Isabella by Loretta Chase Read Free Book Online Page A

point; or was it? No. What I meant was that many of these young gentlemen are perfectly respectable—although, admittedly, unfortunate in having elder brothers. But Mr. Trevelyan's reputation, from what I can gather—and that is mostly from the servants, for your aunt prefers to look smug—at any rate, his reputation is not entirely, shall I say, 'sunny'?"
    Isabella gave a rueful little smile. "Perhaps that's why I find him the least abhorrent."
    "My love, you are not turning romantic, are you? You have not been reading Childe Harold again? For you know your aunt will not have Byron's works in the house."
    Isabella laughed in spite of herself. "No, Mama. It is just that if I must choose among fortune hunters, I would rather they be clever and charming—and wickedly attractive," she finished with a nervous giggle.
    "I see."
    Isabella had the feeling that her mother saw rather more than what had been spoken, but could not read in her face what it was.
    "Well, then, go back to your stitching, though how your eyes can bear it I shall never know. I hope you will not wrinkle up on me, darling. Ah well, I suppose there's no stopping you. At any rate, I shall not tease you for at least the next hour. I am fearfully tired and must have a nap."
    The wickedly attractive gentleman in question was in the process of being scolded—exactly like a naughty child—by his only partially indulgent aunt. He lounged carelessly against the ornate mantelpiece as, for the eighteenth time in one hour, she stressed the necessity of his getting his affairs in hand. In vain did he protest, his face absurdly innocent, that this was exactly what he'd been doing.
    "Attempting to entrap a well-bred lady worth twenty of you in intelligence and good sense is not quite what I had in mind, you horrid boy." Lady Bertram was glaring at him most ferociously, but he did not cower; instead, he managed (though it hardly seemed possible) to look even more innocent. He was imagining himself a persecuted Muslim facing the Spanish Inquisition.
    "Aunt Clem," he told her patiently, "I have been so prodigiously proper that it fair makes my hair stand on end. I have not spent a minute with the young woman when there were not at least half a dozen others standing watch in the same room—if not her aunt or her mother or her giggling cousin, then the servants. Belcomb has more footmen than he has furniture, you know. If anyone should feel entrapped, it should be myself."
    This was met with a derisive snort.
    "And I do not see, dearest Aunt, why you are so concerned with Miss Latham. Why, you are quite maternal—a veritable lioness defending her cub. Frightfully disloyal of you, you know. After all, I am your cub, or rather, one of them."
    "Stuff! I like the girl, and won't see her made miserable for life. Bad enough her mother made such a mull of things."
    While Basil did not find this response especially flattering, he was too aware of his own failings to contradict. More than likely he would make a wife miserable, and her misery would increase in proportion to her intelligence. That promised Miss Latham a thoroughly wretched future. Unfortunately, Basil hadn't enough conscience to overcome his self-interest. While he knew of several wealthy—and vulgar—peageese who might look upon him with favour, he had already spent much precious time cultivating Miss Latham and couldn't afford to start afresh with someone else. He would have preferred, certainly, to see a bit more evidence that she was succumbing to his charm. The creditors were beginning to raise a nasty clamour; and the way she watched Edward when she thought no one was looking was not at all encouraging to their interests. Even less encouraging was that Edward watched her in the same manner. This made Basil anxious, a state of mind entirely foreign to his nature and, oddly enough, not the least bit refreshing.
    He ran his fingers through his tawny hair, making its carefully arranged windblown appearance more