Miss Bretagne shot her father an admiring glance. Percy returned it with an indulgent smile, one that said she was getting no more from him on the matter of his uncivilized youth. Their reconciliation would have warmed Isabel were it not for Percy’s altered manner toward herself. The freeze of his cold shoulder hurt.
“Speaking of horses,” Squire Noble began, “it has been a long while since we’ve seen Gardencourt’s stable run. Word has it you still have the stock?”
“I’m thinking of trying it on at Newmarket in about two years’ time. Princess Polly just foaled a contender, I believe.”
“Princess Polly?” the mayor asked. “The Barb from Paragon’s line?”
“The very one.”
The mayor clapped Percy on the back. “That’s the stuff.”
Even as Isabel pasted a smile onto her face—one that said, of course, she’d known her husband’s plans for the future—this plan for his future was one Percy hadn’t shared with her. Of course, she chided herself, she wasn’t truly his wife. What right to his future plans had she?
And the future of two years from now?
It was too far to fathom.
The very awful near future would destroy any chance that might have been for them.
Something Percy said just pricked her ear. “What was that, dear husband?”
His cold stare landed upon her. “I was explaining to Squire Noble that I shall be sleeping in the stable for the foreseeable future. With Princess Polly just foaled, I’ll be keeping an eye on her during the night.”
Squire Noble’s well-tended belly shook with a sly chuckle. “And you newly wed? That’s dedication, old man.”
“Gentlemen,” the Duchess cut in, sharp, “a young lady is present. Mind your tongues.”
Percy pulled his watch from his pocket. “In fact, I should be returning now.” He bowed to the small group. “Lucy, are you staying?”
“I believe I shall to the end.”
Percy nodded approvingly, and a private look passed between father and daughter. He turned to leave and stopped. “Lady Percival, I believe you will wish to enjoy the remaining evening’s entertainments and ride back with the family.” He wasn’t stating a belief so much as telling her what to do.
While part of Isabel wanted to defy him, the coldness in his eye had her shrinking away from rebellion. “Of course, husband.”
Percy met her eye mid-bow. For the flicker of a moment, another emotion replaced the coldness, one she hadn’t time to read for in a blink, it was gone, the ice returned. He finished his farewells to the group and strode away.
He was lost to her.
Except, in truth, he had never truly been hers.
“Lady Percival?” Miss Bretagne asked. “Would you care to take a walk about the room before the second half of the musicale begins?”
Even through the numb shell that had begun to harden around Isabel’s emotions, she experienced a trace of shock. “I would find that most agreeable.”
As they began their stroll, arm in arm, Isabel sensed an uncharacteristic hesitation hanging about Miss Bretagne. At last, the girl’s tongue untangled itself. “I must extend my apologies for having been a dreadful beast to you when we met. Shall we be friends?”
A lump solidified in Isabel’s throat. “I should like that, Miss Bretagne.”
Wretched guilt twisted through Isabel. Such a future friendship wasn’t possible.
The girl’s face scrunched up. “Since you’re my step-mama, perhaps you can call me Lucy. And may I call you Isabel?”
Isabel nodded. “That would be most welcome.”
As they continued to wend their way through the crowded assembly rooms, Lucy happily greeted anyone who happened into their path. Isabel remained silent in her thoughts, false smile pasted onto her lips. A sequence of thought kept whipping through her mind in terrible refrain.
To save one father and daughter, she would have to destroy another father and daughter.
Yet what alternative had she?
Over and over it went, and she couldn’t find a way out of it, for every word was true. She had no choice but to do everything in her power to save Papa, even if he thought otherwise. If their roles were reversed, he would act no differently.
But it was the scandal that would ensue for the Bretagne family that had her tied up in knots. Horrible lies would be spread through London and England about Lucy’s father once the London Diary published its story. Reputations would be ruined. Whatever fragile bond Percy had formed with his daughter, destroyed.
Just as the musicale was set to resume, Isabel took a seat between Lucy and the Duchess, who whispered a concerned, “My dear, are you quite the thing?”
Before Isabel could concoct one of the lies she’d become so proficient at telling, Montfort leaned forward, eyebrows waggling. She hadn’t noticed him on the other side of the Duchess. “Shall we hear the pitter-patter of little feet in nine months’ time?”
Bile rose in Isabel’s throat.
“Lord Bertrand Montfort,” the Duchess bristled, “we do not speak of such matters in public. Or at all, I dare say.”
Still, when the room fell silent for the second half of the musicale, the Duchess gave Isabel’s hand a light squeeze. Delight glittered in the other woman’s eye. The possibility of babies tended to spark such twinkles.
And Isabel thought she couldn’t sink any lower.
~ ~ ~
She crept into the dark butler’s room, chilled and damp with the night, and found the narrow bed, empty of him.
Isabel slipped beneath the meager blanket and curled onto her side. All that was left of him was his scent, already grown faint.
She pushed tomorrow away, closed her eyes, and tried to conjure yesterday. Of him, her, and Ariel, playing house.
Then, of him and her joined as one for a fleeting moment.
She would live in that moment forever, if she could.
How was it possible she’d known him for a week? How was it possible for one heart to become so inextricably twined with another in so short a time?
Tomorrow, she would be strong.
Tomorrow, she would do what was required of her.