Sophie Dash - To Wed A Rebel

Ahead was the staircase, rising up from the main entranceway, with polished wood and ornate carvings. There were far too many people nearby, chatting loudly and clinking glasses. Their movements would be seen if they risked venturing from cover now – and so they waited in shadow.

Isaac’s arm was against Ruth’s. A small connection that made her mouth dry. She observed his profile, her frown growing heavier. There was a half-grin on Isaac’s face, as though this were some adventure – and he treated it as such, talking to Joshua in a low voice about how they had to be quiet. It was a game to them both and the little boy loved it, fists bunched into his nightclothes, eyes wide with a rebellious joy. The pair were two peas in a pod: naughty, mischievous and yet somehow making both traits seem endearing. Roscoe was far less alarming in this environment and she let herself admire his well-built form that echoed those heroes from classic mythology. He didn’t notice; he was distracted – and she could risk it, only for tonight.

“They’re leaving,” whispered Isaac. “Be ready.”

Ruth strengthened her grip on Joshua’s hand, only to find Isaac offered his own to her, seemingly without thought. He wasn’t looking her way, eyes on their escape. Ruth hesitated, fingers half-outstretched to his, hovering at a midpoint between them. It wouldn’t mean anything. Practicality told her to take it, as she would have taken Lottie’s hand. But he wasn’t Lottie and such behaviour between a man and a woman was different and surely if she placed her hand in his then—

“Now,” said Isaac quickly, grasping Ruth’s wrist and pulling her and Joshua free from their hiding place. Music brushed against them. The hallway and far ballroom were visible for a flash, before their feet were on the stairs. Ruth adjusted her grip, gloved palm against Isaac’s, holding on tightly. They were almost on the landing, fighting laughter, swept up in the excitement, when Lady Winston appeared. She wore a shawl so fine that it looked like a cobweb across her shoulders, gown glittering in the low candlelight, faded hair and light clothes giving her all the appearance of a ghost.

Isaac pulled up short, Ruth almost tripped over him and the little boy crashed into her legs. The moment Joshua saw his grandmother, he bolted up the final steps and flew at her, arms outstretched. Ruth’s hand was cold from where the boy had dropped it. The other was still in Isaac’s and she quickly stole her fingers back and kept them close, bunched up against her stomach.

“You are meant to be in bed, young man,” said Lady Winston to her grandson, but her tone was warm and banished any worries that Ruth might have had about Joshua’s well-being. “Did you give the maid the slip again?” The older woman, with slow, shrewd movements, turned to Ruth. “I hope he hasn’t been a nuisance to you both?”

“Not at all,” she answered. “I found him in the orangery and thought I could get him upstairs without too much trouble.”

“And you are?”

“Miss Osbourne.” She curtseyed, before turning to introduce Isaac, but Lady Winston got there first.

“Then you must be Albert Pembroke! I have already heard all about you; I know your mother.” Lady Winston, eyes crinkling, held out her hand and Isaac pressed his lips to her glove. “What a handsome couple you make. I can already tell you’re quite suited to one another.”

“No, he’s not…” Ruth trailed off, a stray thread of thought caught on the idea. If only he was, if only he could step into Albert’s place. A man who was everything she hadn’t known she wanted.

“I am her brother,” said Isaac. “And we couldn’t let the child wander around outside alone.”

“Then I am most grateful,” said Lady Winston, though her smile diminished, eyes darting between the two. She dismissed herself from their chat with a polite nod, before addressing her grandson once more and leading him away. “Time to get you back into bed now, isn’t it, Josh?”

The woman’s voice grew fainter. Ruth leant upon the wall, attempting to rope back her calm demeanour, chest rising and falling. God, what had she risked by indulging in such activities? Isaac stood idly beside the bannister, facing her in the quiet. When he almost cracked a laugh, she shot him a dark look. Whatever humour he’d found, she would not share it.

Not after all she’d done, all he’d helped her do.

“You owe me a dance, Miss Osbourne.”

“Dance?” Ruth’s compliant lips failed to drip the usual assuring words they were known for. All she had been told about propriety, doing as she was asked, and acting as a lady should was instantly forgotten. Those carefully laid foundations crumbled in minutes when faced by him. No one else had ever riled her like this. “You failed, Mr Roscoe.” With calm movements, she pulled herself to full height and went downstairs, spine straight and voice coolly quiet. “The boy was spotted and we were discovered, and by Lady Winston, no less.” She did not pause. She did not face him. She would not let him in. “I won’t waste any more time on this foolishness.”

What would her uncle think?

Deep thuds on the wood followed her where Isaac matched her steps. “You cannot mean to refuse me?” There was no anger in the question, Isaac’s mouth ajar, tone baffled.

“You speak as though it’s never happened to you before.”

“It hasn’t.”

It was exhilarating for Ruth, to talk freely, to leave all those self-conscious cares elsewhere. For once, in such a long, long time, she felt like herself – like she knew herself in this impossibly large city.

And she couldn’t let it happen again or else she feared she’d do something dreadful. Because she did want to accept his offer, she did long to dance. But it was not to be. She was engaged to another.

“Then consider this a first,” said Ruth curtly, even though he dogged her movements all the way to the ballroom. Were the other guests looking her way? Did they know what she’d done? Did they know what she truly longed for? No, there was nothing to know, she was certain of it. Ruth still felt guilty, as though there was a black stone in her belly, burning through her gut. She sought out familiar faces, wanting to explain and yet not wanting to give herself away at all. “I am positive that Miss Griswell would be glad to accept a dance on my behalf.”

The redhead, barely a metre away, turned upon hearing her name.

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Ruth heard Isaac mutter, but the distraction was enough to allow her to escape.

The piggish eyes of her future husband were boring into her neck. His face was even pinker than usual, eyes watering and thin hair slicked across his scalp.

“There you are!” Albert grasped her arm with his small hands. “Where have you been? My foot is sore and there aren’t enough seats in here.”

Ruth’s reply was too immediate, too hasty, for she was still ablaze from her earlier encounter, even if she was – despite all that had taken place – smiling. “And what do you want me to do about it?”

It was the wrong response and Albert’s cheeks flushed redder. He did not like being displeased – she knew that. Even as a young boy, he had always wanted his own way, always demanded to be revered. Ruth had played along under her uncle’s watchful eyes, as a young woman ought to. It was what she would do now – and for the rest of her life.

“Forgive me, it’s all been a little too much this evening.” The pat she gave his hand was awkward and uncomfortable, lacking the affection she had hoped to imbue it with. “I think the heat is getting to me.”

And so is Isaac Roscoe.

Albert ignored her excuses and did not even pretend to show concern. “I want a chair. That Griswell chap forbade me from asking a woman to move. He said it was bad form to make a lady stand, so you’ll ask one of them for me, won’t you?”