Love for all Seasons Read online

  “Then I would like for you to leave my library.”

  Lockwell stood straight and his hand flew to his heart. “Goodness, such hostility to your guest. Truly, I only wish to find a book to occupy my time here at fair Danby Castle. Won’t you grant me just a moment or two to find one? Or perhaps…you could recommend something?”

  Damn and blast, the man seemed to know her weakness. Of course she wanted to recommend a book to him. Something to prove what a learned woman she was. Something that would register true shock in his blasted blue eyes to learn that a woman had actually read and enjoyed it.

  She gave him a tight smile. “Fine. I should be more than happy to recommend a book for you to read, and I think I know just the one.” Isabel walked to the far side of the library where the ladder was leaning against the shelves. She moved it along its track until it was just beside the tome she needed to retrieve from higher up. “This is one of my favorites. It’s rather thick, though, so I’m not sure you’ll be able to finish it before you leave…which I’m certain will be soon,” she added for good measure.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll stay longer than I’d planned in order to finish it.”

  Isabel resisted the urge to grab a book from the shelf and throw it at his head. “Ah, here it is!” she said, pulling the massive tome out from its resting place. “A Manifesto on Prehistoric Mammals and their Amphibious Counterparts.”

  She smiled satisfactorily when Lockwell’s brows shot up in surprise.

  “You actually enjoyed that book?” he asked.

  “Absolutely!” she cried. “A brilliant commentary on how our ancestors lived among the animals of the time. But I think my favorite part was the section on the prehistoric horny toad. Fascinating how the male was submissive to the females of the species.”

  “Until mating season, of course.”

  Isabel blinked down at Lockwell.

  “Oh, yes, you must remember that part!” he continued. “While the female ruled the roost, so to speak, the rest of the year, she actually sought domination when the time came to…you know…”

  Isabel was certain her face was red as a ripe tomato. Good heavens, he had read the blasted book already.

  “Do you possibly have anything else for me to read? Not that I didn’t enjoy the Manifesto, but I have already read it. Something I haven’t read would be most delightful.”

  Damien would have paid a handsome sum to have a painter there to capture the look on Lady Isabel’s face just then. Certainly she hadn’t expected for someone like him to have read such a tome, but he had. Long ago, when he’d thought he might become a veterinary surgeon. Of course, after he’d witnessed his first sheep birth at the age of seventeen, he had changed his mind. There was nothing wrong with falling back on the wealth of one’s father, anyhow.

  “Uh, yes…of course,” she stammered, clearly flustered by the revelation. “I’m sure I can find something, erm, let me just…” She reached for the next set of shelves, thinking to pull herself along the track while still on the ladder. But her hands faltered and before Damien could blink an eyelash, Lady Isabel teetered and tilted, scrambling and failing to catch herself.

  Damien rushed beneath the ladder just in time to catch her in his arms, preventing what could have been a detrimental fall.

  “It’s all right,” he said, his voice soft and cajoling. “I have you.”

  Lady Isabel, clearly flustered and shaken by the incident, took a deep breath and placed a shaking hand over her heart. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes closed. The word was not easily released from her tongue, though whether that had to do with her overset nerves or her feelings towards him, he could not tell.

  “You’re most welcome,” he said, meaning it. Now that she was in his arms, he had less of a desire to tease her and more of a desire to kiss her. Damn it.

  “You can put me down now. I think I’m all right.” Her voice was still a bit shaky, but her eyes were clear and her face determined.

  “Are you certain?” Damien couldn’t believe he was prolonging this moment, holding a proper lady in his arms. If someone were to walk in on them, he’d be shackled to her by the end of the week.

  She nodded, and he finally acquiesced. Once he’d set her on her feet, she took several large steps backwards and smoothed out her skirts.

  “Well,” she said, raising her chin, “since it seems you know your way around a library, I will leave you to it. Good afternoon, Mr. Lockwell.” She left the room and shut the door behind her.

