A Wayward Woman: Diamonds, Deception and the Debutante / Fugitive Countess. Helen Dickson
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such grief?
Lance rode back to his regiment, eager for the battle to begin so that he could lose himself in the fray and forget what had just transpired—and the fact that he had a daughter.
Chapter One
‘Miss Belle, I simply do not know what to do with you. Your grandmother is waiting for you in the dining room, and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting. Now hurry. You look fine, you really do.’
Isabelle ‘Belle’ Ainsley spun round from the mirror, the bright green of her eyes flashing brilliantly as her temper rose. ‘For heaven’s sake, Daisy. I am nineteen years old and will not be hurried. And I will not look fine until I am satisfied with how I look.’ She twisted back to the mirror, scowling petulantly at her hair, which, as usual, refused to be confined. Daisy had arranged it in twists and curls about her head, but a curl as wayward as the girl herself had sprung free and no matter how she tried to tuck it away, it defiantly sprang back.
Daisy shook her head in amusement, unperturbed by her new mistress’s outburst of temper. ‘We both know that could take all night and that would never do. You certainly have your grandmother’s temper, but she’s older and if I were you I wouldn’t delay any longer or you’ll feel the rough edge of her tongue.’
Belle groaned with exasperation and then in a fit of pique she grabbed a pair of scissors and cut off the offending curl. In a swirl of satin and lace she flounced across the room and out of the door, not deigning to look at Daisy’s bemused face.
Belle’s descent of the grand staircase was not in the least ladylike and brought a combination of smiles, raised eyebrows and frowns of concern from the footmen who paused in their duties to watch her. She was certainly a wondrous sight to behold, was Lady Isabelle. In the tomb-like silence of the Dowager Countess of Harworth’s stately home, the arrival of her granddaughter from America ranked as an uproar and had not only the servants scratching their heads, but the countess as well. And now the countess was in high dudgeon over being kept waiting.
Entering the dining room, Belle steeled herself for the unpleasant scene that was bound to occur. Her grandmother rose stiffly from the chair where she was reclining, her hand gripping the gold knob of her cane. At seventy-two she was still a handsome woman with white hair, elegant, regal bearing, and the aloof, unshakeable confidence and poise that comes from living a thoroughly privileged life. Despite the stiff dignity and rigid self-control that characterised her every gesture, she had known her share of grief, having outlived her husband and two sons.
‘Good evening, Isabelle,’ she said, looking with disapproval over her granddaughter’s choice of dress, which had seen much wear and was not in the least the kind a young lady of breeding would wear in a respectable English drawing room. The sooner her dressmaker arrived to begin fitting her out for a new wardrobe the better. ‘You are inordinately tardy. What do you have to say for yourself?’
‘I’m so sorry, Grandmother. I did not mean to upset you. I simply could not decide which dress to wear. I chose this because it is such a pretty colour and looks well on me. You could have started dinner without me. You didn’t have to wait.’
The Dowager gave her an icy look. ‘In this house we dine together, Isabelle, and I do not like being kept waiting. How many times must I tell you that I demand punctuality at all times? Thank goodness we do not have guests. You have grieved cook, who has been trying unsuccessfully to keep our dinner warm and palatable.’
‘Then I shall make a point of apologising to cook,’ Belle said, unable to understand why her grandmother was making such a fuss about nothing. ‘I have no wish to put anyone out. I could quite easily fetch my own food from the kitchen.’
‘And that is another thing. You will not do work that is best left to the servants.’ She sighed, shaking her head wearily. ‘You have so much to learn I hardly know where to begin.’
‘But I like to be kept busy,’ Belle answered, smiling across at the agitated lady.
‘I shall see that you are—with matters concerning your future role in life, although I realised from the start how difficult and unyielding is your nature.’
‘Papa would doubtless have agreed with you. He ever despaired of me.’ Thinking of her father, dead these two months, a lump appeared in Belle’s throat and the lovely eyes were shadowed momentarily. ‘I miss him very much.’
‘As I do.’ The faded blue eyes never wavered, but there was a hoarseness in the countess’s voice that told Belle of her grandmother’s inner grief over the death of her second son. ‘It was his wish that you come to England, where you will be taught the finer points of being a lady—and I shall see that you do if I expire in the attempt.’
Belle swallowed down the lump in her throat. How difficult her life had suddenly become and how difficult the transition had been for her to leave her beloved Charleston and come to London. She missed it so much. Would she ever fit in here? she wondered. How she hated having to live by her grandmother’s strict rules when her father had allowed her to roam as free as a bird back home. The task of learning to be the lady her grandmother intended her to become was both daunting and seemingly impossible.
She looked at her grandmother, her green eyes wide and vulnerable. ‘I’m sure I must be a terrible disappointment to you, Grandmother, but I will try not to let you down. Despite what you think, I am only foolish, not stupid. I am ignorant of your ways, but I will learn.’
‘Then you will have to work very hard.’
The countess knew she had her work cut out with her granddaughter. Her manners were unrefined and she knew nothing about genteel behaviour. She was a wild child, as wild as they come. At first sight they had regarded each other, two fiercely indomitable wills clashing in silence. That her granddaughter was proud and strong and followed her own rules was obvious, but the countess would not concede defeat.
Belle crossed to the long table and waited until Gosforth, the butler—who had a habit of appearing and disappearing seemingly from nowhere—had seated her grandmother properly, before pulling out her own chair and seating herself, which earned her another condemning frown from the elderly lady.
The dowager looked at Gosforth. ‘We are ready to start, Gosforth, now my granddaughter has deigned to join me. I suppose we might as well see how cold the beef has grown.’
Belle sighed, folding her hands demurely in her lap. The evening was definitely off to a bad start. If only there was some distraction. Anything would be preferable to an evening at home alone with her grandmother, who would endeavour to teach her unsophisticated American grand daughter how young English ladies behaved. All Belle’s attempts to try to curb her restlessness and be demure were unsuccessful.
Already—and unbeknown to her grandmother—on her daily rides across Hampstead Heath, Belle had garnered the favours of several curious local young beaux—one with raffish good looks and much sought after, apparently. His name was Carlton Robinson. On occasion he had watched for her when she rode out, and when she had managed to shake off her accompanying groom—who despaired of trying to keep up with her since she could ride like the wind with the devil on her tail—he had joined her.
Carlton Robinson had never met anyone quite like this American girl and he had soon turned to putty under the assault of her big green eyes and stunning looks. Out of boredom it was all a game to Belle, and when she had captured him completely, the game had soured and she had sent the young man packing—blissfully unaware of the consequences of her liaison with this particular gentleman.
She sighed, taking a large, unladylike gulp of her wine, already wishing the evening would end so she could escape to her room—and to make matters worse the beef was overdone.
The following morning, standing at her bedroom window overlooking the gardens, the countess watched her granddaughter as she cantered up the drive—hatless and astride, her long legs gripping her mount, her hair blowing loose in the wind, and having left the groom somewhere on the Heath.
That very morning one