CHAPTER FOUR
He certainly had not simply been bragging about the nature of his wealth. There was a dinner, and it was a grand dinner - and she was not disappointed.
In Lord Brighton's expansive dining hall, she sat on one end of the table, as her manners properly dictated; but with his incorrigible swagger, Ellery sauntered down from the other end and sat himself closely, intimately closely, right next to Isobel, pulling the chair up tight, grinning full of lewd confidence the entire time. Servants bombarded the pair with dish after dish - first came a whole roasted pig, and then two roasted game hens; then came a grand salad of greens, two entire loaves of fresh-baked bread, sides of Welsh rarebit; boiled and seasoned potatoes. Lord Brighton paraded in front of her more food than half of the village of Upton could eat in an entire week. Casually he plucked bits and pieces from each entree as they arrived at the table; he watched her with a grin as he chewed bread, gnawed on smoked meat.
Isobel ate with quiet, shy grace; she cut away bits of pork and chicken, tiny bite-sized chunks, and ensured her chewing made no noise. Proper and mannered, she kept her eyes away from the brazen lord. She could scarcely believe such a man could hold a title as prestigious as he did.
"You've no need to keep those ridiculous manners and lies up around me, love," Ellery Brighton scoffed, reclining in his chair and watching her closely. "It's all a sham, after all."
"A sham?" Isobel dared to question such curious wording. In truth all she wished was to negotiate her debts and escape as quick as she could, but her eyes met his emerald gaze and she took a deep breath, so confused yet so curious.
"You, looking for a husband. Me, looking for a wife. Eating in little bites. Nodding, bowing, curtsying; empty gestures. Like those pretenders at your father's funeral. Laughing one minute, crying their eyes out the next. That Duke of Thrushmore, perfect example. How long's he been trying to undo your garters, lovey?" Lord Brighton smirked. Isobel scoffed, lips wide in shocked embarrassment. He had a point about much, and his distaste for the Lord Miller intrigued her, but she couldn't think of expressing such sentiment aloud. It clashed with years of custom she'd been taught.
"I beg your pardon?" she squeaked in quiet outrage. The duke perked up, finishing his piece of bread.
"I'd wondered how far I could get before you'd start to put on the facade," he snorted. "You're telling me you've never thought about a man stripping down your gown, love? Never crossed your mind? A man pushing you onto a bed, telling you dirty words in your ear and spanking you until you couldn't breathe, it felt so good?" Isobel's cheeks grew brighter and brighter.
"H-how da... how dare you speak to me that way?" she managed, her voice wobbling in confused rage. She began to see quite well why her father had kept the Lord Brighton out of her reach for so long.
"Darlings like the Lady of Brittany, now that's a real woman. She knows what she likes," Lord Brighton sighed wistfully. "And she's not ashamed to admit it."
"She likes to drink wine and romp at funerals!" Isobel exclaimed with all the might her meek and innocent voice could muster, letting her fork and knife clatter onto her plate in exhausted shock. "Just as you do! I should have listened to Deaton, and to my father. I had such high hopes, putting aside my doubts for this," she exclaimed haughtily, unable to believe someone could speak so crudely to a woman of her stature. The more she protested, though, the more delight crept across the Lord Brighton's face.
"I should feel hurt, I suppose, but I do what I like, love," Ellery shrugged coyly. "What's the harm in that?"
"There's a lot of harm in it. For one, it causes scandal," Isobel argued, "scandal that my name need not suffer from."
"Sex is scandal, is it? Enjoying oneself, that's scandal, is it?" Lord Brighton challenged her. His attitude perturbed her training, but it poked at her instincts. She remembered the revelers at her father's funeral - the feeling of how empty all the emotion felt. The world tuned out, where she could feel nothing genuine about the gathered lot of them. While she resented so raucous a display as wine and laughter at her father's funeral, she could at least begin to fathom perhaps, Lord Brighton had been the only soul in the whole of the graveyard to express real emotion that day.
"Y-yes," she hesitated to answer. "Of course they cause scandals. They're scandalous things to do. It's... not acceptable for a woman, particularly a woman of my stature, to be so fruitlessly indulging in these sorts of things. It's not proper," Isobel explained.
"Listen to you, you don't even believe that yourself, do you? Somebody told you that, and you just accepted it," Lord Brighton derided her. "I saw the way you were at the funeral. I saw that stiff, the Duke of Thrushmore. Filthy Eugenius, that's what dad used to call him," Ellery laughed. "You pretend you could stand his company at that funeral, because society says you should, don't it?"
"I tolerate his company because it's what's expected of a woman in my position," she stammered, "and because he is a proper gentleman. He's beloved! And his poor, poor wife," she recalled the arguments the old chirping women used to make about the duke, repeating them verbatim to try to prove her case. "He's far more a proper man than someone like you, Lord Brighton."
"How d'you know? I could show you a man if you followed me up to my bedroom, love," Lord Brighton growled, leaning in close with a devious grin on his face.
"E-excuse me?!" proper and prim Isobel responded in outrage. He was gorgeous, but she couldn't bring herself to even believe he could dare say something so brash to her.