  “Yes. A good afternoon indeed.”

  As Isabel made her way back to her room, she couldn’t help but replay the scene in the library over and over in her head. What the devil had happened? That blasted Lockwell had her all confused and out of sorts. Isabel was never confused or out of sorts. She always knew what she was about. It was positively ridiculous that she felt…

  Good heavens! What did she feel? She could not even say!

  She paused in the corridor to consider for a moment. Hmm. Queasy stomach. Tingly palms. Light head. Perhaps she was simply taking ill and none of her symptoms had anything to do with what had just happened in the library. It had simply been the catalyst that brought them to light.

  Feeling much better, she decided it was best she go and lie down for a bit before dinner. But as she neared her door, which was situated next to her sister’s door, it became obvious that Emma was in a fit of hysterics.

  Isabel rolled her eyes. “What now?” she wondered aloud as she stared heavenwards. Being the sensible one, the weight of their world often sat squarely upon her shoulders.

  She rapped twice on the door and then barged in, as she always did, without waiting for an answer. “Let me guess,” she said as she plopped onto the bed beside Emma. “He didn’t drop at your feet and beg you to marry him.”

  “Much worse.” Emma let out a groan that reminded Isabel of an elephant in heat. Not that she had ever witnessed an elephant in heat, but that’s what she imagined it must sound like.

  Isabel removed the pillow from over Emma’s head. “You do realize you’re being a baby.”

  “He’s betrothed, Izzy,” she said, her bottom lip pushed out like an infant. “He has been betrothed practically his whole life.”

  “Just blurted that out, did he?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  Well, that much was certainly true. Isabel did not understand at all. Emma barely knew the man. She had all her hopes and dreams pinned on this one person who had spent a few summers at the castle in his youth and played dolls with her when she was a child. Why should it matter that he was engaged? There were plenty of other eligible bachelors in the world, Mr. Lockwell notwithstanding. That bounder was most certainly no suitable match for any proper young lady, let alone her twin sister.

  Isabel snatched Emma’s pillow away.

  “Give me back my pillow,” Emma said, trying to grab it from Isabel, who held it above her head.

  “So you can mope the rest of the night?” She shook her head. “It’s nearly time for supper anyway.”

  “I can’t go to supper. Make an excuse for me.”

  “An excuse?”

  “Say I’ve come down with something. Say I’ve got a fever. Or better yet, just say I’ve died.”

  Oh, good Lord. What nonsense! “I will not say you’ve died. Either come down with me for dinner, or Mother will come for you herself. You know she will.”

  “You are the worst sister ever.”

  Isabel smiled. “No, I’m the worst hostess ever. That irritating Clara Mason and her brother are dining with us tonight. Please don’t make me entertain those people. They’re your friends.”

  The truth of the matter was that Isabel needed a buffer between Mr. Lockwell and herself. The Masons could hang, for all she cared, irritating as they were. But Mr. Lockwell had a way of disarming Isabel and she needed reinforcements, the same as if she were going into battle.

  Emma sighed and slumped dejectedly against the hea
dboard. “Fine. I will go to dinner.” She was silent for a moment, and then she sat up with a gasp. “I almost forgot. What was it that Mother wanted to speak to you about?”

  “Oh…the usual.” Isabel thought rather highly of herself most of the time. But somehow her mother’s words always managed to cow her, and her embarrassment kept her from elaborating on the subject.

  “Izzy…” Emma’s tone was soft as she scooted across the bed to lay a comforting hand on Isabel’s arm.

  “Don’t.” Isabel would cry if her sister showed her too much kindness, and she did not cry. “I’m fine. It wasn’t anything I haven’t heard a thousand times before. Besides, that wasn’t the worst part of my day.”

  Emma’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  Isabel took in a tight breath. “I have two words for you: Mister. Lockwell.”

  “Oh, dear. What happened?”

  “What happened is that he invaded my library.” Isabel stood from the bed, unable to sit still anymore. “And then he had the audacity to tease me. In my own library! In my own house!”

