The Unlikely Lady (Playful Brides #3)(14)

Garrett stared unseeing into the fireplace. How the devil did Isabella Langford know he’d been planning to come to the house party? He certainly hadn’t mentioned it in any of the notes.

“Is she—” He swallowed. “Has she arrived?”

“Not yet.” Cass shook her head. “I believe she intends to arrive first thing in the morning.”





CHAPTER EIGHT

Garrett shut the door to his guest bedchamber behind him. He made his way over to the wing-back chair in front of the poster bed. He sat and shucked off his boots. Then he stood and strode to the window, flexing his toes. He looked down on the courtyard below, a sweeping expanse of gravel in front of the manor house.

Two words kept repeating themselves in his brain.

Isabella Langford.

She was Harold Langford’s widow. Harold Langford had been one of Garrett’s closest friends in the army. Harold had not returned from Spain. But Garrett had, and he’d done what he could—inadequate though it may be—to see to it that Isabella and the children were taken care of ever since.

Isabella was coming? Here? It made him … uneasy. He’d spent years distancing himself from those years at war. Even though the nightmares woke him with a cold sweat each night, he’d done an admirable job of keeping his Society life separate from his memories.

Lately, that was becoming more difficult. He’d seen Isabella at an increasing number of Society events in town. A fortnight ago, he’d even run into her when he was out and had been obliged to escort her home. She’d invited him in for a drink. He’d declined.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d been flirting with him. It made him bloody uncomfortable. Now she had managed to wheedle an invitation to Cassandra’s wedding? Something about it seemed not quite right. And mentioning the house party? Had he even told her about it? He was certain he had not.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair. Deuced uncomfortable. He’d been looking forward to a bit of relaxation this week, but now that Harold’s widow was arriving, it would be anything but relaxing.

Garrett’s thoughts turned to Lucy and Miss Lowndes. Jane. Funny how he called Cassandra and Lucy by their Christian names but he’d never done so with Jane Lowndes. She, however, referred to him only as Upton. As if she couldn’t spare the word “mister.” He was quite certain if he said “Tory,” Miss Lowndes would say “Whig” just to spite him. Lucy insisted her friend was truly a nice young lady, once one got to know her. Perhaps she was … to other young ladies, but she’d been nothing but irascible to him.

Miss Lowndes assumed that anyone who didn’t have his nose permanently wedged between the pages of a book was an idiot. A rake, she called him. A profligate. What did Little Miss Bluestocking know about profligate rakes? Typical. Those who had no fun in life were constantly criticizing those who did. Perhaps Miss Loudmouth might benefit from a bit of rakishness and profligacy from time to time. He had to admit to a reluctant—very reluctant—admiration for her quick wit and biting sarcasm. He appreciated intelligence as much as the next person. Too bad the sting of her barbed words was too often aimed in his direction. Regardless of his issues with the woman, she was Lucy’s friend. She had been loyal to Lucy when few others would speak to her, before she’d become all the rage as the Duchess of Claringdon. He would give Loudmouth that.

Now, when Lucy had a party, half the ton clamored for an invitation. What a difference a year made. But true to her character, Lucy had kept her dearest friends, Cassandra Monroe and Jane Lowndes, close to her and the three remained inseparable. Yes, Garrett could abide Miss Lowndes if he had to. She made Lucy happy, and that was what mattered.

As for the scheme the two were cooking up, Garrett would have to get to the bottom of it sooner rather than later. A scandal couldn’t end well. How could they believe otherwise? Those two women, always so certain of themselves. Damn it. He’d had enough experience with Lucy’s schemes to know that they often lacked preparation and ended poorly or at least caused a great deal of havoc before ending happily. The Mrs. Bunbury plot alone sounded as if it were quite enough trouble. What else could they possibly dream up in the way of a scandal? Garrett scrubbed his hand through his hair again. Best not to answer that question.

He turned from the window and walked to the bed where he slid onto the mattress and lay facing the wood-beamed ceiling. He rubbed his temples. Sleep had long been a jest to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually slept through an entire night. He hadn’t made it through a night in the last ten years without waking in a cold sweat, hearing Harold Langford’s screams.

Garrett closed his eyes. He was tired, suddenly, exhausted. Isabella would be arriving tomorrow. She’d come and meet his friends. What would it be like to have his two worlds together? He’d spent the last ten years ensuring they remained far apart. His past in the army in Spain, his present as the heir presumptive to the Earl of Upbridge. They were entirely different circumstances populated by entirely different people. Well, except for Claringdon and Swifdon, that is. Both of them had been in the army in Spain with him. Good men.

Garrett had spent a great deal of time wishing he’d died in Spain. He probably should have. He’d had no business buying a commission and leaving for war. Not since his cousin Ralph was dead and the Upbridge title would pass to some unknown cousin or revert back to the Crown if Garrett died as well. But he’d done it, just the same. Done it and lived. Lived with his regrets.