On Gentle Wings (8 page)

Isobel’s fists clenched behind her back. “A strap?”

“Aye, I suppose they all three need a good stroppin’, eh? With
all that red hair, the devil’s bound to need drivin’ out now and again.”

Outrage rushed through Isobel’s veins like molten lead.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, almost choking now in her effort to be civil.
“I imagine you’d like to get an early start back to Gillingham.”

“Why, I brought all me baggage along. I understood the
position was already mine,” Mrs. Penton said aggressively.

“Then you were mistaken. This was merely an interview, my
good woman, and I fear I’ve decided you’re not suitable.” If Mrs. Penton was
shocked at her effrontery, Isobel was no less stunned. The queen herself couldn’t
have sounded any haughtier. She felt a heady sense of triumph when the outraged
woman spat a low curse, spun on her mud-caked heel, and left.

When the widow was gone, Isobel collapsed on the parlor
divan, a hand to her mouth, torn between gasps of fear and relieved laughter.
What on earth was wrong with her? Dear heavens, what would Kit do when he
learned of her behavior? He had gone to town to buy the girls’ new mount and
doubtless expected Mrs. Penton to be comfortably ensconced in her new role by
the time he returned.

She’d never been a good liar. She always stammered, turned
bright red, and ended up worse off than she began. But she’d already lied at
Summerleigh
by omitting to tell Kit who she really was. As she’d just lied without a qualm
to Mrs. Penton, because the woman represented a threat to the most important
things in her life, Isobel realized. Why, she’d just uncovered a jewel of sorts
in herself. She could be strong when warranted. Not entirely fearless, perhaps,
but steadfast enough to hold her ground. But how would she fare against Kit’s
certain wrath?

“
M
rs. Penton
was unsuitable?”

“Quite, I’m afraid.” Isobel would later marvel that she
didn’t so much as tremble when she uttered the tiny white lie.

“Well. What now?” Kit wondered aloud. Isobel was relieved he
appeared more perturbed than angry and demanded no further details. Obviously
preoccupied with some other matter, he seemed distracted as he stroked the
white blaze on the nose of the copper-colored mare he’d purchased for his
daughters. Though the animal was by no means a behemoth, especially compared to
Kit’s stallion, Isobel maintained a respectful distance, observing man and
beast from the doorway of the stable.

“D’you think they’ll like her?” Kit asked, absently
scratching the mare behind the ears. The animal made soft, whickering sounds,
as if experiencing some sort of ecstasy under the mere touch of his hand.
Isobel could understand why. She’d felt the same when he’d held her hand at the
masque, branding her flesh with his lips.

“They’ll be thrilled, I’m sure. They’ve missed riding so,”
she said quickly when Kit glanced at her, awaiting a reply. “I hope you’ll have
time to ride with them today after their lessons.”

The girls were presently with their French tutor and had yet
to learn of their father’s gift. Isobel hoped the pleasant surprise would
distract them from the notion of her leaving. For only one week remained. One
week until she stood at a Cornish altar and became the bride of another man.

“She’s a mystery to me,” Kit said suddenly.

“Who?” Isobel prayed he hadn’t heard the shock in her voice.

“The mare. I think I’ll call her ‘
Madame Mysterie
.’”

“Oh. The horse.” Her guilty conscience was further tweaked
when she saw how affectionately Kit regarded the gorgeous animal. Was he
remembering another mystery, and how it felt to gaze into limpid, “blue-green”
eyes? He’d obviously deceived himself to the extent Isobel herself had,
imagining his “Madame Mysterie” to be a beautiful Frenchwoman with a long list
of nameless assignations in her past, and a mischievous nature that didn’t
demand respect.

Men didn’t desire dull, plain women like Isobel Weeks; they
craved the exciting, the exotic, the recklessly-behaved ladies, like the
courtesans who probably prowled the corridors at Nonsuch. Kit’s mystery woman
didn’t exist. But she was obviously very much on his mind, and with a pang of
emotion Isobel realized she was jealous he’d named a horse for another woman,
even if that woman were a secret extension of herself.

“The girls won’t be free for a few hours yet. Why don’t you
join me instead?” Kit invited her. When she almost said yes, just to be with
him, Isobel realized she was teetering on the brink of utter recklessness. Even
her terror of horses faded when faced with the temptation of being with the man
she loved.

