Of Twisted Fates (Kinsley Sisters Book 1) Read online

  “Only a fortnight left in the regular season, isn’t that right?” I asked Mr. Kearns. At only four and twenty, I had no notion of settling down anytime soon.

  A quick tip of his head acknowledged I’d gotten it right.

  I more fully pulled open the curtains on the side of the carriage facing the ominous set of Rooms and leaned back in my seat to watch the smattering of men and women darting from the carriage to inside, or from inside to their waiting carriages—all attempting to cower away from the rain. If there was one thing I knew to be true about London—one was nearly always avoiding becoming wet. And one was nearly always failing at the task.

  Wrapped in an ivory shawl, a young blonde woman stood on tip-toes, peering at the carriages. An older woman flustered next to her, gesturing back toward the shelter of the building. But the young woman’s attention was purposeful and intent at the street marked with far more carriages than any London street should be forced to hold at one time.

  She turned under the dim streetlight, and my eyes dropped down the fine silk of her dress. As I took in her features in the faint light—it was no surprise that her dance card would always be complete. Golden hair, smooth skin, full cheekbones and lips, and a jaw set in determination. I wished I could see her eyes, but she was too far away. She stepped into the street and began weaving her way around the carriages and large horses with a purpose I’d rarely seen on a younger woman. Even I would be concerned at the marks the large animals left behind, especially while navigating in the dark.

  In the briefest of moments, her gaze landed on my carriage. I nearly waved, or stepped out to assist, but her attention continued on as if still searching. Of course, she wouldn’t see me shrouded in the darkness.

  She’d be a strong person to be matched with. Perhaps she already was—though, no decent husband would ever leave a wife to wander the street, her mother trailing behind. My mother never left a building in London if the carriage wasn’t immediately outside the door. Too many horses. Too much risk. And no lady should be forced to walk when a carriage was in the vicinity. My mother’s sentiments.

  The mother, or whom I assumed to be her mother, chattered behind the pretty young woman. I pressed my ear closer to the slightly open window but couldn’t make out words between the chatter of voices and horse’s hooves. Where on earth was this young woman’s conveyance? I reached for the door of my stationary carriage, when Anna Somerville caught my eye. She clutched her dress in one hand, holding up the front of her skirts while a young man held an umbrella over her head. If I stepped out, there was a chance she would notice me, and confronting her wasn’t something I was prepared for.

  No, I wasn’t ready to face Anna again. Not yet.

  Prior to my going abroad, my entire world had turned on me, attempting to force me into a union with Elliot’s sister. Anna had been akin to a sister to me as well, and in all my years of friendship with her brother Elliot, I had been oblivious to her growing attachment.

  Blast, how I had been oblivious. I’m sure I would have conducted myself far more formally, and she’d never have gotten a notion of the two of us.

  At one time, I had laughed at men that had been ensnared, but, now, I fully understood how one might fall under such obligation. Despite my protests, Anna had persisted in writing letters to me for the first year of my travels. Then there was the event two years ago, even more disturbing, when I discovered my mother and Mrs. Somerville discussing the possibility of our union over tea. The conversation which prompted me to tell Father that as a gentleman, it was high time I take my tour of Europe.

  Those instances alone might have been possible to disregard, but then Elliot Somerville, upon his visit when I was in Italy, had brought up the possibility again. He had asked me such direct questions before my departure, ones impossible to answer without causing offense. We argued again while in Venice, an occurrence that had not happened since we had fought with stick swords as children. And honestly, to argue in Venice is to have strong feelings on a topic, indeed. In a city so grand and beautiful, one should never argue. Of course we’d been able to set aside our differences for fine nights out dancing with the local young women and playing cards with the local gentlemen.

  How wonderful it had been to be separated from the worries of home and obligation and expectation. And although Elliot and I had written many times since his coming home to England, I was certain there would always be added tension between us until Anna found a match.

  Pulling my eyes away from the woman for whom I only had brotherly affections, I scanned the crown for the young blonde woman again.

  My own carriage lurched forward, and I nearly asked Roberts to stop, when I remembered how I longed for a bed after so many hours on a ship and in carriages.

  “We’ll be home in no time, sir.” Roberts’ voice just carried through to the carriage. “I’ve found us a way through the masses.”

  Just as well. I wasn’t sure how I could have possibly been a service to someone I didn’t know. Even lending aid without an introduction could be fodder for rumors that could last far beyond the end of the season. And she had appeared more determined than distressed.

  “You alright, sir?” Kearns asked.

  I heaved a great, long sigh.

  “Never mind, sir. I did send word ahead that a bath should be drawn for you, sir.”

  “Thank you.” It would be the middle of the night, or the young hours of morning, by the time we’d arrive at the townhouse. I never did like putting the servants out in such a manner, but my body ached, and I’d been in the same clothes since...nearly since leaving Paris. Baths were a particular favorite of mine. I did not tend to require many luxuries, but a hot bath was one worth indulging in. When available, I bathed far more often than the usual gentleman, though not because I was a dandy, obsessed with perfect cleanliness. Rather, I found the practice, coupled with a good book and a fine drink, to surpass most every activity—excepting for riding and cards, of course.

