“Perhaps I will take a bit more.” Isabel extended her plate, and the footman served her another helping. “Thank you, Jamison.”
As Bel ate, Toby studied his intended bride for any signs of embarrassment. He found none. Amazing, how easily she’d fallen into the pattern of their family life. Most ladies would have been mortified to have their health or eating habits questioned in company, but Isabel never appeared to mind Lady Aldridge’s presumptive mothering or Reginald’s brash humor. She seemed only eager to become a part of the family madness, teasing and all. She even knew the footmen by name.
No, he noted no flush of humiliation or displeasure. But his mother was right, Isabel did look a trifle pale. Heart-stoppingly beautiful, as always. But pale.
“Perhaps you’re overtired,” he said, taking the excuse to stroke the underside of her wrist. Her skin was so soft there. “Between the wedding preparations and your weekly visits to the dispensary, and then those meetings with Augusta’s Society of the Ridiculously Long Name
…”
“It’s not so long,” his older sister protested. “It’s the Society for Obviating the Necessity of Climbing Boys.”
“Come now, that’s not even all of it.” Reginald forked a small potato into his mouth. “Toby’s right, it goes on and on. It’s a wonder you accomplish any business at those meetings. Once the name has been read aloud for the record, it must be time to adjourn. What is it, the Society for Obviating the Necessity of Climbing Boys, By Encouraging a New Method of Sweeping Chimneys and for Improving the Condition of Children, and so on and so on ad infinitum …”
Augusta gave her husband a sharp look. “I refuse to be lectured on verbosity by England’s most long-winded barrister.”
“What ever the name,” Toby interjected, “perhaps Isabel ought to leave off attending the meetings and the dispensary, at least until after the wedding and honeymoon.”
“Oh, no.” Isabel’s fork clattered to her plate. “I couldn’t possibly. Those poor children, Toby
… you don’t understand.”
“I do understand. I understand that you are a selfless, generous angel who would put the most pitiful wretch’s health above her own. But if you don’t look after yourself, I shall be forced to look after you. I will insist.”
“Forced? Insist?” Augusta gave him an amused glance. “That’s a bit barbaric, don’t you think?”
“Precisely what is barbaric about expressing concern for my future wife’s health?” Toby set down his wineglass, a bit more forcefully than he’d intended.
Everyone’s eyes fell to the table. In unison, each person lifted a glass and drank. Slowly.
“Toby is only teasing,” Isabel said. “He knows how important my charitable causes are to me.”
Yes, Toby sighed. He knew. Those damnable causes were everything to her. For weeks now, Isabel had declined any typical amusement, finding pleasure only in visiting orphans and collecting charitable subscriptions. Even the wedding preparations were a task she suffered through, he suspected. She probably thought of lepers while she looked at samples of lace.
“How are things in Surrey, Mother?” he asked, desperate to change the subject.
“Well, as always.” Lady Aldridge motioned for the footmen to clear the table. “Except for one minor annoyance.”
Reginald chortled. “Need we guess the annoyance’s name?”
Toby asked, “What’s Mr. Yorke done this time?”
“Oh, it’s the plans for the irrigation canal. He agreed to the placement months ago. Now that the papers have been drawn up he refuses to sign, the impossible man. I know he does these things just to spite me. Toby, you’ll have to speak with him.”
“Certainly I will.”
“He’s always liked you. Though I never understood why.”
With a self-effacing smile, Toby laid down his fork. “This, from my own mother.”
“You know I don’t mean it that way, dear,” she said. “It’s just—that man doesn’t like anyone.”
Archibald Yorke owned the lands bordering their estate in Surrey. He was a fixture in the neighborhood, known for his dry wit and shrewd bargains, and as the other primary landholder in the borough, he’d taken some pride in his position as the Aldridge family’s archnemesis. Because Toby had assumed the baronetcy in his infancy, for many years, the task of dealing with Mr. Yorke had fallen to his mother. Now their scuffling had simply become a matter of habit, a sport neither party seemed inclined to give up. Despite the history of rancor between the two—or perhaps because of it—Toby had always liked the man immensely. In his youth, he’d been drawn to the prickly old bachelor. They’d spent many an afternoon in Yorke’s stables or by the fishing stream. In keeping with his life goal of thwarting Lady Aldridge, Yorke had provided young Toby with sanctuary and a sympathetic ear anytime he fled a punishment or simply chafed on his mother’s leading strings.
“Who’s Mr. Yorke?” Isabel asked.
“A friend,” Toby replied.
At the same instant, Augusta answered, “Mother’s enemy.”
“He’s just a neighbor,” their mother said. “And he’s not worth further discussion. Let us speak of pleasanter things.”
“Oh, Augusta,” Isabel said, brightening. As ever, charity absorbed her complete attention. “I have an idea for the Society pamphlets. My sister-in-law, Soph—”
Her voice trailed off. Forks teetered midair.
“Sophia,” his mother completed smoothly. “We know Sophia, dear.”“Yes, of course you do,” Isabel murmured. She cast a guilty look at Toby. He forced a smile and a wave of nonchalance. “Go on then, darling,” he said, although he hoped she wouldn’t.
“Sophia has agreed to sketch a portrait of little Peter Jeffers, to illustrate the pamphlet. We must put a human face to the climbing boys’ misery, to stir the hearts of potential donors. Augusta, don’t you agree?”
