“However,” Grant continued, bowling over her increasing agitation, “I expect you to do the proper thing.”
“Oh, I will.” Naomi’s voice quivered with the force of her outrage.
Had Grant been a little less virulent in his protestations, she might have been cajoled into his way of thinking. As it was, his verbal assassination of Isabelle’s character amounted to throwing a gauntlet at Naomi’s feet.
“I will do exactly as I’ve been taught,” she declared. Her hands knotted spasmodically into fists at her side. She closed the distance between them until she could feel the angry heat radiating from him. From this angle, his hard features took on a comical appearance. She had a clear view of his nostrils, which loomed large from her vantage point. She refused to cower before a man who needed to employ a handkerchief.
Grant pulled his head back to look down at her. “I sincerely hope so,” he said.
“Oh, yes,” she answered in a low voice. “I shall do right by my guests and ensure they are made comfortable.” She hopped aside as he made to grab at her again.
“Do not defy me,” Grant warned. “You will rue the day.”
“You need either a new razor or a new valet,” she said breezily. “Your shave is completely botched.”
Grant slapped at his face and glowered when he found the missed patch of stubble.
She saucily waggled her fingers at him and strolled down the hall, head high and shoulders back. A thrill coursed up her spine at her own bravado. Not since taking her hair out of pigtails had Naomi ever spoken out against one of her brothers. She’d always behaved with comportment, in a manner befitting a member of the Duke of Monthwaite’s household. Her rebellion against her family’s abuse of her former sister-in-law was a rousing diversion.
She took deep breaths as she wended her way down the stairs, erasing from her face the evidence of her quarrel with Grant. A maid directed her to the front hallway, where Isabelle and Miss Bachman stood waiting. Isabelle wore a diaphanous muslin dress, and looked as spooked as a deer cornered by hounds, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. In counterpoint, the taller Lily Bachman wore a smart pelisse in the military fashion. She hovered protectively at her friend’s side, a resolute soldier ready to take on any foe, one perfect brow arched over a rich brown eye.
Naomi tsked at the bad grace shown by both the servants and her brother. No matter how the rest of the house might regard Isabelle, she and Miss Bachman should have at least been shown to a parlor to await eviction.
“Isabelle, I’m so delighted you’re here. Miss Bachman,” she said, turning to Lily, “thank you so much for coming. Please,” she gestured, “come with me.”
• • •
Isabelle followed Naomi through the house without paying much attention to the beautiful décor. She’d never been to Bensbury while she was married to Marshall. She had the surreal thought that she should have been mistress here, but instead walked the halls a barely tolerated stranger. She kept her eyes on Naomi’s back and let the house fade into the background.
They found the late duke’s sister in the library, reading a thick tome beside the window. She looked up at their entrance. Isabelle had never met the woman before. Finally encountering her former aunt-in-law felt as unreal as having been mistress of this house she’d never set foot in. It was all like a dream, and if it weren’t for the scandal of the divorce constantly hanging over her — and the memories of a man she could never quite put out of mind — Isabelle could convince herself her marriage never happened at all.
Lady Janine’s face was comprised of intelligent, kind eyes, a strong jaw, and an overall air of alert watchfulness. Though her age must have been well into her fifties, her eyes were a fresh, vivid blue, and her skin still retained a healthy glow, despite the creases touching the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hair gave the impression of having been hurriedly shoved under the cap on her head. Isabelle could relate to the impatience — she had often done the same thing with her hair when she worked at the George. For all the harassed appearance, however, the lady looked every inch the noblewoman, and Isabelle felt a bolt of unease. What had ever possessed her to agree to this madness?
Lady Janine set her book aside, revealing a cotton dress, dark gray in color and absolutely devoid of adornment, which had never been fashionable, excepting perhaps in a convent somewhere in the French Alps.
“Good morning, Auntie,” Naomi said, dropping a kiss onto the older woman’s cheek. “I’d like to introduce you to — ”