  “Well, technically it is Grandpapa’s house and Grandpapa’s library—”

  Isabel shut her sister up with a murderous look. If Isabel was to support Emma in her silly pursuit of the betrothed Lord Heathfield, then Emma would support Isabel in …whatever it was she was she was trying to do. What that was, she wasn’t quite sure at the moment.

  Blast, where was her head?

  “Was that the greatest of Mr. Lockwell’s offenses? The teasing?”

  When Isabel thought about it, she supposed that was the greatest of his offenses. In truth, he had been kind enough to stop her from falling off the ladder, for which she ought to have been grateful. But then he’d looked at her…that way. She couldn’t really describe what that way meant—no one had ever looked at her that way until today—but she did know that it completely unnerved her. And she absolutely despised that feeling. Never again did she want to feel so out of control as she did in that moment.

  “Yes,” she said at last, unwilling to share her confused thoughts. “I suppose it was.”

  “It’s not very well done of him to tease you when he hardly knows you. He sounds positively awful.”

  Isabel smiled. She and her sister may have had their differences, but Emma was always there for her when it mattered most. She approached the bed again and put her arms around her sister in a rare and spontaneous display of affection.

  “I love you, Emma,” she said.

  Emma returned her hug. “I love you too, Isabel.”

  Damien arrived at the door of Heath’s room and reached for the handle. Then he thought better of it. He didn’t care to find his friend indisposed, so he lifted his fist and knocked instead.

  “Yes?”

  Damien opened the door, grateful to find his friend fully clothed. “Ah, there you are,” he said as he crossed the threshold. “Is there a reason you’re hiding in your chambers?”

  “I wouldn’t call it hiding. Just recovering from our journey.”

  Damien shrugged. He didn’t really care what Heath was doing; he had business to attend to. “I thought you said Drew’s sisters were children.”

  Heath shrugged. “They were, the last I saw them.” He gestured to the ugly and overly feminine chair across from him. Damien eyed it warily. “Go on and sit down,” Heath said, his tone slightly exasperated as if he knew exactly what Damien was thinking.

  Damien finally sat, deciding a chair could not possibly have the ability to steal away his manhood.

  “You haven’t ever heard of a fellow called Balthasar Blommen, have you?”

  Damien couldn’t help but laugh. “Balthasar Blommen? What a ridiculous name. Who is he?”

  “I don’t think he exists, to be honest.”

  “Oh, well, I can see why you’re asking me about some non-existent fellow then.” Perhaps his sarcastic statement would put an end to this discussion so he could move on to more important topics. Like Lady Isabel.

  “It’s a long story.” Heath shifted in his chair, his brow furrowed in deep contemplation. “I think Lady Emma is playing some sort of a game with me.”

  “A game? I do love games.” It was true. He loved all games—card games, parlor games, and especially boudoir games, as he liked to call them.

  Heath ignored him. “Hmm. I just can’t figure out what it is.”

  Damn, but Heath was truly out of kilter over this. “You think she’s playing a game with you, but you don’t know what sort it is?” Damien chuckled. “The better question, my friend, is do you want to play it?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Oh, I think you are. After Marianne’s defection, what is stopping you?” There. That ought to put an end to things. “Now,” he began, eager to change the subject. “About Is—”

  “We never really suited.”

  Damn, damn, damn! Could the man think only of himself? “To say the very least,” Damien agreed, and then for good measure, added, “But Lady Emma…she looks at you as though you personally hung each star in the night sky.” He wasn’t lying, but he did think it was positively ridiculous how the chit regarded his friend. She wouldn’t think so highly of him if she saw what he did for “recreation.”

  “I was kind to her when she was a child, that’s all.”

  “Perhaps.” Damien shrugged. “But she’s not a child anymore.”

  “I think she wrote the note that brought us here and signed Drew’s name to it.”

