Fallen (12 page)

Izzy stopped dancing immediately. Stepping away from the marquess's embrace, she stood alone.

"What did you say?"

Rotham looked about at the interested audience they were attracting. "Miss Temple, you are causing a scene. If you please, we must continue our waltz."

"I
please
to have you repeat your remarks. If you were so concerned about scenes, you would not have indulged in such a one at Lord Cherrymore's." Her eyes widened in sudden realization. "You staged that deliberately, didn't you?"

A gleam of something like respect flashed across his eyes.

"You are a clever child. It was not I who placed him in your bed. I merely seized the opportunity to wed him to someone plain and common. He would have spent the rest of his days in respectable pursuits, trying to live down his inferior wife and his scandalous marriage.

"For twenty years I have tried to train the useless boy for the title. I have tried to contain his excesses and his willful disobedience, but all the beatings and discipline haven't been able to curb his flagrant defiance. I had the matter well in hand this time, however." The man was nearly spitting by this time, eyes slitted in rage.

"But you, the perfect little nobody, transform yourself into a flamboyant hussy with a heritage to make any debutante proud. How typical of Eppingham. I find him a commoner, he finds the granddaughter of an earl. Tell me, Miss Temple, do you have any other surprises up your sleeve, hmm? Perhaps you are really an actress from the stage? Or a Red Indian? What will you be tomorrow?"

"I will be a lady, and a friend to Julian. You will be the same angry, unloving man, alone with your schemes and your pride for company. And until you find a scrap of affection in your heart for your single remaining son, you will always be alone!

"I pity you, but I do not feel for you, not a jot, for you have made your own lonely den. So abide in it as long as you wish, my lord!"

Having delivered the last in a catlike hiss, hands fisted on her hips, Izzy turned from the sputtering marquess and strode from the floor. The enraptured onlookers parted before her like the Red Sea.

Without warning, she was swept into someone's strong arms and whirled into the remaining strains of the waltz. Clutching dizzily at broad shoulders, she recognized that it was Julian.

Julian spinning her about, smiling down at her with a great gleaming grin, his golden eyes sparkling proudly at her. Nearly limp with relief that he was not angry with her outrageous display, she melted into his arms, closing her own eyes at the dizzying speed of their waltz.

"Mouse, indeed, Miss Temple. May I congratulate you on topping the latest scandal twice over?" A laughing Lord Stretton joined them as they left the floor.

"What was the latest scandal, my lord?" Breathless and more than a little mortified by her public loss of temper, Izzy was eager for a change of subject. It was not to be.

"Why, Izzy, don't you recall? An unconscious lord was found in the bed of a screaming girl." Julian only smirked at her as she swatted at him in irritation.

"Miss Temple? May I have the honor of this dance?" A blushing young man in the colorful attire of a dandy appeared eagerly by her elbow.

Julian glowered at him.

"Izzy, has this man been properly introduced to you?" he said.

"Oh, Julian. I hardly think it matters at this point, but yes, this is Lord Ballimore, who was introduced by one of Lord Stretton's sisters. Yes, my lord, I would very much like to dance."

Three hours later, Izzy had decided that balls were somehow both boring and fascinating. The conversations were boring, oh, so boring. But the twisted web of intrigue and manipulation was fascinating. If one watched closely, it seemed as if all of Shakespeare's works were being enacted on the dance floor.

She had also discovered that she loved to dance. Absolutely adored it. She danced every dance for the first hours, even the endless old-fashioned quadrille. She had waltzed with Julian thrice and Eric twice, and exchanged one fawning youth for another in an endless series of turns about the floor.

Now, she was simply very weary. She thought it might be rather nice to plunk her bottom down on the step and watch the festivities through the balustrade as she had as a child. She absently traced her fingers over the beautifully wrought railing of the Waverlys' ostentatious stair. Figures of wood sprites chased birds and butterflies, and twining vines flowered with a thousand unlikely blooms.

The entire event had gone surprisingly well, even the confrontation with Julian's father, considering that the man had no concept of compassion and the emotional availability of a stone.

