The Earl Plays With Fire. Isabelle Goddard
untimely descent on you perhaps interrupted an important conversation. I do apologise if this was so—I wouldn’t want to frighten him away. Where is he now?’
She was angered by his insinuations and also bewildered. How had he known that Sir Julian was about to propose?
‘He is visiting his country estate,’ she said in a ruffled tone. ‘If you wish to see him, I suggest that you call at his town house in a few days’ time. It is in Brook Street, I believe.’
‘There you are, Bel. I’ve been looking for you every where.’
Sophia bounced suddenly into view, almost running around the adjacent bookcase and only just preventing herself from cannoning into Richard. He turned round with annoyance; the interview had just been getting interesting. He’d followed Christabel into the shop on impulse, feeling an overpowering need to confront her with the words he’d kept suppressed for so long. Even more compelling had been the need to protect himself from her, to keep her at a safe distance, by wielding ugly recriminations. ‘Good gracious, are you who I think you are?’ Sophia had been just twelve when Richard quit England and had only a vague memory of her sister’s former fiancé.
‘Whatever are you doing here?’ Sophie continued a trifle too bluntly.
Christabel intervened. ‘Lord Veryan is newly arrived in town. We met yesterday in Hyde Park when there was a slight accident. He has been kind enough to enquire how I am, but I think it’s time for us to go.’
Richard glanced at Sophia with disfavour. She had never been an appealing child with her insistence on frills and furbelows and the constant preening in every mirror she could find. To his jaundiced eye she looked very little improved. Christabel as a child had been so different—a skinny, reckless tomboy of a girl with a tangle of red hair and freckles to match. She had always been ready for adventure and just as always ready to drag him into whatever trouble she had been brewing.
Looking at her now, a slender vision in eau-de-nil silk, a matching ribbon threaded through those wonderfully fiery curls, he smiled inwardly, forgetting for the moment his purpose in accosting her. No greater contrast between past and present could there be. He remembered the day he’d returned from Oxford to find his one-time playmate transformed, a butterfly fluttering the hearts of all the local beaux. He had gazed at her in wonder, drinking in her beauty, spellbound.
His reverie came to an abrupt end as he became aware of Sophia still scowling at him from a few feet away. With a brief bow, he moved aside for the sisters to make their exit.
‘Where were you? I’ve been an age looking for you,’ Sophia scolded as she marched forcefully towards the glass-paned doors. ‘The carriage was causing an obstruction and Stebbings has had to move it. We’ll have to walk the whole of Picadilly now.’
Christabel made no reply, but moved swiftly along the flagged thoroughfare in deep thought. Richard had appeared in Hatchards at the very time that she’d chosen to call at the shop. It was as though he’d been shadowing her, waiting for an opportunity to confront her. And it had been a confrontation. She recalled the ice in his eyes and the anger in his voice, as he sought to remind her of her crime.
And he’d been at pains to emphasise his new-found intimacy with Domino de Silva, while a few hours earlier the young girl had made it clear that she admired Richard greatly and that in her eyes he could do no wrong. Christabel didn’t blame her for that idolisation. Richard was the perfect hero for an adolescent dream—a honed body, a handsome face alight with intelligence and an air of innate strength, which more than matched his elegance. And, if she were honest, he was a hero for more than adolescent girls. When he’d appeared so suddenly before her, polished and powerful and blocking her escape, she’d felt a charge of pure sexual magnetism. But it was momentary and quickly evaporated as it became plain that he intended only to distress her. She must not dwell on his beautiful form and face, nor on his seeming desire to exact some kind of retribution. Her life would soon resume its normal peaceful rhythm. Sir Julian was returning and, she told herself severely, she would look forward to that. By dint of repetition she was sure she would come to believe it.
Chapter Three
‘You’ve not forgotten that Lady Russell is to collect you at eleven o’ clock?’ her mother prompted the next morning, whisking through the hall on her way to consult with the housekeeper.
‘Lady Russell?’ Christabel grappled with the name for a moment.
‘Sir Julian has arranged it, has he not? The tickets for Montagu House?’
‘Ah, yes, I remember now,’ she said heavily, ‘He was keen that we view the Marbles that Lord Elgin has brought back from Greece.’
‘A stuffy museum and Lady Russell all in the same morning,’ interjected Sophia as she emerged from the breakfast room in one of the eye-opening ensembles she had purchased yesterday. ‘Rather you than me!’
Her mother rounded on her sharply. ‘You’re becoming far too pert for your own good, Sophia. You must learn to keep a check on your tongue or you will fare badly in society.’
This was an important consideration for an aspiring belle and Sophia looked suitably contrite. ‘I’m sorry, Mama, but, from what I hear from friends who are already out, Lady Russell is a gorgon.’
‘That’s as may be, but you had much better keep your opinions to yourself. And, Christabel, you must hurry. You will need to dress in something a little more demure.’ Christabel glanced down at the low neckline and French trimmings of the apricot sarcenet and sighed. Her mother was right. Lady Russell was a stickler for correctness and only a simple day dress of sprigged muslin with a high neck and a matching spencer would satisfy that matriarch.
It was weeks ago that she’d agreed to the visit. At the time she’d been feeling more guilty than usual at her lack of enthusiasm for Sir Julian’s company and he’d been so touchingly anxious that she become better acquainted with what small family he possessed that she’d felt forced to consent. Since then she’d acquired a genuine interest in the marble wonders that had travelled all the way from Athens and, were it not for Lady Russell, she would be looking forward to the morning’s expedition with pleasure.
Sir Julian’s sister was punctual to the minute, an erect figure in a heavy but serviceable barouche, awaiting Christabel outside the Mount Street house with scarcely concealed impatience. The severe grey kerseymere gown and dreary poke bonnet that she wore did nothing to lighten the atmosphere. Her greeting was perfunctory. She was not at all sure that this young woman was a suitable wife for her brother. She was altogether too beautiful, and beautiful women usually meant trouble. And there was that unfortunate business years ago when her name had been bandied around the town as a tease and a jilt by every wicked rattlejaw. Her modest behaviour since had done much to redeem this unsatisfactory reputation, but still one never knew when old habits would surface.
You only had to look at that hair—wild to a fault. But Julian was evidently head over heels in love with her and you could hardly blame him. Men could be very stupid, never seeing beyond what was in front of their eyes.
‘Are you looking forward to viewing the Marbles, Miss Tallis?’ she eventually asked her companion as the barouche rolled smoothly forwards. Her smile was one of gracious condescension.
‘Indeed, ma’am, I am. I have been reading a good deal about them and my interest has been greatly stirred.’
Lady Russell unbent slightly. At least the girl had some intelligence, which was all to the good. It was necessary that Julian marry a woman who was serious enough to understand and tolerate his charity work. As far as Lady Russell was concerned, her brother’s projects for the labouring classes remained wholly inexplicable.
‘I have learned,’ she remarked magisterially, ‘that a special gallery has been built for these statues at a vast cost so we must hope that they warrant such expenditure.’ The faltering conversation was effectively closed down.
Once the carriage left Mayfair and was bowling towards Bloomsbury, the roads