Chapter 25

He liked the way she looked in his house.

Griffith led Isabella and Miss St. Claire on a basic tour of the house while they made their way to the conservatory. Never could he remember finding so much to say about the surroundings that had simply been home to him for many years. The house hadn’t held a significant entertainment since his mother remarried, so seeing a woman strolling through the passages was a bit jarring.

It was also wonderful.

If he couldn’t get her to say yes, this memory would haunt him for a long time to come.

Her simply being in his home was an indication that she was changing her mind, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t have come, wouldn’t have been that cruel.

The conservatory was bursting with color, having one of its best years in recent memory. A little bit of a helping hand from God? Griffith wasn’t about to turn it down if it was.

“Look!” Isabella surged across the room, ladylike decorum all but forgotten. “You have chrysanthemums.”

“Do I?” Griffith strolled over to look over her shoulder at the flower. Its thin spiky petals were rather beautiful. “I’ve never taken the time to learn what they are.”

She narrowed her eyes into accusatory blue slits. “Then how do you know the orchids are good this year?”

Griffith leaned in like he was telling a secret, inhaling deep of the scent of lemongrass that clung to her skin. “Because the gardener told me.”

Accusations faded into humor. “Then you don’t actually know where the orchids are in this room?”

“I can guess, but you are probably much more qualified to find them than I am.”

“Brave of you to admit it.”

He’d admit almost anything if it allowed him to keep looking into her eyes this way. “I’ve no problem admitting my shortcomings. They are so few, after all.”

She laughed, as he’d hoped she would, and took his hand, hauling him around the conservatory until she was once more gasping over a collection of delicately curling blooms in a variety of colors.

Miss St. Claire trailed behind them. Occasionally she grazed a plant with a finger. Mostly she smiled at them, her silence a better encouragement to Griffith than anything she could have said.

“That’s not possible.” Isabella squatted down to stare at a plant in the long, low bed. Moss covered the expanse of dirt, and a purple conical flower folded out of the tall, elegant stem.

Griffith sat on his heels beside her. “Now, that I do know about. It’s a lady’s slipper.”

“But . . . how? I’ve never seen one. Not the real thing.”

“He transplanted it. Saw it growing in the wild through the fence at Green Park and requested that I get special permission for him to move it before it was trampled underfoot. Now here it is.”

“It’s beautiful. And so very interesting. Did you know that the moss feeds the seed and then the adult flower feeds the moss?” She looked at him over her shoulder with eyes widened by the thrill of knowledge.

Griffith was captivated.

Eventually there were no more flowers to ooh and aah over. Griffith didn’t want her to leave now that she was in his home, where he felt she belonged. “May I give you tea? We’ve done quite a bit of walking this afternoon.”

Miss St. Claire gripped her hands together, excitement pouring off of her as she nearly trembled. “Can we have it in the white drawing room?”

Griffith winced. The best thing about his sisters marrying and moving out of the house had been that he no longer had to use that drawing room. Every surface from the chairs to the wall to the floor and the fireplace was white with gold accents.

Well, it had been until recently.

He ordered tea be brought to the drawing room and led the ladies in that direction. As they entered the famous room, Isabella began to laugh, and Miss St. Claire actually pouted, though with her mouth edges curled up a bit as if she were trying not to laugh.

In the center of the room was a large, sturdy peacock-colored sofa. When Griffith had ordered it in an effort to make some sort of ridiculous point about the house being his home, he hadn’t realized how badly something could clash with white. He didn’t know who he was making the point to, but changing the room that had been so much his mother’s and sisters’ had felt good. It had made the room a bit less terrifying now that he had a piece of furniture he could sit on without worrying it would break. But it also made it more than a bit uglier, with the bright sofa somehow making the rest of the room seem unstable.

Isabella perched on the sofa with a delighted laugh, and Miss St. Claire sat next to her. They had taken the only seat in the room built for his frame, leaving only the delicate chairs for him to sit in. He didn’t mind, though. It was worth it to watch Isabella enjoy his home.

Tea arrived and Isabella offered to pour.

His hand shook as he accepted a cup from her. He’d drunk thousands of cups of tea poured from this same pot, but this one felt significant. She’d poured this one. Assuming the role of lady of the house.

He drank, filling his mouth with tea so he didn’t declare himself right then and there.

It was going to happen soon, though. She was comfortable with him, laughing and joking. Talking about a myriad of things. Whatever her troubles, she had to know he would help her solve them. Once she had the assurance that he wanted to marry her, she would understand that and be willing.

He hoped.

“Will you walk with me tomorrow?” He set his cup aside before he could drop it.

“Walk where?”

“Green Park. Have you been?”

She shook her head and then scrunched her nose before turning to her cousin. “That’s not the one with the strange pagoda in it, is it?”

Miss St. Claire shook her head. “No, that was Kew Gardens. We attended that outdoor musicale there.”

“Oh yes.” Isabella turned back to Griffith with a smile. “I’ve never been to Green Park. What do they have?”