"I think you heard me fine, love. And I think you liked what you heard," he purred. His voice felt like hot honey in the air but the outrage flowed hot in Isobel's veins.
"I came here to eat a fine dinner with you, and to discuss the nature of my house's debt to you, not to be insulted and spoken to so crudely," Isobel fumed.
"Insulted? Love, I've been nothing but cordial," Ellery scoffed.
"Cordial?! You propositioned me!" Isobel exclaimed.
"Do you think it's an insult to be propositioned? If I proposition you, doesn't that mean I've taken quite fancy to you? How's that an insult?" Lord Brighton smugly commented. She couldn't fathom him. How dare he?! She had grown up a proper lady, schooled in the proper way to handle society. How had a man born in such privilege become such a lewd lout?
"It's quite inappropriate!" Isobel exclaimed, not getting to the heart of his claims.
"But that doesn't tell me whether you think it's insulting or not, to be propositioned. Do you want to know a little something?" Ellery asked smugly. "My father is the one who wanted us to wed. When your father turned him down, it caused a falling out between our families. I don't know what business came up between the two of them, but it affected me more than it did either of them. And now, I've become public enemy of the Duskwood estate," Lord Brighton scoffed. "And why? Because my father and I spoke our minds? Was your father too afraid of scandal, the same way you are? Because I'm free to live life as I see fit?"
"Free? You call this embarrassing way that you act, freedom?" Isobel couldn't believe him.
"You'd rather have old smelly, filthy Thrushmore on top of you instead, because it's what's expected of you? Is that freedom?" Lord Brighton needled at her.
"That's enough!" Isobel shouted, flustered. "I came here to discuss the matter of my debts, not the matter of my bedtime behavior!"
"It's amusing, you ought to mention both, m'lady," Lord Brighton smirked. "There's quite a simple way to solve both of those problems."
"The nature of my bedtime interactions are not problem!" Isobel shouted.
"But perhaps mine are. Because a fine woman like yourself isn't present in them," Ellery smirked that devil's smirk. She looked away, finding it harder and harder to deny him - not just how absolutely handsome he was, but she couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere deep underneath all of his words of idle rebellion, lay a core of some measure of truth.
"What exactly are you proposing, you scoundrel?" Isobel seethed, finally locking eyes with him; hers full of fury, and his full of that damned, roguish grace.
"I'll consider your debts forgiven. Duskwood Manor will be free to build its fortune once again, and the town of Upton free of its many, burdensome troubles," Lord Brighton declared. "But you'll have to pay a personal price, Lady Duskwood."
"What price do you expect to extract from me?" Isobel sneered.
"Your body, of course, dear Isobel," Lord Brighton spoke nonchalantly. Isobel quivered; full of vitriol and disbelief.
"What do you mean? My body," she breathes in a soft whimper.
"Your debts are forgiven if you give yourself to me," he responded. "Your body, in my bedroom. And not just once, no," he clarified, chewing on a piece of bread. "Come to my manor. Bring your things, stay with me. Be mine, lovely Lady Duskwood, and play my games. Learn to love that dark little part of you, screaming to get out," he smirked. "And your debts are forgiven. And, perhaps, you may even learn to love yourself a little bit."
"You... you want me to be your wife," Isobel scoffed.
"I never said marriage. I said your body will be mine," Lord Brighton clarified. "Marriage is an illusion, just like all of these other foolish, trite institutions we conjure up. Maybe I can teach you about the world, sweet miss Isobel."
"You're disgusting," Isobel shot up from the table, her facial features wrinkled in distaste. His attitude, his words, his confidence... all of it fed in to her, like some molten river of lust, and while she felt so repulsed by his brash and shameless nature, and so enticed by his curious promises, she knew this type of man. She knew the philanderers who roamed the streets of London. So shameless, and so improper. She had a reputation to live up to - and she had a father to make proud.
"Disgusting, or open-minded?" Ellery asked, watching her closely.
"Disgusting, and unbelievable," Isobel rebuffed him. "You'll have your money, you toad," she snarled, storming towards the dining hall door.
"Think on my offer, love. It may not be what you expect," Lord Brighton called after her, casually reclining in his dining chair. With furor in her step Isobel trudged down the stairs; sunset had given way to the first inklings of twilight. Isobel had no idea what she had stepped in to, and even as her instincts pull her back towards that dining room, her sense of propriety and honor keep her storming footsteps directed towards the door of Norbury Hall. Full of vigor, she thought on a new plan - one that didn't involve her body, her dignity, or so much scandal.
The Duke of Thrushmore... yes, certainly he could help. A true gentleman - admired across northern England, and an eligible bachelor. As she stood in the moonlight, her carriage slowly galloping along the roundabout, she pondered on him. She set aside her reservations, locking them away in a dark corner of her mind. Sure the old man could be bargained with; he'd no doubt be open to negotiating some manner of fair resolution to this mess.
"Mr. Trevingham," she nodded to the carriage driver as his rickety wooden vehicle arrived.
"M'lady. That was quite a quick dinner meeting," he mused.
"How far a ride is it to the Duke of Thrushmore's estate?" she queried, stepping in to the carriage.
"A fair day's drive the other direction, m'lady," he answered.
"Then we should get going soon, yes?" she commented.