Chapter 24

Griffith rubbed his hands hard over his face as he stepped from the House of Lords chamber into the vestibule. It had to be nearly midnight, and he was exhausted. He’d planned to go by Lady Oakmere’s musicale tonight, but given that the visiting opera singer was sure to have completed her arias by now and Griffith was so tired he was willing to consider taking a nap on one of the lobby benches, it was probably best he head home for the night.

Even if Isabella was in attendance and socializing after the musicale’s completion, he wouldn’t do his suit any good in his current condition. He’d spent the past week trying to come up with unique ways to win her attention, as well as attempting traditional methods, and everything had come up short.

“Your Grace!”

Griffith winced and considered not stopping. There were, after all, others in the building who could answer to the honorific. The fact that the footsteps rushing toward him indicated he was probably the intended recipient was something he could easily be convinced to overlook.

Lord Pontebrook came to his side in a rush and adjusted his pace to match Griffith’s. “Your Grace.”

Griffith nodded in acknowledgment but was afraid to speak lest he let out the yawn building in his throat.

“I can’t thank you enough for the invitation to Riverton. Splendid week in the country.”

“The party was my mother’s doing. I shall pass along your regards.” He wouldn’t, but Lord Pontebrook would never know that.

“Splendid. Splendid.” He looked at Griffith out of the corner of his eye as they crossed the lobby outside St. Stephen’s Cathedral. “My daughter, Frederica, has talked of nothing else since we returned.”

And that was the purpose for this uncomfortable walk through the parliamentary building. Lord Pontebrook wanted to know why Griffith wasn’t visiting his little girl anymore. “I’m glad she enjoyed the trip. It was a pleasure to have all of you in attendance.”

Griffith almost choked on the words. Why did they have to tell so many lies simply for the sake of social propriety? Why was it such a bad thing if he honestly told Lord Pontebrook to begone because Griffith was irritated with the entire family?

“There’ve been quite a few men pounding down my door this year.” Lord Pontebrook laughed. “But then you know how that goes.”

“Indeed.” Was there a point to this? Because there was certainly a limit to his patience tonight, and he’d much rather use it on something that actually mattered.

The viscount cleared his throat. “Of course, very few of them have been by for Frederica.”

Griffith highly doubted any of them had been by for Frederica this Season, aside from himself. She wasn’t exactly encouraging anyone’s attentions.

“Then again—” a nervous laugh preceded the man’s wiping his hands along the sides of his coat—“it only takes the right man to come knocking. Not all the best ladies inspire crowds. Some palates are more refined.”

Could Griffith say indeed again, or would that be considered rude? Did he care? “Indeed.”

The nervous laughter grew tighter. “You’ve been by to see my girl this Season, haven’t you?”

He had, though his attentions had quickly drifted elsewhere. Griffith narrowed his gaze at Lord Pontebrook and came to a stop on the outside steps of the building. Obviously, the viscount was unaware of Griffith’s change in affections. It was an advantage Griffith would be a fool not to use.

“She and her cousin seem to spend a great deal of time together.” Perhaps he could use Lord Pontebrook’s ambitions while still satisfying his own need for complete honesty in his dealings.

“Yes, yes. Isabella’s like the, uh, little sister Frederica was never blessed with. That’s why I was so happy to offer my home and support for her first year out. Young hearts need guidance, you know.”

Griffith arched an eyebrow, wondering what sort of guidance the other man meant. Because from what he’d seen, Lord Pontebrook’s guidance had involved lying about her age, manipulating her attachments, and pushing her in uncomfortable directions. Had he ever once taken the girl to a garden for a purpose other than a garden party?

“And where are Miss St. Claire and her cousin spending their time, now that we’ve returned from the idylls of the country?”

Lord Pontebrook beamed, and it made Griffith’s stomach roil. “They’ve the energy of an entire militia, I tell you. Seeing the sites of London during the day and gracing the ballrooms in the evening. Tomorrow it’s the opera. Lord Ivonbrook keeps a box, you know. I think they’ve plans to see the Royal Academy before that.”

