A Most Improper Proposal. Molly Ann Wishlade
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closing the door behind him noiselessly as the heavy oak eased into place.
‘How does this fine morning find you, Aunt?’ Lord Crawford enquired.
‘I am well, James, thank you’ ‒ she pressed her hands together in her lap ‒ ‘and all the better for seeing you.’
‘I am delighted to hear that. And, ladies, how are you this morning?’
Isabella glanced away quickly as his eyes captured hers and she felt a familiar, irritating flush rising up her neck then flaring in her cheeks. Trying to calm herself, she resumed eye contact and replied, ‘I am well, thank you, Lord Crawford.’ She even forced a small smile but her lips trembled awkwardly and she bit them to still their betrayal.
But then, gazing into his eyes, she swayed a little, suddenly unsteady on her feet. It was evident that the gentleman was amused, but was it because he had noted the reaction he’d caused in her, or was it something else?
Shame crawled in her belly as the idea dawned. Had someone told him about her embarrassing past? Was he now privy to the details that so amused London society? Was he now laughing at her as they all did? Oh the shame… And the disappointment to think that he might now see her as the rest of the beau monde did.
She sagged inwardly, relieved, when he finally released her eyes and turned his attention to the girl at her side.
‘And what about you, Miss Pembrey?’
The girl smiled broadly at Lord Crawford and Isabella felt a twinge of envy at her confidence. Though it was not fitting to display the easy confidence of a country maid, Henrietta did so and did so endearingly.
‘I am very well indeed, Lord Crawford. Thank you for asking.’
She bobbed a curtsey to finish and Isabella noted the broadening of Lord Crawford’s smile. So Henrietta pleased him, did she? With her youthful prettiness and girlish ways, it was no wonder. At sixteen, Henrietta was not yet knowledgeable of the ways of men – be they lords, naval captains or reverends – and her innocence was attractive in itself. How she hoped that Henrietta would be spared the experiences that she had endured. Oh to recapture that sense of innocence and to be able to enjoy such gentle flirtations with a gentleman.
Isabella pushed her own feelings aside. If by some chance James Crawford took a liking to Henrietta then she would be glad for the girl. With her less than perfect origins, it would be difficult for the sweet girl to find a match. However, if a man as comely and well to do as Lady Watson’s nephew should think to marry Henrietta, then Isabella would be nothing but happy for her. She wanted nothing more than to see her sweet friend happy with a good future stretching out before her.
The door opened and the butler entered, followed by the footman who carried a silver serving tray which he placed upon a small table near the fireplace.
Isabella watched Lord Crawford as the slow process of placing cups and saucers upon the table ensued. Now that she could observe him without being the target of those penetrating eyes, she realised that he seemed tense and nervous, as if he would throw the whole table of tea things to the wall if they did not hurry their preparations. Lady Watson must also have been aware of this for she interrupted.
‘Thank you, Henry. I will serve the tea. You may go.’
The tall butler inclined his head then ushered the footman out of the room. As the door closed, Henry’s low voice could be heard in the hallway, reprimanding the footman for being too slow in his serving of the tea.
Lady Watson dropped cubes of sugar into the bone china cups, followed by slices of lemon, then she poured in the strong beverage. Isabella noticed that she had to stop twice because her hands were shaking.
‘Girls’ ‒ Lady Watson gestured to the cups ‒ ‘Why don’t you take yours to the window seat?’
‘Yes, Lady Watson,’ Isabella replied, passing a cup to Henrietta then taking one for herself. Before walking away, she turned to the elderly lady and examined her for a brief moment.
‘I am fine, Isabella,’ the lady reassured her. ‘Enjoy your tea.’
Isabella inclined her head then turned to walk to the window. As she moved away, she glanced at Lord Crawford, who was now staring, unblinking, into the fire and she wished that she could see into his mind and share his thoughts.
* * * *
‘James,’ his aunt’s voice and a small, frail hand on top of his pulled him back to the present.
He placed his empty tea cup on the small side table then focused on Lady Watson.
‘Sorry, Aunt Lydia, I was miles away.’
‘I could see that, James.’
The lady sat in silence, watching him and waiting for him to lead the conversation. He took a deep breath and she moved forwards, perching upon the edge of her seat, preparing to listen, but he merely exhaled and slouched back in his chair.
This was so difficult. He loved the elderly lady sat opposite him but she had hurt him and he needed to explain why.
He cleared his throat then glanced around the room, his eyes drawn again to Miss Adams who was like an angel in her white cambric morning dress with its full long sleeves and high neck ruff.
‘Does the presence of the two young ladies bother you?’ His aunt read his thoughts but he shook his head. It did not help that his aunt’s companions were present, especially the intriguing Miss Adams, but he realised that they were there for his aunt’s benefit.
‘Do you want them to leave, James?’
‘No, no, Aunt Lydia. They are welcome to stay.’ They would be unable to hear what he had to say from their vantage point by the window.
‘As long as you are sure, dear.’ Lady Watson’s eyes searched his face.
‘I am.’
But he felt sure of nothing at this moment in time. Just last evening, Lady Castlereagh had told him things about Miss Adams that would make any honourable gentleman turn his nose up at her beauty and recoil from her presence. Surely none other than a seasoned rake would want to become more closely acquainted with her.
So why then had he found it so difficult to put her from his mind? It was a palpable struggle to marry Lady Castlereagh’s history of the girl with what he had seen of her so far. She had seemed to be reserved, demure and aloof – not the wanton hussy of last evening’s tale. Yet at the same time there was something about her that aroused his masculine cravings and made him desire some time alone with her. Was that what had attracted other men to her? Was she physically irresistible?
And would his aunt really employ a lady with a questionable background and face being the scandal of London? He knew that Lady Watson was unconventional but he couldn’t believe that she would deliberately fuel the fires of the gossips of the ton; show blatant disregard for her family name.
Unless, mayhap, she were trying to make amends for a previous error.
He turned back to Lady Watson.
‘Aunt Lydia…’ he leant forwards, resting his elbows upon his knees. ‘Where to begin?’
The wise old eyes watched him, owl-like with their patience and experience.
‘At the beginning,’ he answered himself. ‘Yes, at the beginning.’
He swallowed against the lump that seemed to be lodged in his throat and spread out his long fingers over his knees, gazing at them as if hoping to find the story there.
‘Six years ago, Aunt Lydia, I seemed to have everything that a man could desire. Although I had lost my parents some time ago, and missed them deeply at times, I was a grown man with a beautiful young wife and a large estate. I lived comfortably, as you know, and I was happy. At least, I told myself that I was happy.’
He found himself yearning to look over in the direction of the window seat again.