inclined her head towards her host and moved to open the pianoforte. First she played a German minuet, its demure rhythm making little impact on the hum of conversation in the salon. Then she turned to a book of Italian songs, accompanying her low, rich singing voice with soft arpeggios. Almost as soon as she started to sing, the level of noise in the room fell, as the guests stopped to appreciate her beautiful voice. Sir Thomas watched her with a beatific smile on his face. Hardly anyone moved.
At the end of three songs, she made to leave the instrument but was met with a chorus of requests for an encore. She felt the warmth of a flush on her cheeks as she nodded her acquiescence. ‘Very well,’ she smiled, ‘but just one more.’ Her choice this time was completely different, a sad Italian ballad, which she sang very quietly, but with great expressiveness. The room remained totally hushed until the last note had died away, and then there was a burst of enthusiastic applause.
Isabella felt pleased; she knew she had performed well. She raised her eyes from her music to acknowledge the applause—and looked straight into the hard, dark eyes of Lord Amburley.
For a moment she sat immobile, stunned. How could this be happening? She felt her flush return and deepen under his gaze, while she strove both to regain her composure and to find an escape route from this nightmarish encounter. What could she do? It was so terribly difficult to order her thoughts with his penetrating gaze resting on her face. Had he recognised her, perhaps? Heavens, he was coming over to the pianoforte. She rose hurriedly in an attempt to avoid him, but it was too late. Sir Thomas was before her.
‘I think you cannot have met Amburley,’ began her affable host. ‘He has not been in town for some years. The wars, you know. He arrived a little late this evening but, luckily, in time to hear you sing. May I make him known to you?’
Isabella nodded dumbly, trying to recover control of her decidedly wobbly limbs. Her mind was still in a whirl. Foremost among her thoughts was the awful certainty that he could not possibly be the libertine she had earlier judged him to be. Rakes were not received by the upright Lady Bridge.
‘Miss Winstanley,’ continued Sir Thomas formally, turning slightly to be sure of including his lordship, ‘may I present Lord Amburley?’
‘Your servant, ma’am.’ His lordship had stopped by the far end of the instrument, Isabella noted, just near enough to avoid being impolite. He now bowed distantly to her, without moving forward to shake hands. ‘My compliments on your performance. You have a most…unusual voice.’ His voice was cool and expressionless, his manner stiff.
Curtsying politely, Isabella contrived a slight smile which did not reach her eyes. Inwardly, she was suddenly seething, her anger forcibly expelling her earlier weakness. She had been much too generous in her previous assessment of this man. Not a rake, perhaps, but both arrogant and overbearing in the extreme. She had received many compliments on her singing in the past, but a cold and patronising ‘unusual’ was certainly not one she would cherish. Better that he had refrained from voicing his evident disdain. Hateful, hateful man!
She would not allow him to overset her. Let him begin the polite conversation, if he dared. The spark of challenge was unmistakable as she raised her head proudly to look him in the eye.
If Lord Amburley observed that fiery spark, he gave no outward sign of recognition as far as Isabella could tell. Indeed, he seemed to be completely devoid of any human feeling—he just stood motionless by the pianoforte, surveying Isabella through half-closed lids.
Isabella refused to be cowed. Clearly his lordship did not desire to prolong their conversation. She certainly had no wish to do so. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I must rejoin Lady Wycham,’ she said politely, turning to leave. Sir Thomas nodded genially. Lord Amburley responded with only the slightest bow, keeping his hard eyes fixed on Isabella throughout. She could feel his gaze boring into her back, as she moved away to join her great-aunt once more, keeping her pace measured and deliberate. She might feel like running from him, but nothing—nothing—would be allowed to betray her inner weakness to such a man.
‘Why, Isabella,’ exclaimed Lady Wycham, ‘whatever is the matter? You look quite ill. Have you the headache, my dear? You really should not have agreed to perform for so long.’
‘I am quite well, truly. It is just a little warm with so many people in the room. I shall be recovered in a moment, I assure you.’ Taking a deep breath, Isabella raised her eyes to survey the company and discovered, with a sigh of relief, that Lord Amburley was no longer anywhere to be seen. A little of her colour returned.
But she had forgotten about Sophia, who was signalling urgently from across the room. Isabella swallowed a moment of panic. What should she tell Sophia? She reminded herself sternly that he had shown no sign of recognition—with luck he had completely forgotten his encounters with ‘Winny’.
Sophia drew Isabella into a shadowy alcove, desperate to know what had happened. ‘What did he say? Did he recognise you, do you think? Oh, what are we going to do?’
‘Be calm, Sophia,’ answered Isabella, doing her utmost to appear so herself. ‘There is no reason to be agitated, I am sure. Lord Amburley did not know me. We were introduced by Sir Thomas, that is all.’ She cut Sophia’s protest short, lest the child fret herself into an attack of the vapours. ‘He will, of course, recognise you when you meet, and you must acknowledge him, as you would any other gentleman. Remember that your “companion”—“Winny”—has gone to stay with her family. You may say, quite truthfully, that you are staying with your godmother and your distant cousin Isabella. Can you do that, do you think?’ She laid a gloved hand gently on Sophia’s arm.
‘I shall try,’ promised Sophia, looking pale and strained.
The inevitable meeting with Lord Amburley took place at supper, towards midnight, just when Isabella had begun to hope that he might have left. Isabella and Sophia were seated in the midst of the same group of young people they had joined earlier, and all were enjoying Lady Bridge’s generous hospitality.
Isabella felt, rather than saw, Lord Amburley’s entrance. Turning her head fractionally so that she could observe the doorway out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he was lounging near the door, apparently engrossed in discussion. She clenched her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking.
Let him not notice us, she prayed silently, and if he does, I will not blush. Heavens, why cannot I have more self-control? What can it be about that man that oversets me so? He may be used to intimidating others, but I refuse to let him do so to me.
Trying to hide her confusion, she sipped gingerly at her champagne flute.
‘Miss Winstanley,’ said the well-remembered voice immediately behind her, ‘how delightful to meet you again—’ Isabella started and turned, only to find that he was clearly addressing Sophia, not herself ‘—I beg your pardon,’ he corrected himself, ‘I should have noticed that both Misses Winstanley were present. Miss Sophia, I hope you are well after your ordeal on the North Road? Are you fixed in London for the Season?’
Sophia answered with commendable self-possession that she was. A short, polite exchange ensued, after which Lord Amburley quickly withdrew. Sophia visibly relaxed.
Isabella noted that his lordship had not enquired after ‘Winny’, nor had he favoured her with any further conversation at all. She concluded that he had not given her another thought. Unaccountably, she felt piqued.
‘Lord Amburley is not much given to light conversation, it seems,’ she said softly to Sophia. ‘Perhaps that is just as well, in the circumstances.’
‘I