Faded, but didn’t quite disappear. She licked her lips
nervously, glancing at the placid Mystery. “I don’t think — ” she began.

“Papa!” interrupted a joyful shriek behind her; and for
once, the interruption of three auburn-headed cubs was remarkably opportune.
Isobel almost sagged with relief when the three girls rushed by her into the
stables, exclaiming with delight over their new possession.

“Oh, Papa, is she all our very own?” Anne cried.

“Aye, but you know you have to share with your sisters. Her
name is
Madame Mysterie
. We’ll call her Mystery for short.”

The two eldest girls exchanged surprised looks, and Anne
glanced meaningfully at Isobel. They alone were privy to the secret of her
costume and the masque at
Summerleigh
, and Isobel froze, praying their
youthful exuberance wouldn’t betray her now.

But Anne only said, “Madame Rouissard dismissed us early
since it’s such a lovely day. Can we ride instead, Papa?”

Kit grinned, reaching out to tousle Anne’s strawberry-blonde
locks. “All right, poppet. Let’s all dash back to the house and change.”

“You go on, Papa,” Anne said, stroking Mystery’s velvety
nose. “I want to pet her a little bit more.”

“Me, too,” Grace said, elbowing her way past her sister to
reach up on tiptoe and pat the horse’s neck.

“Don’t dally, girls. Y’know we have to visit your Uncle
George this eve,” Kit said, bending to lift his youngest in his arms. Maggie
looped her chubby hands around his neck, snuggling against his cheek so that
their fiery curls meshed. Isobel gazed at the tender vision of father and
daughter and felt a sudden lump in her throat.

“Come along, Mistress Maggie,” Kit sang out in playful tones
as he carried the giggling toddler from the stables. Isobel turned to let him
pass, closing her eyes when their bodies briefly and accidentally brushed in
intimate fashion. When he had gone, Isobel opened her eyes and found the other
two girls staring accusingly at her.

“
Madame Mysterie
?’” Anne demanded. “That cannot be
coincidence. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I wanted to, darling. But it seemed somehow improper to
mention that I’d met your father at the masque.”
Or that he kissed my hand
and arranged an assignation …

The girls looked at one another, obviously frustrated. Grace
burst out, “But that’s what we
wanted
to happen! We already knew Papa
was going to be there, and we wanted you two to meet, and fall in love!”

“Fall in … ” Isobel almost sobbed the words. She couldn’t
explain the flurry of emotion choking her, nor the sudden sting of tears in her
eyes. “So that’s why you insisted I go, and clad so shamelessly, too,” she
added with a note of reproach she could not quite carry off.

“We just
knew
if Papa saw you in something besides
those ragged old frocks you wear, he’d have to love you like we do,” Grace said
innocently.

“And make you our Mama,” Anne added.

“So you wouldn’t ever go away.”

“Oh, my darlings,” Isobel whispered, moving swiftly to
gather them both into her arms, heedless of the fact that it meant the dreaded
beast was less than five feet away now.

When the equine version of Madame Mysterie suddenly nosed
her skirts, searching for the sort of tasty tidbits Kit always carried in his
pockets, Isobel started and had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. Then
Grace suggested something even more outrageous than the masque.

“I know,” the six-year-old cried. “You can go riding with
Papa instead!”

“And pretend to sprain your ankle when you’re dismounting so
Papa has to help you,” Anne added, her green eyes sparkling. She was the most
romantically inclined of the three girls, and Isobel often despaired over her
dreamy nature. For, as she knew from personal experience, nothing ever came of
dreams, wishful or otherwise.

“Girls, I will certainly not participate in such a
ridiculous charade,” Isobel said, failing to come across half as stern or
censorious as she’d hoped. “The masque was bad enough. Entirely inappropriate.”

“But fun,” Grace exclaimed. “Wasn’t it fun, Isobel? He
promised you’d have fun.”

“He?”

“Y’know, the lord.”

Oh, no, now they were back to that again. Isobel rubbed her
aching brow, wondering how she’d ever gotten herself into such a coil in the
first place.

