Banishment (Daughters of Mannerling 1) Read Free

falling into rack and ruin. Isabella stifled a sigh. The diamond tiara, which she had not worn in London, once more ornamented her hair, and a heavy diamond necklace, her neck. She had a brief little memory of what it had been like to run free across the fields but quickly banished it. Such thoughts were treacherous. She was the eldest sister and must set an example to the others. What of? ‘Failure,’ jeered a nasty new little niggling voice in her brain.
    At the end of the dance, her father introduced her to Viscount Fitzpatrick. The viscount had just arrived. Isabella sank into an elegant curtsy – but not too low. One must remember he was an Irish peer. He was a tall man. It was not often Isabella had to look up to anyone in this age of short people, but the Irishman topped her by a head. He was impeccably dressed and he had well-coiffed thick black hair worn in the Windswept, but his blue eyes in his lightly tanned face were bright, intelligent, and mocking, almost as if he found the Beverleys and their ball a prime joke. Sir William and Lady Beverley exchanged glances and then went off, leaving the couple together. Isabella’s heart sank. From formerly being considered fit partner only for a duke, her parents might now have lowered their sights and thought an Irish peer good enough.
    ‘You are a beautiful ornament to a beautiful home,’ said the viscount.
    ‘I am very proud of my home.’ Isabella sounded complacent. ‘And my sisters,’ she added, smiling indulgently across the room to where the other five stood in conversation.
    ‘It’s like a museum,’ he said in awe, ‘and you and your sisters are like exhibits under glass.’
    Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘That is impertinent.’
    ‘I am allowed an observation,’ he said with unimpaired good humour. ‘Pray walk with me and show me some of the beauties of your home.’
    So Isabella led him back to the landing overlooking the main staircase and pointed out with pride the painted ceiling, a swirling baroque assembly of classical deities, and then her voice gained energy and warmth as she went on to describe some of the many treasures of the house: the remarkable walnut Queen Anne chairs in the drawing room; the delicately carved rococo chimney-piece and overmantel of the fireplace in the library; the chinoiserie mirrors in the Blue Saloon; the large musical clock in the Red Saloon, which played a different tune for every day of the week; and the two Boulle marriage chests in the morning room.
    He gave a little shiver and his blue eyes danced. ‘Faith, it’s like being at an auction sale,’ he said.
    ‘I
beg
your pardon, my lord.’
    ‘It’s the way you give me an inventory of the contents. I am a superstitious man and would feel it was tempting fate if I itemized the contents of my home to a guest. “How much am I bid for this fine painting?” – that sort of thing. Now shall we dance?’
    Isabella was tempted to snub him as she had snubbed so many in London but was taken aback when he said gently, ‘That is, if it is correct to ask a married lady such as yourself to dance.’
    ‘You jest. I am not married.’
    ‘Oh, but you are.’ He drew her arm through his own and led her back into the ballroom. ‘You are married to this house, to Mannerling. Such devotion, such passion is wasted on bricks and mortar and geegaws.’
    She opened her mouth to protest but he drew her into the steps of a waltz. He chatted easily about his problems of getting his English estate in order and she began to relax. There was a warmth and friendliness about him that she found engaging. She liked to pigeon-hole people and so she put him down in her mind as an amusing rattle, not marriageable but entertaining, and in relaxing in his company and laughing at his sallies did not realize that animation was adding to her beauty.
    He danced again with her that evening and after it was over led her up to her father and asked permission to go out riding with her. Lady