But it was Montfort who held the keys to Papa’s freedom.
She couldn’t rely on the uncertain promises of Lord Percival. She must stay her course. Her first allegiance was to her family.
Now that Montfort was returned to Gardencourt, she had no excuse not to go to him and tell him all. But she simply couldn’t. To reveal what happened last night in Lord Percival’s bed to Montfort would feel like a betrayal of the lowest kind. This situation had formed into a Gordian knot that no amount of logic would untangle.
“Querida,” Eva began as they ventured to an unfamiliar portion of the estate, “you are so very quiet of a sudden. Has this glorious morning stroll quite cleared your mind of conversation?”
Isabel struggled to find a subject other than the one that occupied nearly all the space in her brain. “I’m happy to hear you speaking of our shop again, Eva.” A safe and reliable subject. “These last several months have been rather dull without your inspiration, and I believe our customers have noticed. Do you have plans to return to your duties?”
“Oh, I have plans.”
On the surface, Eva’s words might have allayed Isabel’s fears, but a cryptic quality wove through them that incited no small amount of anxiety. Before Isabel could quiz Eva about her “plans,” a series of muted, popping sounds carried toward them on a light breeze. The sisters’ eyes met, brows raised. A booming bellow, followed by a long groan, rent the air.
“Is that an animal?” Isabel whispered.
They slowed their pace to a standstill, their ears attuned to further outcry. The muted, popping sounds had a rhythm, but the animal sounds were less predictable.
“If I am remembering my animal sounds correctly,” Eva began, “I would say we are hearing a human male animal engaged in some manner of strenuous activity. Either that, or”—she cocked her head as if listening closely—“the ghost from Rosebud Cottage is haunting this part of the estate.”
The certainty set in that Eva was most definitely toying with her, possibly punishing her for not confiding in her about last night. Isabel simply couldn’t. She didn’t understand it herself. Except that she’d needed to have Percy, and, in the light of day, her mind was having trouble reasoning through that need, its sheer, unquantifiable force. It defied all logic.
“Sister?” Eve was staring at her expectantly.
“Yes?”
“I asked if we should investigate.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
Down this path which wound through all manner of shrubbery bursting with a dozen shades of summer green, Isabel and Eva followed the muted pops and animal groans that grew louder with each step. At last, they left the bushes behind and entered a clearing. The sight before them stopped their feet mid-step.
Eva flashed Isabel a curious look. “I certainly wasn’t expecting this.”
“Indeed,” fell from Isabel’s mouth.
Across the distance labored Percy and Lord Avendon, sweaty, grunting, swinging rackets, striking balls, deep in the throes of the most intense tennis match Isabel had ever laid eyes upon. She’d seen many a match played on the royal courts in Spain, but those were mostly royal ladies and courtiers engaged in little more than light volleying. Nothing serious. Nothing like the paces Percy and Lord Avendon were putting each other through.
Hair stuck to their faces, cheeks bright with exertion, they sprinted up and down, side to side, in dogged pursuit of the ball, while wearing lightweight wool trousers and white lawn shirts, sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Each man’s features were set in the determination particular to any competitive endeavor to annihilate the other, stroke by stroke, neither giving up on a point, the resolve to win too strong to ever let up.
Still, even as the match stoked her competitive fire, Isabel found herself focusing not on the play, but rather on one player. Percy’s long, lean body in motion possessed both a strength and grace that commanded the court. Sinewy and muscular, it was a body built for endurance.
She’d experienced every inch of that body last night.
She heated up by several degrees.
And it had naught to do with summer.
Now that she’d had him once, experienced what that magnificent body could do, she wanted it again. She was shaky with the feeling. He wasn’t the only one who was addicted.
“Careful, querida,” Eva said.
Isabel found Eva’s devilish eyes studying her. “Of what?”
“To keep your drool in your mouth.”
Cheeks hot, Isabel swung her gaze back to the court, focusing her attention on the match. Her fists clenched at her sides . . . Her jaw went tight . . . Her heart raced, as she was hopelessly drawn into the competition of these two well-matched adversaries, no question of which man she wanted to emerge the victor.
After a particularly long point of them trading stroke after punishing stroke from the baseline, Lord Avendon rushed to the net and took the point with a light volley. Eva clapped and shouted an unrefined, “That’s the stuff!” If anyone was more competitive than Isabel, it was Eva.
Both men’s heads whipped around. Lord Avendon gave them a small, surprised wave. “Mrs. Gardiner, my thanks.”
Percy’s attention immediately returned to the ball he was bouncing in tight sets of three. Even from the distance of fifty feet, Isabel sensed his annoyance.
“First set point,” he called out, and Lord Avendon crouched into a ready position. Percy tossed the ball high into the air and slammed his racket into it so hard Isabel wouldn’t have been shocked if it disintegrated upon impact. Anticlimactically, it dug deep into the net.
Again, Percy performed the ritual of bouncing the ball until he was ready to serve. “Second serve. Second set point.”
His body stretched and arced on the toss, and his racket struck the ball harder this time, an unusual strategy for a second serve which was usually played at a safer pace. The ball whizzed across the net and struck the center line at such a high velocity that Lord Avendon hadn’t the faintest chance of reaching it in time to return it.
Once again, Eva cheered her appreciation, but this time Lord Avendon’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The next instant, he seemed to remember who he was—a future duke—and that ladies were present. “Well played, old man,” he called out with the jolly vacuity particular to the upper-class English gentleman.
“Indeed,” shouted Eva, “play another!”