An easy enough place to while away his day as he waited to ambush his prey. “’Tis good for her to be able to see some culture after growing up so close to Scotland.”

He watched Lord Pontebrook closely, looking for any sign that Isabella might be in danger from his almost negligent care. There was none. All he could see was a self-absorbed man who couldn’t fathom the idea that Griffith’s intent might not match Lord Pontebrook’s hope.

Another man joined them then, allowing Griffith to make his good-byes and climb into his carriage to go home. Griffith didn’t care overly much about art. If he saw something he liked, he put it in his home. Most of his collection had been acquired by a very art-conscious duchess a couple of generations ago. He’d commissioned portraits of the family, and his sister Georgina had added a sweeping painting of Riverton to the walls, but other than that, he’d left them as they’d hung for years.

And yet he found himself mentally rearranging his schedule for the next day. He’d look at art all day long if it meant he could spend the day with Isabella.

“Why are we here again?” Isabella trudged up the circular staircase behind Frederica, a thin booklet in her hand.

“Because if we stay home Father will make us visit with someone horrible, and if we go to a coffee shop we’ll have to sit with someone horrible.” Frederica reached the top of the stairs and, with a wide smile on her face, turned to watch Isabella climb. “Any of the men who are already here came to escort someone else and won’t be able to approach you. It’s the perfect opportunity for a bit of peace.”

Isabella craned her neck back as she entered the cavernous room at the top of Somerset House. The Royal Academy had filled every possible inch of wall space with paintings. From floor to ceiling, they were so close together that the frames laid against and on top of each other.

No wonder they’d made her buy a guide book. And with more than one room similarly adorned, she and Frederica could easily spend hours looking through the artwork. The visit suddenly seemed inspired.

“Might I suggest you start with the painting of the hackney? It’s remarkably uninspired, and your opinion is destined to rise from there.”

Isabella spun to find Griffith standing right behind her, hands clasped against his lower back, dark brown coat topping a golden-yellow waistcoat. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking at something beautiful.”

His direct green gaze focused on her and not any of the surrounding art, sending heat coursing through Isabella’s cheeks. She glanced at Frederica, but her cousin seemed enthralled by a rather disturbing painting of a donkey and an old woman. She looked back at Griffith and mumbled, “Thank you.”

A single brow lifted as if mocking her for assuming he meant her, even though he obviously had.

She cleared her throat. “And where is this hackney painting?”

“Over here, near the floor.” He offered her his arm and then stopped by Frederica to offer his other before leading them around to a nearby section of paintings.

After inspecting the hackney, they moved on to portraits of several people no one knew, a scattering of landscapes, some of which were quite breathtaking, and even a depiction of a scene from the Bible.

They strolled around until they entered the hall of statues. A lone artist sat in the corner sketching a statue, but the room was otherwise empty.

Frederica strolled off, looking consumed by the need to inspect a carving of Apollo shooting his bow and arrow.

Isabella wasn’t sure if she wanted to thank her cousin or strangle her.

“I met with the gardener at Hawthorne House. He told me the orchids are doing quite well this year.”

“You have a gardener for your city house?” Of course, there had to be gardeners somewhere in the city, but Isabella had never thought of anyone hiring them personally. Everything seemed to be so hard and paved over.

“He doesn’t work only for me, but yes. There’s a conservatory in Hawthorne House and a small green area behind the house.”

“And he’s growing orchids?” Isabella had seen orchids, though not very often. People in her area of Northumberland tended to be happy if they managed to grow enough grass for their sheep. There’d been one time she’d been in Scotland at the right time to see a massive cluster of purple orchids. She’d stayed until the sun went down, watching them sway in the breeze.

“Yes.” He glanced at her and then down at his toes before fixing his gaze back on the bust of one of the generals. “They’re doing rather well.”

She said nothing. It wasn’t as if she could invite herself over to see them. Even if he extended the invitation, would she take it? She’d never seen the inside of Hawthorne House, so had never been able to picture herself there. At Griffith’s side. Starting a new life.

