Sophie Dash - To Wed A Rebel

Ruth was in the gardens.

He had her now.

And so Isaac left Lottie, without apology, standing on the ballroom floor with a lost expression and the dance incomplete.

“Do excuse me,” were the only words he offered, moving on without a backwards glance. She did not call out; he knew she wouldn’t. To do so would be to risk looking even more foolish, mouth gaping, pride wounded, hopes crushed and surrounded by twirling, happy couples. Isaac had a job to do.

The gardens were littered with small groups who tipped wine down their necks and basked in the cooler air. Night had washed the colour from the leaves, leaving greys and blacks behind. No distant figure sat in solitude. No wanderer marked the grounds. The girl was nowhere to be found. As much as he hated to admit that Griswell was right, Isaac was running short on time. He must have overlooked her, walked straight past her, somewhere. He told himself he’d find her on his way back towards the punch bowl, because another drink never hurt, but his march was halted. The doors to the glasshouse, the orangery, were wide open.

Slapping footfalls came from within, along with high laughter – a child’s.

He followed it.

In amongst the narrow trees and sweeping plants, Ruth’s ill-coloured gown brushed along the floor, a whispering noise, as she slowly approached a shadowed hiding place. Isaac could not see what she chased, not until her purposely slowed movements gave the three-year-old, her playmate, enough time to dart out and weave through the pots. Their little game was filled with high voices and scary growls, clawed hands and delighted screams.

“Not so fast,” called Ruth, as she reached out and easily captured the little boy, swinging him in a wide arc. Bare feet, mucky from the flagstones, kicked in the air until they found their way back to solid ground.

“Again!”

“One more time and then we really have to…” Ruth saw Isaac’s silhouette in the doorway and she straightened up, alert.

All those clever, practised lines he had hoped to offer vanished. It made no sense. He was good at this; he was a professional. And yet there was nothing. No suave remarks, no quick wit. It had to be the wine. It had knocked him off kilter – that was all.

“Forgive me,” he finally said, feeling foolish, striding forwards. “I did not mean to frighten you – or the little one.”

“I’m not scared,” called the boy, receiving a gentle shush from Ruth. “I’m not, I swear.”

“Glad to hear it,” answered Isaac, analysing the situation, his target’s expression, and hoping that his head would provide any answer as to how to proceed. His mind was uncooperative, packed tight with cotton. All words left him, as though he’d never had them at all. Isaac fumbled, “We met yesterday.”

“I know.”

“I – your friend, she was worried about you – out here, by yourself.”

Ruth blinked heavily. “Lottie sent you?”

“You seem surprised.”

“I don’t have any other friends and Lottie won’t remember I exist until the ball draws to a close.”

“Ah,” said Isaac, swallowing thickly. “You don’t like talking much, do you?”

“Not – not when there’s nothing to say.”

“Then do you prefer dancing?” It was another attempt to rouse the brief flicker he’d seen by the canal bank, the more open, less wary and awkward woman.

“As much as anyone does.”

“That’s not the answer I was after.”

“Oh,” she said, cheeks colouring, gloved hands smoothing down her dress. “I am sorry, I did not – I am not very—”

“No, don’t apologise.” Isaac pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth. “I am asking you to dance with me – and badly at that.”

“Isn’t it too hot in the ballroom?”

“Then why not here? The music can still reach us.” He knew the second he asked, that he had pushed too far. Although every woman was trained to please those around her, this one was too cautious, book-smart and unaffected.

Good for you, he thought. Although it’s bad for me…

“I do not think that would be appropriate.”

“Do you always do what’s appropriate?” The challenge was an attempt to cajole her into a rash decision, but she saw through it.

Quiet, steady, she observed him and he knew she was too sensible for her own good. In fact, he knew what she’d say before she said it.

“Good evening, Mr Roscoe.” She bobbed her head, eager to leave, face growing redder by the second. Yes, she liked him, or liked the look of him, but she didn’t trust him. “I have to get this little one back to bed without his grandmother, Lady Winston, finding him. He’s told me there will be terrible consequences if he’s caught and I – I cannot have that on my conscience. Please don’t think me rude, but I have to go.”

“I could help you.” Before the refusal could find him, Isaac added, “I did a little exploring. I know a way upstairs where he won’t be spotted.” Or rather, he had searched half the house trying to track the woman down and knew several possible routes. “You’ll fare better at keeping the boy from trouble with my help.”

A delay, one second, two, before Ruth nodded and placed the little boy’s hand within her own. “Then I will accept your help.”

“And you’ll dance with me afterwards?” Isaac knew he was trying his luck, but if he didn’t, he wouldn’t get anywhere. He needed something to show for tonight, if only to squeeze more money from the merchant. A dance would secure further finances and if the girl proved too frigid for even his charms, he could cut and run. “I am the child’s best chance.”

Just when Isaac thought she would refuse, Ruth pursed her lips, eyes meeting his, holding the contact though every social convention should have warned her otherwise. Instinct should have told her he was bad for her. Common sense should have prevailed.

But Isaac knew he was handsome, he knew he was charming, he knew he could choose any woman and have her in his bed within hours.

“Lead the way,” said Ruth.

And he knew he had her now.

Chapter Three

Ruth

Just as Isaac promised, the three moved undetected. Windows and doors had been left wide open to coax in the sluggish breeze and it made their journey easier. A side entrance from the greenhouse took them to a drawing room, a narrow hall and then a small study. A servant passed them, but she had been trained to keep her eyes averted from guests and walked on, a tray in her hands, not daring to take in their faces or the little boy hiding behind Ruth’s skirts. The child had been close to tears when Ruth first found him and proposed locating his mother – or even grandmother – in the dancing crowds. Worry lodged in Ruth’s mind all too easily. She remembered how severe her own education had been and how often the girls from the academy were punished and humiliated for minor misdemeanours. It was possible that the boy, Joshua, carried on because he simply wished to avoid going back to sleep. Doubt and anxiety clouded her thoughts. If Ruth could help him, she would. Even if that did mean using Mr Roscoe.

And he was a man who didn’t seem to mind being used. In fact, he invited it. Had she been a weaker woman, she would have taken him up on the offer. There was a way about him, an ease of movement, a knowing look that sent her pulse racing.

If anyone caught them, there would be trouble. At Miss Lamont’s Academy the rules about men had been clear and simple. She knew them back to front. Knew how to please, what social conventions to obey and how get by without any notice taken of her. Now, every step she took seemed to be the wrong one and took her closer to him.

Worse still, a sinful part of her welcomed it.