“I think it’s a splendid idea,” Augusta answered. “Can your sister provide a sample before the next meeting?”
And on and on it went through dessert—which, of course, Isabel did not eat. Toby stabbed at his portion of quince tart. It wasn’t that he begrudged Isabel her good deeds—he just wished she’d warm up to him a bit. After nearly six weeks, he was still clinging to this betrothal by the skin of his teeth and an arm-long list of absurd promises.
By his own agreement with Gray, he had to keep Isabel smiling. And none of his usual methods—compliments, jests, fawning attention, little gifts—earned even the slightest twitch of her lips. No, there was nothing to make Isabel Grayson smile like an impetuous act of selfdenial: Yes, of course I’ll raise funds for the dispensary’s new building.
Though I’d just as soon pay for the thing myself.
Certainly, I’ll canvass the gentlemen’s club for subscriptions.
The day they terminate my membership.
Absolutely, I’ll let grimy gutter waifs ride on my shoulders.
Can’t I just give them a pony instead?
No, I didn’t notice the children had fleas.
Scratch, scratch, scratch …
Charity was all well and good, but Isabel’s version of it was extreme. If he made it to their wedding before completely impoverishing or debasing himself, it would be a small miracle. Of course, Toby would promise Isabel damn near anything now. Once they were safely married, he could negotiate different terms. But it bewildered him that even after weeks, none of his romantic overtures swayed her in the least. By what cruel twist of fate had he proposed to the one woman in creation who remained immune to all his practiced charm?
Well, if he was honest with himself, Toby had to admit there were apparently two women in creation who were immune to his charms. And the first had already jilted him. Isabel said, “I long for the day we can disband the Society altogether.”
Now that remark piqued Toby’s attention. There was a sentiment he could wholeheartedly endorse.
“Yes,” Augusta agreed. “If only Parliament would pass meaningful restrictions on child labor, none of these efforts would be necessary.”
“Oh dear,” Reginald interrupted. “I smell a new charitable venture in the offing. The Society for Obviating the Necessity of the Society for the Obviating the Necessity of Climbing Boys …”
Isabel gave a soft laugh. “No, no. There is no need for another Society. Once Toby assumes his place in Parliament, he will take up that cause.”
“Toby,” Reginald echoed. “In Parliament.”
“Yes, of course.”
With an unladylike burst of laughter, Augusta turned to him. “Has Mr. Yorke heard of this?
Toby, she can’t be serious.”
“Augusta.” Toby inhaled slowly through his nose. “Isabel is always serious.”
Of course, the notion of him serving in Parliament was patently absurd, but he couldn’t very well admit it. Not when Isabel looked at him with expectation in those dark, solemn eyes. Promise her anything. Keep her happy. Make her smile.
“And on Isabel’s counsel,” he said, “I’ve been giving the matter serious consideration.”
Isabel didn’t smile. She beamed, and Toby viewed the expression with profound gratitude and just a trace of alarm. God, what wouldn’t he promise her, just to earn her approval? It was a good thing less than a month remained before a clergyman declared them man and wife, or she’d have him renouncing all his worldly belongings and taking orders himself.
“Toby in Parliament,” Lady Aldridge said in a tone of false innocence. “What an idea.”
He gave her a warning look over his wineglass. She’d been hinting at him to challenge Mr. Yorke’s seat in Commons for an age now, and he’d been loudly denouncing the idea for an age and a half. Indulging his mother’s petty vendetta was an even worse reason to seek office than appeasing his naïve bride.
Now his mother fixed him with the most unnerving gaze, coupled with a serene smile. Just like a mother, to take an unnatural delight in watching her offspring squirm.
“Mother,” he said in a conciliatory croon, “you’ve ten grandchildren now—three of them tearing apart the nursery as we speak. Might I suggest you sharpen that look on one of them?”
“Isabel,” she finally said, still directing her smile at Toby, “have we told you how delighted we are to welcome you to the family?”
“What the devil—”
Josiah Grayson bit off the chain of curses uncoiling in his mind. Such language wasn’t meant for a child’s ears. But then, neither were children meant to be climbing atop their fathers’ desks and emptying inkwells onto stacks of crucial correspondence.
Joss lunged for his son, scooping the boy off the polished cherrywood desktop now marred with inky fingerprints. He attempted to pry Jacob’s chubby fingers from the inkwell, holding the wriggling urchin at arm’s length so as not to spoil his own new topcoat. Damn Gray. This was all his fault for leaving London so soon. He’d gone to Southampton to survey progress on two ships under construction, taking Sophia with him. Two days he’d been gone, and already everything had gone to hell. Wouldn’t the arrogant devil just love to know it, too? First, Jacob’s nursemaid quitting her post, then problems with these insurance contracts, and to top it all off, Bel taken ill…
“Jacob, give that to Papa. I said, give it to Papa. Jacob, for the love of—”
Suddenly, the boy let go the inkwell. Bereft of resistance, Joss’s arm snapped back at the elbow. Ink splattered him from cravat to trousers.
“Blast, bugger, damn, and hell.” There was no preventing the improper vocabulary lesson Jacob received then. Mara would have been furious with him for using that language in front of their son.