Anne cuffed her little sister. “See, dolt, now you’ve upset
her even more. Oh, Isobel, please don’t be angry. Or afraid. Horses are
wonderful. Riding is lovely! And Papa will be so happy if you learn, especially
since you’re so scared.”

“If you love us …” Grace began, pleading.

Isobel sighed, turning to regard the half-dozing Mystery.
Gingerly, she extended a hand toward the mare.

“Go on,” Anne urged her. “She won’t bite.”

The animal lipped her fingers in search of treats, and
despite her fear, Isobel chuckled at the ticklish sensations. Then she sobered.

“Oh, girls, I don’t know if I can.”

“Can what?” inquired another, deeper voice behind them.
Isobel whirled and guiltily regarded their father. Kit had changed into black
trousers and boots and wore a simple, loose white shirt with an open collar.
His longish hair was hastily clubbed back and a few stray, auburn curls
softened the masculine lines of his jaw. He appeared incredibly, achingly
handsome to her hungry eyes.

“Can ride Mystery first,” Anne said quickly. “But we want
her to, don’t we, Gracie? Isobel should have the very first ride because she’s
going away soon.”

Grace nodded emphatically.

Kit looked surprised but pleased. “That’s sweet of you,
poppets. How about it, Isobel?”

She hesitated, then nodded shyly, praying that the secret
love she nursed for him wasn’t as obvious as her terror of horses.

~*~

“
H
ere we go,”
Kit said, hoisting Isobel into the saddle. He winked reassuringly at her when
she fumbled to recall the proper position and then clung with obvious fear to
the mare’s silky mane.

Fortunately, Mystery possessed a less flighty nature than
her namesake, and stood placidly munching grass while Isobel accustomed herself
to the saddle again. She shifted in place, trying not to wrinkle the precise
folds of her new riding clothes.

It was absurd, of course, for Kit to have insisted upon yet
another outfit for her trousseau, but she had to admit the crimson-colored
split skirt and matching jacket made her look as good as anything else she
possessed did. Why, she could almost be said to look pretty today.

Not for the first time, Isobel wished she were brave enough
to follow in Kit’s wake when he thundered across hill and dale, as she’d seen
him do every day this week. Wished she could share in his love of horses and life.

But she stiffened in instinctual terror when Mystery
shifted, stretching her neck to snatch at a bunch of Michaelmas daisies. Good
heavens, she was never going to get the hang of this! Days had passed, and she
had yet to progress to a simple trot. Kit was incredibly patient with her,
leading the mare back and forth on foot, all the while keeping a firm control
on the reins.

“Today you’re going to try it yourself,” he said. He reached
up and handed her the reins, and Isobel reluctantly accepted them.

“Here. Hold them like this,” he added, guiding her hands
into the proper position, adjusting her fingers as he saw fit. “That way, you
have better control of the animal and she’ll take her cues from you.”

Did anyone truly ever have control of such a great beast?
Isobel wondered. She sat rigidly still, hardly daring to breathe. As his hands
roamed over hers, she wondered if Kit might recognize the shape of her hand,
the feel of her flesh, as “Madame Mysterie’s.” Part of her hoped he would.
After all, how could a man forget the subtle nuances of a woman he supposedly
adored? Unless that woman was merely another in a long line of jades who amused
him for but a moment …

He patted his palm down upon the back of her hand in a
reassuring gesture. “You’ll do fine. I’m going to saddle Aurelius now. Just sit
quietly and wait for me here.”

As if she would do otherwise! Isobel felt she daren’t
breathe for fear Mystery might bolt. Alter Kit vanished into the stables, her
gaze sought out two little redheads peering out an upper window from the house.
She longed to raise her fist and rail at the grinning urchins. Only sheer
terror prevented her from doing so.

Inside the house, Anne and Grace exulted over the success of
their plan.

“Papa told me at breakfast he’s going to show her the river
today,” Anne said. “He said they might even try a canter, if Isobel’s brave
enough. If only she could manage to sprain her ankle,” she concluded wistfully,
convinced that only such a tragedy would revive their father’s instinctively chivalrous
nature.

Grace considered her sister’s words. Anne was right. If Isobel
had a little accident, their Papa would be forced to rescue her, maybe even
carry her back to
Ambergate
! And with Isobel right in his arms, how
could he deny she was perfect for them all? How could he ever let her leave?