  “Styles have changed since you’ve been in London,” Mr. Kearns said. “I’ll make sure you’re properly dressed before visiting your mother.”

  I glanced down at my worn clothes, my yellowed shirt. “Thank you.”

  At present, she was supposed to still be in the country, but once she knew I’d returned to London, she would waste no time in bringing herself to London to parade me through Almack’s to find me a match. Or, to continue to push me toward Miss Somerville, which would be sure to surface the tension between Elliot and myself.

  Kearns’s mouth pulled into a partial smile. “I’m sure she’ll have words for the both of us for not finding you proper attire in Paris.”

  “Paris, my good man, is for the ladies’ fashion. Or it used to be. I was told by a very beautiful young woman that they had all been coming to London.” I allowed my eyes to fall closed. “At any rate, I can hardly be expected to shop for clothes in a city so fond of cards. Besides, I’m far happier in my traveling clothes. Or the coats I wear in the country.”

  “I’m aware, sir,” he said with a wryness that would be impertinent if our relationship had been more traditional.

  Mother would be horrified. Father would say nothing, per usual. The dreariness of coming home was even drearier than the rainy night in London. Two years should have given me the respite that I required to press forward the way my mother wished me to, but now that I was faced with such a similar England as the one I’d left, my two years felt like a small bump in the roadway. Hardly enough to prevent travel forward—even if I still wasn’t sure of the direction I wished to go.

  Chapter 3

  Isabelle

  Mama, Mr. Braithewaite, and I sat in uncomfortable silence, broken up only by a tinkering teacup or a rehearsed and small-chatter question. Mama seated herself beside Mr. Braithewaite and across from me.

  Seeing them seated next to one another startled me. Mr. Braithewaite was closer to my mother’s age than mine.

  I took to what I did best and distracted m
yself. I often noticed a great many details about my surroundings, but particularly when nervous. I studied the marble mantle instead of the man standing to its side. I counted the figurines lined against the ledge instead of the figure that leaned against it.

  Since last count, my aunt had added a figurine.

  The mixture of glass and ceramic shapes blurred together when Mr. Braithewaite addressed me directly for the second time that morning. “Miss Kinsley, I had hoped to claim a dance last night, but I could not find you amidst the crowd.”

  Mama’s brows lifted in anticipation. “Yes, Isabelle wished to leave early. Young ladies and their headaches, you see. Besides, the rain seemed to call all the carriages to a halt outside Almack’s. Isabelle insisted on seeing me home before we were stopped up in the place until morning.”

  “I see,” he said, tapping a bony finger against his forehead.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. The rain and congested carriages—that much was true. The headache, however? Headaches were the excuses of ladies, and I had not been afflicted with one since childhood when I’d squinted to see the pages of a compelling book between flickers of candlelight.

  Mr. Braithewaite’s glance fixed on me and stayed there until I broke eye contact to inspect the walls and bookshelf once more. Mint green seemed an odd choice for Aunt Susan’s parlor walls. The color was far too bright, much cheerier than Aunt Susan had ever appeared. Yes, the color was all wrong. If the parlor were to match the owner of the house, and I was convinced it should, then the walls called for something drabber, a dark shade—perhaps one of the many shades of brown.

  Mr. Braithewaite’s stare hung heavy still, despite my efforts at distraction. The weight of such attention might have suffocated me. I did not wish to be evaluated by any man, least of all a man twice my age and with such strange manners.

  I wished—and prayed all night, most fervently—for the flood of rain to continue and prolong my doomed meeting, yet Mr. Braithewaite appeared in the entrance of the parlor the next day, precisely at the appointed time.

  The moment of reckoning had arrived without delay.

  Mama had already ordered half our trunks packed, and so I had settled on my only presentable dress, a persimmon afternoon dress. The muslin scratched against my neck almost as much as my nerves against my chest. Even with a wall of windows, the sitting room held as little light as a waning candle. Nightfall remained hours away, but the sun behaved like a stubborn, shy child, hiding behind the drapes of clouds and refusing to peek for even a moment. My wishes and prayers had resulted in overcast but not rain.

  “A perfect afternoon for company indoors,” Mr. Braithewaite said after a particularly long silence.

  I flinched. “Is there such a thing as a perfect day spent indoors?”

  Mama’s eyes rounded at my candid reply. “Mr. Braithewaite, my daughter does indeed enjoy the outdoors. I have heard your gardens are some of the loveliest in Herefordshire.”

  An enormous mirror bordered one side of the parlor, giving the room the illusion of being twice its size, and a quick glimpse revealed my milky, porcelain complexion. My face did not hold the slightest color, not a hint of life or warmth. I looked as I felt—a mere statue, unfeeling, hard as stone.

  Mama’s eyes narrowed. “I shall never forgive England for all its rain.”

  I forced myself to try at civility, for Mama’s sake. “It looks like rain, and I should not wish to be caught in it.”

  Mama nodded her approval, before giving me a conspicuous wink. “As I told you, Isabelle, Mr. Braithewaite has something he would like to speak to you about in private. I shall leave him to it.”

