On Gentle Wings Read online

  Including a wife? Isobel wondered, shocked at her own thoughts. Of course, Kit must remarry someday. It was unthinkable that a man of his stature and influence at court should not wish an heir to succeed him. For all she knew, he was already considering prospective ladies for such an honor. Ladies like his “Madame Mysterie.”

  Thus, it seemed all the more ominous when he added offhandedly, “There shall be a woman coming tomorrow, Isobel, for the position of nursemaid. I should appreciate it if you would introduce her to the girls and help smooth the transition.”

  A woman? What woman? Where had he found her, and how had he done it so quickly? Anxious questions flooded her entire being, as well as an unwarranted bit of jealousy. But she held her temper. She was leaving, after all. What right did she have to quiz Kit about his decisions?

  “Meanwhile,” he added, “I’ll look into the matter of another mount for the girls. Perhaps a livelier creature this time? I do favor the spirited ones.”

  Women, or just horses? Isobel was tempted to ask, but bit her tongue at the last second. Heavens! She feared she was swiftly acquiring a rather impertinent turn of mind since her cousin’s death. For eight long years, Elspeth had smothered her tender spirit like a disapproving cloak, enforcing that silence with occasional threats and slaps. Now that the miserable woman was gone, it seemed Isobel was finally beginning to bloom into her own.

  Unfortunately, it was far too late to come to any good. The seeds of fate had been sown, and now she must contend with the bitter harvest.

  ~*~

  “I hate her! I hate her already! I don’t ever wish to lay eyes upon her!”

  “Oh, Annie, you don’t mean that. Please, just come downstairs and meet Mrs. Penton. She’s come all the way from Gillingham,” Isobel pleaded through the door. Although none of the girls’ doors boasted a bolt, for good reason, the devious Anne had stuck a stout tree branch beneath the handle, rendering it as good as locked.

  Further pleas were ineffective. The two younger girls had obediently gone to the parlor where they curtsied and then coolly scrutinized the older woman who would probably replace her, but Isobel had been unable to thaw Anne one degree. The icy fury in the girl’s voice disturbed her.

  Not that it wasn’t warranted. Anne and her sisters felt betrayed, and Isobel couldn’t blame them. Losing their mother had been hard enough, but with Kit gone most of the time and now her own departure looming on the horizon, was it any wonder the poor darlings considered themselves abandoned?

  After another half hour of useless pleading and wheedling, Isobel returned to the parlor where Mrs. Abigail Penton was impatiently tapping her scuffed black shoe. Upon first glance, Isobel herself had been daunted by the stern-looking, iron-haired widow.

  Was it her imagination or did the woman’s eyes hold a gleam of avarice rather than warmth when she gazed upon Ambergate and Kit’s daughters? Isobel told herself she was bound to feel uncharitable toward anyone who threatened to take her place in the girls’ hearts. She had tried, therefore, to be fair and gracious to this stranger.

  “I’m sorry, but Anne isn’t feeling well,” she lied, deciding the truth was best softened at this point.

  “Huh. Spoiled little chit, I take it,” Mrs. Penton said bluntly. “Well, t’isn’t too difficult yet for me to wield a strap, even with the ague settling in me bones.”

  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?

  Chapter Six

  “Mrs. 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 t
he 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.

  ~*~

  “Here 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?

  But Isobel had refused to resort to such chicanery, even to secure Kit’s attentions. What a pity, Anne remarked, that Isobel had to be so prim and proper when it came to winning Papa’s heart. After all, they hadn’t much time left now. Only four days, and that horrid old toad would come back and steal their Isobel away!

  Grace knew she couldn’t let it happen. After glancing at Anne, who was still absorbed in the scene outside, she quietly picked up Judith, her doll, and left the nursery. She ran downstairs and out the rear door of the house. There, she slipped past Susan, who was furiously whacking at a Turkish carpet with a broom, and proceeded to the garden where she’d first met the mysterious lord.

  Only he wasn’t like any other lord Grace had ever seen. Those Papa had brought home from court in the past ware dandified rakes who sported curlicued hair and funny pointed beards and fashionable sneers. This one looked like Saint Nicholas himself, all plump and jolly and rumpled, though he’d denied any relation to a saint with a twinkle in his eye.