Perhaps she would be better off if that remained something she was unable to imagine.

She walked a bit down the room, both to separate herself from Griffith’s side and to have something to do. A row of busts stretched along the wall, ranging in size from life-size to a rather enormous sculpting of His Majesty. She cocked her head to the side and looked down the row. “Do you think the rest of the body is really that much harder to carve?”

“I think it is probably more that the rest of the body is unimportant.”

Isabella laughed and threw Griffith a skeptical look. “You should try to take a day and not use your legs.”

“You should come by Parliament. I’ll show you plenty of examples of working legs and nonfunctioning heads.” Griffith looked down on her with a smirk.

The laugh Isabella couldn’t contain bounced around the large room, echoing off statues and windows and relieving more than a little of the tension.

Griffith looked quite happy with himself. “Besides, the most identifiable portion of a man is his head. In both the physical and nonphysical ways, his most identifying characteristics can be found above the shoulders.”

“So what you’re saying is this is a collective philosophical statement and not a bunch of lazy sculptors?” Isabella pushed her lips together and squinted her eyes. “I’m not seeing it.”

It was Griffith’s turn to laugh. Isabella caught Frederica smiling their way, her happiness making Isabella both giddy and sad. A moment shouldn’t be this pure and beautiful if a person wasn’t free to enjoy it without restraint, if she couldn’t accept the promises implied.

They passed a window, and for a moment Isabella could see out of their sheltered world and into the city, the busyness and the grime a stark contrast to their meandering in a bright hall of white stones. If she could choose which world to live in, this one would win. Every time.

They circled the end of the room and passed the sketching artist with a nod. His gaze never left the enormous statue gracing the end of the room.

Her eyes drifted sideways to look at Griffith’s arm, bulging against his coat as he clasped his hands behind his back. “How is your arm faring?”

“Quite well. The surgeon who inspected its healing last week informed me that the woman who’d sewn me up must have an incredible trousseau based on the precise, even stitches.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “So how is it?”

“How is what?” Isabella tried not to look at the half grin, made more boyish by the lock of hair that had drifted down to frame his face.

“Your trousseau.”

A blush sped up her neck and to her cheeks as her gaze plummeted back to the floor. She picked up her pace so that he was no longer immediately beside her. She blew out a breath, trying to aim it so that the gust could somewhat cool her cheeks. Her trousseau was nothing like what his sisters had probably taken to their marriages. There was a trunk in her room at home, lovingly packed with a set of linens and a few handkerchiefs. She hadn’t had time in recent years to add to it, with all the work she’d done to help keep the farm going.

Perhaps if he knew more about her actual background instead of the one everyone assumed and Uncle Percy encouraged, he would stop pursuing her.

“It isn’t very large,” she said, her voice soft and quiet. “I’m sure it’s nothing like your sisters’.”

“Most of my sisters’ trousseaux were purchased, so I hardly think we can hold them up as the example for what every lady should have.” His step faltered for a moment, as if he’d been thinking of something else to the point that he forgot he was walking. “I’m perfectly capable of purchasing another one, if need be. I’ve no need for my future wife to come with an abundance of ready linens. If I did, I’d be courting the haberdasher’s daughter.”

That image brought a giggle and allowed her cheeks to cool somewhat.

They circled around to Frederica, who was still standing in front of the same statue. By now she’d probably learned how to carve it herself.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Her voice was overly bright, in part due to the enormous grin splitting her features. She was obviously happy with the way the day was going.

Isabella looked at the statue. It was rather marvelous. “I’m afraid we’ve seen all there is to see today.”

Frederica frowned and looked from Isabella to Griffith and back again. “We’re leaving?”

Yes should have been such an easy thing for Isabella to say, but she couldn’t. The word stuck in her throat like a too dry biscuit.

Beside her, Griffith rocked onto his toes and cleared his throat. “Unless you’d like to come see the orchids.”