  “Do you?” Perhaps Heath should work for the War Department—it only took him three hours to come to the most obvious conclusion.

  “First, she was the only one, it seems, who was expecting my arrival. And she was surprised Drew had invited you, which she would be if she knew she hadn’t invited you. Do you see?”

  Damien shrugged, choosing to hold his silence as Heath worked out the great mystery.

  “Secondly,” Heath continued, “she refers to Danby as ‘Grandpapa’. And finally, she said something to her father about me being alone for Christmas, almost exactly what was written in that letter from Drew.”

  Good God, would this never end? “So she wanted you here. Went to great lengths even.” Damien smirked. “You should be flattered.”

  “And then she invented Balthasar Blommen out of thin air. I saw the whole idea take root in her mind. She created some fictional fiancé while sitting next to me on that divan. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “To make you jealous? Ladies do that sort of thing.”

  “No.” Heath shook his head. “There was no need for that. She already had my attention.”

  “You’re certain he’s fictional?”

  Heath’s brows furrowed again. “Balthasar Blommen from Flanders, of whom she begged me not to mention to anyone lest her deception be discovered.”

  Damien chuckled. “I see how well you’ve done that.”

  “You don’t count,” Heath snapped. “She said her father disapproves of the man, but only because I had her cornered with my questions and she had to say something.”

  “If I had a daughter who was determined to marry some Flemish Balthasar Blommen, I’d disapprove of the match, too. Terrible name.” Damien shuddered at the disgustingness.

  “He’s not real.” Heath scowled. He was obviously getting irritated with Damien, thank the good Lord above.

  “So you say,” he said, and then found his opening. “Do you want me to ask Lady Isabel to be certain?”

  Finally, the reaction he’d been waiting for. Heath gaped at him. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with the lady.”

  Damien raised his brows to indicate that he had a secret, but still kept on topic. “I’m offering to help you. Do you want my assistance or not?”

  “No,” Heath said with a shake of his head. “I can’t imagine those girls keep secrets from each other, and then Emma would know that I know.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s clear as mud.”

  �
��Never mind,” Heath grumbled. “Just forget I said anything.”

  “As you wish. If you decide you want my help after all, you only have to say the word.”

  There was silence as Damien waited for his friend to return to the topic of Lady Isabel. But he never did, the selfish bastard. Here he had been the epitome of a good friend, listening to Heath drone on about Lady Emma, and now he was simply going to hie off and ignore him.

  Well, that was fine. He didn’t want to talk about Lady Isabel anyhow. What a ridiculous little chit she was, trying to prove herself with large books—or was she trying to make a fool of him?

  It didn’t matter either way, because she was the one who ended up with cake upon her face. Never mind that it was a blasted lovely face.

  Damien shook his head. What the devil was the matter with him? It was one thing to tease and flirt with a proper girl…it was quite another to think of her as lovely. Those were the kinds of thoughts that got one leg-shackled. Rest assured he would not make that same mistake twice.

  Isabel cursed her luck as she strolled, arm in arm with Lockwell, from the drawing room to the dining room. Her blasted mother had decided before Isabel had even arrived that she and Lockwell would suit well. Had she gone completely mad? Did she not see what a complete wastrel the man was? Never mind he had read the Manifesto—he’d probably had a gun to his head when he did. Isabel couldn’t imagine he would have read it of his own accord. No, someone who wore his hair mussed and his cravat so carelessly tied did not have an interest in books. He had an interest in women who would see to the mussing of the aforementioned hair and cravat.

  Even tonight, for dinner with the duke, Lockwell looked as though he’d only just rolled from the haystack—minus the hay, of course.

  “So, did you help your sister with the letter or did she do it of her own accord.”

  Isabel’s breath knocked clean out of her. How did he know? “Wha-what are you talking about?”

  Lockwell smiled down at her, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. It was a smile full of mischief, blast him. “I think it’s terribly sweet that you want to protect your sister. But truly, there’s no point.”