Oh, she could not lie to herself. That had been an unmitigated disaster. A slow flush of embarrassment rose in her cheeks as she remembered her display. Then, the recollection of his reddened face when she had laughed at him made her bite her lip in amusement.

Julian thought Izzy looked quite delightfully exhausted. As she obviously had no idea that ladies did not normally dance every dance, she had seen no reason to stop until forced to by weariness.

Since she was extremely fit from the constant physical demands of keeping up Marchwell Manor, she had worn out quite a few partners on the country dances.

Ladies, young and old, had watched enviously as she had soared effortlessly through dance after dance after dance. Constrained by tightly laced corsets and their own sedentary habits, they had ample opportunity to gossip about her.

It would dismay Izzy to find that her reputation for deliciously scandalous behavior had grown, not diminished, in the past hours. She was now the acclaimed toast of the season, a guest highly sought by every hostess. Invitations would be pouring in after tonight's triumph. And he seriously doubted she cared.

Izzy may not give a fig for her own sudden popularity, but Julian felt a rush of warmth when he remembered her defense of him to his father. It hadn't been wise, since the marquess would surely make her miserable now that she had set herself against him, but he could not help feeling a deep gratification at her loyalty.

"She said there was just something about you," Eric had told him earlier. "I rather think there is something about her, as well."

Julian couldn't deny it. She truly was turning out to be quite a find. All that unspoiled humor and ardor, and now in such a pretty little package, as well. She would, indeed, make a satisfactory wife.

He slowly climbed the stairs to where she stood pensively watching him. Holding out his hand for hers, he asked quietly, "Are you ready to go, Isadorable?"

Placing her hand in his, Izzy simply nodded wearily and allowed him to lead her out.

Hildegard paced furiously, followed by her tiny maid, Betty, who was attempting to brush out her mistress's thin graying locks. The girl inadvertently snagged the hair, causing Hildegard to whirl in a rage and, snatching the hairbrush, give the maid a resounding smack across the face with the ivory handle. Betty ran sobbing from the bedroom, hands over her bleeding nose.

Hildegard sneered contemptuously. Puling wench. Get the help in an uproar again. Well, they'd all be out soon enough. Damn that presumptuous lordling! Informing her that he had "taken the burden from her shoulders" and selected a staff from one of the costliest servant registries in London. All at her expense, of course.

And what was she to say? "No, we haven't the funds?" That would make the gossip rounds quickly enough. All these years, Izzy had been the perfect solution.

Izzy. If Hildegard let herself think too long on Izzy, she would break more than some drudge's nose. Looking up at the brat coming down the stairs tonight had been like seeing Maria again after all these years. Watching Izzy captivate all of society at the ball had been like reliving her own hellish girlhood.

She ground her teeth, her rage reaching a screaming pitch. A china shepherdess flew against the wall, shattering quite satisfactorily.

Bloody, damn Maria! It had always been Maria. Every dance, every party, Maria had lured them all to her, while mule-faced Hildy had stood by the wall, night after night, year after year.

And now she had the bitch's mirror image under her very roof, their social future hanging on her marriage to that wretched boy, that lord that could have been Millie's, had she had the nerve to trap him as Izzy had done.

No, Millie was a useless twit. Too virtuous to allow herself to be compromised, even for her mother's sake. The sniveling little chit wanted an "honorable" match. As if she could get a man with nothing to offer but that pinched-up face of hers. Looked the very image of her useless father.

Idiots! She was surrounded by idiots!

Except for Izzy. The clever little bitch had landed a handsome fiancé, a new wardrobe, and now she was going to get out of earning her keep. At Hildegard's expense, by God!

The thought of the price of tonight's carriage crossed Hildegard's mind, and another piece of china hit the wall.

«
^
»

"
Like the whitest cloud is the brow of Miss Temple, the glow of her hear
not
hidden by wimple. Eyes of deepest green like the forest, my heart is pierced by the flash of her dimple
—"

When the earnest, perspiring young man paused and shot a dubious look at her cheek, Izzy obligingly flashed the dimple in question and tried not to sigh with boredom.