“Maple trees, though none as fascinating as the ones in Berkeley Square. Lime trees. A lot of green things.” Griffith grinned at his own mild joke.

Isabella grinned back. “I suppose I could take the afternoon to see another park.”

“Lord Vernham is making hints that he intends to propose soon.” Uncle Percy adjusted his waistcoat and sent Isabella an accusatory stare.

What did he expect her to do about it? A proposal was the customary conclusion to a bout of courting. She was pulling them in, convincing them the way to her side was through Uncle Percy. What else did Uncle Percy want her to do?

She stared at him, leaving her fingers resting silently on the piano keys in front of her. He would get to the point eventually, even if she never said anything. Probably faster. Ever since the house party, she’d found herself less inclined to talk to her uncle, less inclined to do his bidding, less inclined to even stay in his home.

Especially now that he was ruining her lovely, lovely day. She had actually enjoyed herself today. She had smiled, she had laughed, she had blossomed like the lady slipper under the obvious affection in Griffith’s eyes and voice. And now, when she was tired and wanted only to bask in her memories, her uncle was ruining it.

If she had a place to go, she’d run there.

“You’ll have to discourage him. There’s a good bit of discussion around the Apothecary Act, but it hasn’t even been officially read in the House of Lords. I can’t have the men proposing until the vote is imminent.”

“And how would you have me do that?” Did he really think she was that manipulative? So capable of leading men around by the nose that she could manage the expectations of individual men at will? If she could do that, why was Griffith still popping up in every corner of her life? Why couldn’t she discourage him? Though, after today, did she really want to?

He humphed. “How should I know? Just do a little less of whatever it is that got him to this point to begin with.”

Gladly. “Very well. I’ll inform my maid that I shall be staying in tonight.”

Red tinged his cheeks as he blustered. “What? No! You have to go. Lord Kennard is going to be there, and he’s seated on the cross benches with the rest of the uncommitted lords. I need his vote.”

Isabella pushed her way to her feet, her fingers slamming out a discordant chord as she rose. “Perhaps you should try convincing them of the merit of the act, then, instead of luring them in with false promises of my affections and I don’t even want to know what else.”

“Watch your tongue, young lady.”

“Or you’ll do what? Send me home? Please do! I’ll be happy to not even pack. I’ll change and be on the next mail coach to Northumberland.” Isabella was so tired of it all. So tired of the lies, the hurt, the guilt. She should never have come here, never have done this. She’d known God wouldn’t be happy, and now she wasn’t happy either. Even Uncle Percy wasn’t happy, and if this situation left him in the doldrums, then what point was there in continuing?

“You will see this through,” he growled through gritted teeth, deep grooves marring the edges of his pointy chin.

She crossed her arms and forced herself to keep staring into Uncle Percy’s beady brown eyes. Her insides trembled, but she squeezed everything together until her body stayed firm. Uncle Percy could not see any weakness. “I will not.”

“And what will you do? Marry the Duke of Riverton?” A look of smug satisfaction crossed his face. “The man gave his first attentions to Frederica—though I’ve no idea why—so he obviously isn’t inclined to marry a woman such as yourself. You could, of course, turn his head if you chose. That’s why we’ve made our arrangement, after all.”

He leaned in until his nose was inches from hers and she could smell the sour whisky on his breath. “But what do you think will happen when he finds out you are not only the daughter of a farmer but you actually work the farm and didn’t even have a maid until I got you one? What will happen when he discovers the Scottish blood running through your veins?”

What would happen? She had to believe he was interested in what he knew of the real her, not the stories Uncle Percy had told about her supposedly influential and wealthy family, about her dowry and her land. She had to believe that, had to believe that there was one man in all of London who saw the real her and liked her. “He won’t care.”

“Has he offered to marry you?”

Oh, how she wanted to lie, but that was what had gotten her here in the first place. “No.”

“No offer of marriage. No public attentions. Doesn’t sound like a man who intends to be there forever.”

This conversation had to end now, before she gave in to the urge to cry in front of Uncle Percy. “What do you want?”

“I want you to keep our original deal. Keep them guessing, keep them wanting, but keep them far enough away that no one proposes.”

“And then you’ll pay off the debts and take care of my brothers’ schooling?”

“Of course.” Uncle Percy’s grin crawled across his face.

“And if I don’t?”

He frowned, his face scrunching into a menacing dagger. “I’ll finish ruining your father once and for all. Theft should do the trick. Just one of those necklaces you’re so careless with, found in his possession, could be enough to get him transported.”

The floor seemed to sink from beneath Isabella’s feet. She’d been so close to walking out the door, secure in the knowledge that if her family was together they could make something work. But this new threat was too much to risk. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” His cruel smile returned. “But I’m also willing to throw a little more in to sweeten the deal and show you what a generous man I am.”

“Oh?” What could he possibly think would make up for threatening her father?

“I’ll throw in Frederica.”

What did he mean? Isabella narrowed her gaze and waited.

“You finish the job, and Frederica can marry her officer. Free and clear and with my blessing.”