Governesses Under The Mistletoe. Liz Tyner

no.’ She raised both palms. ‘I just want you to feel like it matters to you. Like a home should feel.’ She paused. ‘I would hope.’

      He put his elbow on the arm of the chair and raised his hand to prop his chin on it. He settled into the relaxed pose and watched her. ‘It already feels more like a home than at any other day since I’ve moved in. No one moved above stairs before you arrived. Now, servants rush by with a plate of food leaving an aroma of a cooked meal behind. Or I hear you moving, or see you in the hallway and your cheeks light up just the barest, and your eyes smile, and I feel I’ve been bestowed a piece of treasure no one else even knows exists.’

      She saw glints of a similar treasure behind his eyes.

      ‘Thank you.’ Warmth infused her cheeks, but she wasn’t embarrassed.

      ‘A songbird. Who doesn’t have to be caged. Who flits around and brings cheer. In this instance, my father was right. Marriage is an honourable state.’

      * * *

      He stood, planning to bend down to kiss her, but if he did, she might think it a sign of more affection than he could give.

      He walked by, hoping she would retire early, and moved to his bedchamber.

      William opened his nightstand drawer. Isabel had taken him at his word about penning notes. He lifted the last note passed along by the butler, opened it and read again. Isabel mentioned at both the beginning and end that it wasn’t necessary for him to attend Lady Howell’s soirée. He returned the note to the others, then flipped through them. The one before had mentioned the dress she’d purchased while out with his sister and she’d suggested the garment as suitable for an evening event. She’d also mentioned her wish to show them as deeply in love to the ton so no one would ever, ever hint of any impropriety of the past. For his future sons and daughters. Sisters. And himself.

      Nothing truly personal was in the notes, yet he’d kept each one. The words of each breezed into the mind as if dashed from a smiling pen. Yet when he read the pages one after the other, the breeziness seemed procured.

      Sadness touched him. Probably leftover-marriage tightness. He’d privately asked one of his older friends about the feelings a man might have after the deed was done and the answer had been little more than a shoulder shrug, and a discourse on the sanctity of friendships away from home, good libations, and how a lizard had been on the wall in 1797, or was it ninety-eight? That had helped tremendously and convinced him to spend another quiet night at home.

      Waistcoat unbuttoned, he opened the bedchamber door, stepping into the hallway as Isabel rushed from her own room, a blast of feathers on her head. Even her reticule was feathered. He hoped there were no winds.

      He paused as she caught sight of him. ‘I thought to tell you I don’t wish to attend Lady Howell’s dance.’

      Her lips rose at the sides. ‘I don’t either.’ But something beyond the sky-blue eyes dimmed.

      He didn’t want to attend that soirée, but blue was his favourite colour, particularly when it had the sparkle of gemstones. He even liked the darkening blue of the sky before a storm. But he didn’t like the dreary blue of sadness. ‘But perhaps we should go.’

      Her eyes brightened, then faded. She clasped her reticule in both hands. ‘I do not know. It will...I don’t want people to think I have married you for your...’

      ‘Good looks?’ he asked, raising his brows.

      She opened her mouth briefly. Her cheeks reddened. She walked forward and slapped his arm lightly with the bag, causing a wisp of feather to break free and float between them.

      ‘Oh, be serious,’ she said, leaving, ‘no one will think that.’

       Chapter Ten

      William didn’t know if Isabel was aware he’d entered the parlour. He’d stopped at the doorway, watching. She was dressed for the soirée early, waiting for him.

      She gazed out the middle window of the three, framed by the opening. If butterflies could become women, then Isabel had once had wings. It wasn’t that she flitted around, although she could. Her reddish hair had the splash of colour that caught the eye and perhaps the same texture of a wing. The pale ball gown had hardly any hue in it except for the two flowing ties that attached at the back of her sleeves and flowed behind her. The fluttery azure fabric trailed down the back of her gown.

      How did one manage a butterfly?

      ‘Shall we leave?’ he asked. Her reticule and fan lay in the chair beside him. To see someone else’s property so at home in the chamber surprised him.

      She didn’t move. ‘I suppose it is time.’ She drew in a breath. ‘I should not be worried. In the past, I stood in front of people easily. It’s just now, it seems more daunting. The only person there I will know is your sister and she has said that her husband will certainly ask me to dance. I’ve met him.’ She looked at her accessories. ‘I do wish I didn’t feel so much that I will be noticed out of kindness or curiosity.’

      He leaned against the frame. He couldn’t suggest they stay home that night. She needed to be comfortable in society and, with her nature, she would be as soon as she had a chance.

      William snorted. ‘You will dance many times,’ he said. Cousin Sylvester would be sure to ask her as well. ‘If my cousin approaches you, he will push the conversation in the direction of Wren’s. He is an inquisitive little snipe, but we are related and he does have my horses.’

      She turned, the fluttery ribbons of her sleeves emphasising movement. ‘I won’t mind.’ Then her eyes widened before closing tightly. ‘But sadly...’ An internal wind buffeted her. Then she gazed again at him. ‘But how can I talk of such an event at a soirée? I was indeed too frightened to move. If not for your presence, I would have expired from fright.’ She touched the tip of her glove to her eye and wiped an imagined tear.

      He watched and she gazed back. Within moments, her eyes saddened so much he wanted to reach to her, but then her lips turned up. ‘I have heard but never tested it, that men do not always know how to speak with a tearful woman and might change the subject quickly.’

      ‘You’re quite good. How does one know if the tears are real?’

      ‘They’re real,’ she said, lifting her brows. ‘Always.’ Isabel stared at him with wide-eyed innocence, causing him an inward chuckle. Sometimes her naivety appeared skin-deep to him. He wondered, if under the fluff and nonsense, hidden even from herself, an old spirit fought to reconcile with the world.

      He held out his arm. ‘Shall we leave?’

      Her silent laughter brightened the room. She twirled and then closed the distance between them, the scent of roses swirling in the air.

      He lifted the reticule and fan, holding them in her direction. She took them.

      ‘Do you need anything else before we go?’ he asked.

      ‘Might you fetch me a compliment?’

      Lightly he rested his hand at her back, the contact warming him and bringing a flush to her cheeks. He closed out all other moments by leaning in, whispering so his breath touched her ear, ‘Compliments could not even begin to do justice to what I see.’

      Her fan tip moved up, sliding down the smooth skin of his cheek, and stopping just over his heart. ‘I think you managed it quite well.’ She examined him. ‘And I suppose your words of flattery are always real?’

      ‘Never doubt them.’

      She gave a tiny joust with her fan before putting it to her side. ‘I won’t.’

      She turned, preceding him, and his fingers stretched so that the ties from her gown slid through them like gossamer.

      * * *

      Isabel