offer. And the temptation of it still reached out to her, for she’d seen in his eyes that he’d meant every word.