VIscount Besieged by Elizabeth Bailey Page A

tone,
‘and you might have guessed it, Dora, if you weren’t so ready to
take offence.’
    ‘ You
ought to apologise at once, Dora,’ proposed Cousin Matty
severely.
    ‘ Good
God, no,’ interrupted Roborough involuntarily. ‘Don’t ask her to
do that, for pity’s sake!’
    He saw, as he
spoke, that Isadora’s eyes had softened. A muscle twitched in her
cheek. Was she trying to keep from laughing? He had spoken
unintentionally, but it seemed as if it might have served a useful
purpose.
    ‘ Matty, pray don’t enrage her,’ he heard Mrs Alvescot begging
of her cousin in an undertone. Aloud to her daughter she said,
‘Dora, you know the stables better than any of us. Why do not you
show Lord Roborough the horses?’
    ‘ Pooh!’ broke in Rowland. ‘As if she would. I’ll show him the
stables.’ As he spoke he ran into the entrance to the block,
calling back to Roborough, ‘Come on, sir. We’ve a few tidy good
’uns in here.’
    Roborough
hesitated, glancing across at Isadora. ‘Won’t you join us, Miss
Alvescot?’
    Isadora had
swung from anger to remorse and back again, in so violent a fashion
that she had been unable to find speech. Then, just as anger
threatened to get the upper hand, this infuriating man not only
cast her to the brink of laughter, but overrode her cousin to
invite her participation in the tour of the stables. Must he be so
unfailingly pleasant? And must he smile at her in that irritatingly
irresistible manner?
    Within an ace of
announcing that she had to go and change out of her cloth habit of
dark blue, she relented.
    ‘ Very
well.’
    She heard her
mother sigh and almost retracted. But the viscount was standing at
the entrance to the stables, waiting, and Cousin Matty was nodding
encouragement. Fanny’s sour pout decided her. She walked into the
stables, to find Rowland ready and eager to discourse on Titian’s
manifold points as the under groom rubbed the horse
down.
    Roborough
listened with only half an ear. He found himself thinking how well
a riding habit became Isadora Alvescot. The jacket, tight to the
waist where the petticoats flared out, emphasised her curves as the
black satin gown, with its high waist, so popular at this time, did
not. Her height enhanced the costume too and her black locks, now
coaxed to the side under a beaver hat, curled attractively over one
shoulder.
    Why in the name
of all the gods was she still unwed? What was she—nineteen? Twenty?
Not less. Perhaps more. No, she could not be more, for Thornbury
had told him she had still not attained her majority.
    Not that it
mattered. Even were she more than one and twenty, he had still to
provide for her somehow. As he must for them all, God knew
how!
    His thoughts ran
on as Rowland continued his eulogy, Roborough interpolating a
suitable word or two at convenient moments. But his mind was far
from horses. He had been with this unfortunate family for less than
an afternoon, yet already he was aware that Thornbury’s guarded
comments had by no means given him a full picture.
    Mrs Alvescot,
now. A helpless creature, if ever he saw one. Anxious she might be,
but it was plain that she was used to someone else taking
responsibility for her and it had not been at all difficult to
allay any fears she had expressed.
    Having shown him
to his bedchamber, she had insisted on summoning Hampole, the
butler—a frail and doddering individual who seemed only to add to
the general helplessness of the Alvescot household—to warn him to
expect Lord Roborough’s chaise, and to instruct his valet on
arrival where to bring his lordship’s accoutrements.
    ‘ Now
I dare say you would like to see around the house,’ she had said,
glancing up and down the corridor in a vague way as if she sought
enlightenment on a mammoth task. ‘Oh dear, I wonder where Matty is.
She is much better than I at this sort of thing.’
    ‘ I
beg you will not inconvenience yourself, ma’am,’ he said
immediately.
    ‘ Yes,
but you will wish to