Anabelle Bryant - To Love A Wicked Scoundrel

‘You mean allow everyone to see it is such a hideous shade of red.’ Making quick work of the task, she pinned her bun back into place.

‘Your hair is every shade of auburn imaginable and that is worthy of any woman’s envy and every gentleman’s compliment. You have no idea what a trial it is to keep myself satisfied with ordinary brown hair and equally common eyes. Now your eyes are such a lovely shade of grey, they remind me of a stormy winter sky.’

‘How very depressing.’ Isabelle released a long-suffering sigh. ‘I do not know why you insist on romanticising my unfortunate appearance.’

Unwilling to accept her comments, Meredith continued. ‘What rubbish. Your eyes are one of your best features.’

Best features? Plural? Ridiculous . Her stepmother exaggerated on her behalf. If pressed, Isabelle would concede her eyes were interesting; mostly in the way they lightened or darkened depending upon the shade of dress she wore. But other than that, she was at a complete loss. Her father told her ever since she could remember that her unusual colouring would have been more forgivable on a boy and as a lady she was at a great disadvantage with her fiery locks and soft, lilting features. But what an incredible waste of time it was to consider her appearance in great detail. She lived a very quiet and content life and preferred it so.

‘I think you are beautiful,’ Lily offered.

Isabelle almost forgot Lily was present. It served as a testament to childhood innocence that her sister would interrupt her self-deprecating thoughts with a compliment, and she offered her a gentle smile. ‘Thank you. It is kind of you to mention.’

As an afterthought, Isabelle noted Lily found beauty in everything from feathers to little round pebbles. She turned to speak but Meredith snatched the waist of her muslin gown and pulled it together with a tight twist at the back.

‘Of course we will visit the most exclusive dressmakers now that we have arrived, but if you choose fabrics and colours to compliment your flawless skin and accentuate your figure.’

‘I think you know what is wrong with my figure.’ She attempted to swat away her stepmother’s hands from where they held her gown captive, but failed miserably.

‘You have no idea what you are talking about. Women would do anything to have your full bosom.’

Lily’s burst of giggles prodded Isabelle to a darker shade of pink. Her figure was as confused as the colour of her hair. Full breasts, a slim waist, and the gentle curve of her hips remained hidden under the respectable loose gowns she favoured. Shamelessly, her father remarked more than once about the irregular development of her body. She should have been born a boy. She might have made her father happy then. If only the midwife announced ‘It is a boy!’ Isabelle’s entire life would have taken a different path.

‘Well, if you think for one moment I will allow you to leave any respectable modiste without flattering gowns and undergarments, then you need to reconsider the matter with care. We are no longer in Wiltshire. Resign yourself to the fact.’ Meredith’s eyes flared in emphasis. ‘You cannot embrace true adventure in plain fabrics and last year’s fashion.’

From the corner of her eye, Isabelle noticed Lily nod her head in emphatic agreement.

‘Since we will attend a gathering two nights from now, we have no choice but to modify something off the rack, but from every point forward our wardrobe will overflow with the finest silks and the latest designs. Lest you forget, I have London’s favourite scoundrel to entice.’

Isabelle clamped her hands over Lily’s ears unsure what other nonsense her stepmother might utter and with a gentle nudge steered her sister up the stairs, anxious to examine every wondrous piece of her collections and escape Meredith’s ambitious plans.

***

Constantine brushed his gloves together in an effort to rid them of dust and opened the hack door as he spoke to Brooks in a low tone. ‘There is one painting left in the studio. It is large and I’ll need your help bringing it down to the street.’ His command cut through the unsettling quiet of the night.

The two men had already made several trips from the third-floor studio to the hired hackney with eleven of his most recent works of art. Unframed they weren’t very heavy. Now arranged with care, each wrapped in a tarp so the long ride to Highborough House would not cause damage, their work was almost complete.

Without a word, the two men turned and took the steps. They manoeuvered the last canvas down to street level. It took a bit longer than anticipated, but eventually they placed the painting on the curb.

‘Bloody hell, why did the driver leave? I mentioned we needed to bring one more painting out.’ Con grunted his disapproval, aggravated with the tedious day.

‘I cannot explain it, milord. Did the driver give you any indication how long it will take him to reach Highborough House? Although the lamps are well lit in Grosvenor Square, I doubt the less traveled roadways will be serviceable until sunrise.’

‘I did not speak to him, but I thank you for arranging this appointment. It seems the best way to transport my paintings without detection.’

‘Milord?’ Brooks voice held a note of apprehension. ‘You did not speak to the driver? Nor did I. I arranged for him to meet us here at three o’clock but did not furnish a destination address. I assumed you would direct him once we finished the task.’

Con jerked his head up and he eyed the anxious valet with a steely glare. ‘Then where the devil are my paintings? And how the hell will I get them back?’

Chapter Four

‘Good heavens, it is crowded in here.’ Isabelle’s eyes scanned the room with reluctant enthusiasm, her barely contained excitement at war with her natural pragmatism. ‘Hasn’t anyone given a thought to safety? Lady Rochester has invited far too many people to this event. I can scarcely move in the crush.’

Beside her, Meredith smiled at a passing guest. ‘Crowded and wonderful. I am thankful Lady Newby kept her word and secured this invitation. The Rochester Ball is the most prestigious event of the season.’ She placed her hand on Isabelle’s arm and squeezed. ‘Oh this is a terrible crush and utterly exciting.’

Isabelle looked at her stepmother with mild confusion. During the entire carriage ride she’d endured Meredith’s incessant chatter explaining her strategy for attracting the attention of Lord Highborough. She failed to comprehend how any female could become so infatuated by reading of a man’s exploits having never set eyes on the individual. Wouldn’t one need to know him on a personal level before falling helplessly in love?

‘Won’t this ridiculous crowd hamper your search for the wicked earl ?’ She inflected just enough drama into the final three words to express her opinion of Meredith’s goal for the evening. She just couldn’t help herself. The idea of hunting down the man and stalking him until he noticed her seemed immature and absurd.

Granted, Lord Highborough was likely very handsome. The few gossip papers she’d suffered through on Meredith’s insistence described him as dashing and well built, and favoured by every member of the ton, including distinguished gentlemen and aged dowagers. Such a unilateral collection of admirable traits struck her as uncommonly rare. Rather like a unicorn or a four-leaf clover. Surely Lord Perfection possessed some kind of flaw. Yet every article craftily depicted his clandestine indiscretions as romantic, his excessive indulgence as grandiose.

‘Well, I wish you luck in your conquest. I believe if we become separated we will never find each other until the dinner bell rings. There are far too many people crammed into this ballroom. I sincerely hope no one overturns a candle.’ Isabelle ended her complaint with a little squeak and moved her slipper before a nearby gentleman trod upon her toe.