Young Mr. Silloughby had obviously worked hard on his latest effort to immortalize her from head to toe, so Izzy remained apparently attentive, although she knew her decidedly
not
-green eyes were glazing over and her head tended to nod. The fellow droned on a bit more, until one of his compatriots interrupted to bring Izzy a fresh glass of lemonade.

"Oh, my thanks, Mister, ah, Billings." Thinking quickly, Izzy pulled the name from her memory. Trying not to seem too pleased by the cessation of rhyme, Izzy hid behind her glass and took a sip of the lukewarm drink. Why, she found herself wondering, was it so common for young men to practice their courting of women whom were known to be taken? These two young men were perfect examples. And unfortunately, misters Silloughby and Billings were only two of the legions of dandies who showered her with their ardent admiration. It would turn her head, were she not aware that, like any new rage she was merely the brief focus of anyone striving for the first glass of fashion. Not a one was truly in the market for a wife. They were far too young, both in their love of freedom and the years before they came into their prospects.

They seemed to consider themselves knights of old, and Izzy their fair queen, at least for this week. To Izzy, they were merely boys playing at courtly love, competing in a more civilized venue, trading jests instead of jousts, verbal cuts instead of those of the sword.

Izzy dearly wished they would develop a new target, though. It was a bit wearying, politely listening to endless reams of verse about her shining hair and eyes of deepest black, or sky-blue, or anything but the common grey that they truly were.

Finally, supper was announced and Julian appeared to escort her to table. Trying very hard, she managed not to yawn. The late-night affairs of society's elite did not sit well with someone used to arising at dawn. She still awoke too early and spent days much as she had before the Cherrymores' house party.

The new servants Julian had hired for Marchwell Manor were still full of questions and need for instruction. Although she now did little actual labor, her days were filled with managing one servant crisis after another; Hildegard always seemed absent.

Then, nearly every evening, Izzy rushed up to her room to prepare for an evening with Julian. It was fortunate that Betty had a knack for elegant but rapidly conceived hairstyles, otherwise Izzy would never be on time.

It had become one of her great joys to see the glint of admiration in Julian's eyes when he arrived to escort her. One approving look, one affectionate half-smile from him meant more than any amount of manufactured devotion from society's dandies.

Wrapping her hand around Julian's solid arm, she looked up at him warmly. Masquerading as his fiancée might be occasionally tedious, but when she was with him, she did not mind it at all. His friendship was a gift, and she would have done a great deal more for him in return, had he asked.

She wondered how she would ever endure leaving him behind.

Julian nodded to a few acquaintances as they entered the dining room, but stopped to speak to no one. He wanted Izzy to sit before she fell down.

She had seemed indefatigable, yet after only the first fortnight of the season, slight crescents of shadow showed beneath her eyes, and even as he adjusted her chair, she stifled a yawn. He could scarcely blame her.

"That's it," he muttered. "I shall remedy this situation before we leave this house." He stood and glared down at her. "You are still working all day, aren't you?"

Smiling up at him ruefully, Izzy did not try to deny it. "I cannot sit idle, Julian. You have no idea of the chaos reigning at the manor."

"Let your cousin run the place. It's her house and her problem. I shall arrange for you to come here to Mayfair for the rest of the season. I am sure Lady Greenleigh would be glad to extend an invitation."

"She already has," Izzy admitted. "I simply decided not to impose."

"Well, you will. Tell your maid to pack for a month."

Izzy visibly fought another yawn. She gave him a rueful smile.

"Very well. I will stay here for one week."

Julian scowled. "Three."

"One."

"Two!" he commanded, but tightened his lips against a smile.

Izzy leaned close and mocked him.

"One!"

When he laughed out loud, the other guests turned questioning gazes their way. Smiling into one another's eyes, Julian and Izzy noticed them not at all.

The time at Lady Greenleigh's went by very quickly, as Izzy enjoyed it immensely. She found Lord Stretton's sisters warm and wonderful, like family of her own. She thought this as she watched one by one, the six weary beauties straggle into the sunlit breakfast room. Well, it had been sunlit when Izzy had first come down. She looked up from the book she had brought with her to her solo meal and had continued to read in a chair by the tall windows. Now the clock read nearly noon and the sun shone from high overhead. Her cheerful greetings were answered with monosyllables and yawns.