properly, before pulling out her own chair and seating herself, which earned her another condemning frown from the elderly lady.
The dowager looked at Gosforth. ‘We are ready to start, Gosforth, now my granddaughter has deigned to join me. I suppose we might as well see how cold the beef has grown.’
Belle sighed, folding her hands demurely in her lap. The evening was definitely off to a bad start. If only there was some distraction. Anything would be preferable to an evening at home alone with her grandmother, who would endeavour to teach her unsophisticated American grand daughter how young English ladies behaved. All Belle’s attempts to try to curb her restlessness and be demure were unsuccessful.
Already—and unbeknown to her grandmother—on her daily rides across Hampstead Heath, Belle had garnered the favours of several curious local young beaux—one with raffish good looks and much sought after, apparently. His name was Carlton Robinson. On occasion he had watched for her when she rode out, and when she had managed to shake off her accompanying groom—who despaired of trying to keep up with her since she could ride like the wind with the devil on her tail—he had joined her.
Carlton Robinson had never met anyone quite like this American girl and he had soon turned to putty under the assault of her big green eyes and stunning looks. Out of boredom it was all a game to Belle, and when she had captured him completely, the game had soured and she had sent the young man packing—blissfully unaware of the consequences of her liaison with this particular gentleman.
She sighed, taking a large, unladylike gulp of her wine, already wishing the evening would end so she could escape to her room—and to make matters worse the beef was overdone.
The following morning, standing at her bedroom window overlooking the gardens, the countess watched her granddaughter as she cantered up the drive—hatless and astride, her long legs gripping her mount, her hair blowing loose in the wind, and having left the groom somewhere on the Heath.
That very morning one of the countess’s acquaintances had hastened to inform her of a scandal that was beginning to unfold concerning Isabelle—a scandal that was entirely of Isabelle’s making, if it was to be believed. The countess was incensed by her granddaughter’s behaviour. Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined that the lovely, inexperienced young woman would form a liaison with a young man whose exploits were the talk of London as soon as she arrived. And Carlton Robinson! No man but he would dare, would have the temerity, the sheer effrontery to interfere with the granddaughter of the Dowager Countess of Harworth. She summoned Isabelle to the salon immediately.
Daisy had heard the gossip and told Belle she could expect no mercy from her grandmother. Belle’s naïvety and inexperience had not prepared her for a young man of Carlton Robinson’s reputation. Not to be made a fool of by an ignorant American girl, he had let his tongue loose to do its worst and turned the tables on Belle. He had laughingly told his friends that the American girl was an amusingly peculiar, pathetic little thing from the backwoods of America, and when she was launched, he had no intention of plying his suit.
An inexplicable premonition of dread mounted the closer Belle got to the salon. After listening to what her grandmother had to say, making no attempt to conceal her anger and disappointment, Belle was swamped with remorse and shame.
‘Well? What have you to say for yourself?’ the countess demanded of the wretched girl.
‘I’m so sorry, Grandmother. It was nothing, please believe me. We—met when I was riding on the Heath. We only met three times. He—said he liked my company. I didn’t like him, so I ended it. Daisy has told me that the odious man has said some dreadful, wicked things about me that simply are not true.’
‘Carlton Robinson says objectionable things about people all the time,’ the countess answered drily.
‘I never meant for this to happen. I didn’t know.’
‘There’s a great deal you don’t know. A girl newly arrived from America—ignorant to our ways—he saw you as easy prey.’ She shook her head wearily, blaming herself for allowing Isabelle too much freedom. ‘I accept that you are ignorant of how things are done in England, Isabelle. Carlton Robinson is a conceited braggart and the most lascivious reprobate in town. Resentful of your rejection, he has tried to destroy your reputation in the most alarming manner—to make you a hopeless social outcast before you have even made your début.’
‘I’m sorry, Grandmother,’ Belle whispered brokenly, truly repentant. ‘You risked a great deal taking me into your home. Little did you know you would be risking disgrace.’ She looked at her grandmother, her eyes wide and vulnerable and shining with tears. ‘I’ve a hideous disposition and I haven’t a feminine accomplishment to my name. What is to be done?’
The countess’s heart melted for the lovely, spirited, bewildered girl her younger son had borne, and in a moment her old loyal heart had her fighting in defence of her granddaughter, at whose door the blame had been unfairly laid. ‘We shall do as the Ainsleys have always done, Isabelle,’ she said on a gentler note, ‘and weather the scandal. By the time you make your début, hopefully it will have blown over.’
And so the Dowager Countess of Harworth began to shape the artless, unsophisticated girl from America into a respectable English young lady. Isabelle hadn’t a grain of sense or propriety in her, but her determination not to be restricted or confined had to be curbed. She knew nothing of fashion and cared even less, but Isabelle had been well tutored in most subjects. She spoke perfect French, read Latin and Greek, and she had a good head for numbers.
Miss Bertram, a woman of unimpeachable character, was to arrive today to begin instructing her on the refinements of etiquette. No one would dare to question the acceptability and character of any young lady in her charge. The Season would begin in just a few short weeks. Hopefully it would be enough time for Isabelle to learn everything she needed to know to make a full-fledged début and to outfit her for the full Season. Until then the countess would begin by taking her to the theatre, where she could be seen but not approached, but apart from that, she must be kept locked away from everyone.
Her grandmother’s house, situated close to Hampstead Heath, was unlike anything Belle had imagined. She had been mesmerised by its splendour—imposing without being austere. This was where her grandmother lived when she came to London, preferring the relative peace and quiet of living just outside the city, where the air was cleaner. The ancestral home, Harworth Hall, was in a place called Wiltshire.
On her arrival in England, at first Belle had objected and fought against all her grandmother’s efforts to make her conform. Her grandmother was hard to please, overbearing and possessive, whereas Belle was a free spirit and used to doing as she wished, and she wasn’t ready to be buried alive by protocol and the traditional English customs. But now her ‘hysterics’, as her grandmother called it, had cooled to an acceptance of her situation and a steely determination. Admitting her lack of knowledge about English protocol, Belle was sensitive enough to realise that she was lacking in certain social skills—and she was her own harshest critic. She accepted that her grandmother was the only family she had, and, like it or not, this was now her home, so she had best conform and make the best of it.
Miss Bertram had the formidable task of teaching her social graces, and under her relentless and exacting tutelage, Belle began to settle down and worked diligently to learn anything that might help her win favour in her grandmother’s eyes.
Madame Hamelin, her grandmother’s personal dressmaker, arrived, accompanied by two seamstresses to fit her for an extensive wardrobe, and Madame Hamelin was full of praise for the beautiful American girl, complimenting her on her natural grace and excellent posture. Belle allowed herself to be pushed, prodded