  She rose to her nimble feet, scurrying across toward the French doors with alarming speed. Her face disappeared behind the solid barrier far quicker than I had anticipated or wished.

  I clasped my hands together in a desperate attempt to maintain some sense of decorum.

  Mr. Braithewaite smoothed a hand over his suit coat, flattening nonexistent wrinkles with unmatched attention. “I appreciate your meeting with me, Miss Kinsley. I have considered this opportunity the highlight of my three and forty years.”

  Three and forty? I attempted to process the mere number; this man had lived more than twice my eighteen years. He did not seem twice as experienced, however, nor twice as smart nor twice as anything. Fear shook against my chest. What would I become beneath the shadow of such a man, such fixation?

  “Miss Kinsley?” He removed his gloves, lifting one bushy brow. Why was it that men aged so strangely, losing hair on their head and gaining more on their brows? “Have you nothing to say to such a declaration?”

  I cleared my throat. The greatest privilege of his life. I had not known his statement in need of a response. How unfortunate. My lips moved on my command, “An honor, I assure you.”

  My answer sufficed, for he moved past me, pacing Aunt Susan’s parlor with far too much liberty. He ran a hand over the bookshelf and inspected the pads of his fingers. He nodded to himself. “Your Aunt keeps house well. Does she manage the staff herself?”

  “Yes, with the help of a housekeeper and butler, sir.”

  He spun on his heels, slowly yet with a certain decisiveness. His eyes swept over my dress. “And you are not demanding? You do not require the newest silks from Paris nor the bobbles most young ladies drone on and on about?”

  Understanding began to dawn on me, and my mouth involuntarily pulled into a frown. “I do not require much of anything, Mr. Braithewaite. I am the daughter of a country gentleman, a physician. I have not the luxury of requiring anything, but I think you know that.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. Chauncey.”

  I squinted. “Pardon?”

  He lifted his hand with a flourish, spinning imaginary circles in the air. His chin lifted like a schoolmaster correcting a pupil. “My name, Miss Kinsley. You must call me Chauncey.”

  Must I? Mama must have assured him I would accept. That, or he believed his fortune enough of an assurance. I closed my eyes—he was not wrong on that account. I would accept him. Or at least, I knew accepting was my duty. Mama wished for nothing more.

  If only Juliet were here to calm my aching nerves. My sister’s letter, received just two weeks ago, had provided the only comfort of the morning. Juliet had a way of knowing just what I needed to hear. How I wished her words could free me from duty, from accepting this unbearable man.

  Mr. Braithewaite cleared his throat. “And, I must beg your permission to call you Isabelle, of course.”

  Of course. My gaze snapped to his emotionless expression. From his head to his toes, Chauncey Braithewaite’s appearance called to mind a well-oiled army regiment. His every limb served as a compliant servant. Not a single brown hair of his head dared to step out of line. His every feature spoke years of training, years of discipline, years of relentless effort to present the picture standing in front of me—a rather bland and boring portrait, actually.

  My heart clamored, nearly drowning out the noise of carriages outside Aunt Susan’s townhome. This man did not fool me, not one whit. There was a coldness behind his glance, a strategic glare that felt impossible to ignore or overlook.

  What purpose did he have with me? Did he think I was as malleable as everything else in his life; that I would be made to fit his particular preferences?

  Mr. Braithewaite cleared his throat for the second time, and his lips spread into an almost smile, just large enough for me to see a row of straight teeth. “You must allow me to speak freely.”

  I froze. That smile. I might endure so much of him, but that expression unnerved me more than anything, for it held the opposite of what it was meant to hold. Mr. Braithewaite’s smile held no joy, no pleasure—only forced expression.

  My pulse slowed to a disheartening limp. I inhaled carefully and folded my arms across my chest. I wanted to accept the proposal I knew would follow, or at least I wanted to want to, but every part of my being protested.

  “I
wish to prolong our acquaintance in a profound way.”

  “Oh?” I turned toward the window and counted the carriages that rolled by. One, two, three—the last of which was more wagon than carriage. “You know I am to return to Bridlington in four days?”

  He chuckled, an agonizing, pretentious timbre. “You are as quick-witted as you are handsome, Miss Kinsley.”

  His laughter continued, rolling like the wheels outside the window. How I longed for him to pass by me. My unfeeling was quickly melting away, and an ache, merely irritating at first, grew until it encompassed my entire being.

  “What is it you wish to say?” I asked, dropping my hands to the side. I could not prolong this moment. If I was to survive it, I needed to be done with it.

  His boots clicked against the floorboard until he faced me. His face hung a mere six inches from mine. He smiled again, but this time he looked like he actually enjoyed himself.

  Terror had a way of heightening one’s senses. I searched for distraction once more, noticing the smallest details, hearing the faintest sounds. The servants were already preparing dinner downstairs. The slightest tinkling of pots and plates from below seemed to reverberate in my head.

  I bit my lip. Patience had never been a strength of mine, and the realization that I could not escape this moment dawned on me. Mr. Braithewaite would be a part of my life forever more. I would wake to those features, be commanded by those features, perhaps even kissed by those very features.