London, September 1892
Forgetting all she’d been taught about dignified deportment, Isabella swept through the doors of Claridge’s as if blown in on the autumn breeze. Her golden curls and bright blue eyes drew many an admiring glance to which she was oblivious, as she hastily smoothed down the silk of her lilac skirts and straightened the strands of pearls around her neck. With her visit to Italy only days away, she’d been shopping for accessories to complement the new outfits her dressmaker had delivered that morning, and browsing the delightful displays, she’d completely lost track of time. Not wishing to keep Maxwell waiting, she hurried between the ornate marble columns and into the garden room decorated with potted palms. He’d been so preoccupied with business recently that time with him was precious.
A waiter showed her to a table secreted behind one of the oriental silk screens that divided the room into private alcoves.
‘Isabella, darling,’ he greeted her, rising to his feet. He was looking especially handsome in his dark jacket with a high-necked waistcoat, and the appreciative gleam in his slate-grey eyes sent shivers tingling down her spine, although she endeavoured not to show it.
‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?’ she asked demurely. Instead of answering, he glanced beyond her and frowned.
‘No bodyguard this afternoon?’
‘Oh Maxwell, you are terrible,’ she giggled. ‘You know Papa feels happier if Gaskell chaperones me. Though where she is this afternoon, I have no idea. I expressly told her I would be leaving the house at 2 p.m., yet when the clock struck the hour she was nowhere to be seen.’
‘You mean you took the opportunity to slip out unaccompanied? Whatever would dear Papa say?’ he exclaimed, throwing up his hands in mock horror.
‘I know it was bold of me, but I had shopping that couldn’t wait and, of course, I’ve been looking forward to our meeting. Although I have to confess Papa doesn’t know,’ she told him, staring at him from under her lashes. In truth, much as she hated deceiving her father, wild horses wouldn’t have prevented her coming.
‘Well, I can’t pretend I’m sorry to have you all to myself. Those beady eyes of hers watching my every move make me nervous, I don’t mind admitting. Still, here you are, and all on your own. How I shall restrain myself, I don’t know.’ He waggled his eyebrows so outrageously she had to laugh.
‘Oh Maxwell, you are a terrible tease.’
‘It’s the truth, I assure you. Now before you slap my face with your lily-white hand, I have taken the liberty of ordering sandwiches, fancies and a pot of Earl Grey,’ he told her becoming serious as another waiter approached, bearing a silver tray.
‘My favourites,’ she smiled, thinking how considerate he was.
‘How is your father?’ Maxwell asked, as soon as the waiter had poured their drinks and departed.
‘Busy as ever,’ she sighed, eyeing the food longingly. Shopping always made her hungry and the delectable fragrance of smoked salmon and cucumber was making her mouth water. However, Maxwell was staring at her intently.
‘I heard there was a takeover in the offing. Your father had a successful outcome, I trust?’ he asked solicitously.
‘If the long hours he’s been spending at his office are anything to go by, then yes he surely must have.’
‘That’s gratifying to hear,’ he replied before adding: ‘There have been rumours circulating recently.’
‘Oh?’ she asked.
‘Nothing for you to worry your pretty head about,’ he assured her, reaching across the snowy tablecloth and running one finger lightly down the back of her hand. She glanced around guiltily. Although they were screened from view, she daren’t risk word getting back to Papa. Her father had been polite whenever Maxwell called for her, but they were so close she knew by the set of his face he didn’t approve of their liaison. Discovering she was here unchaperoned wouldn’t help matters at all, even if Maxwell wasn’t to blame. As if reading her thoughts, Maxwell’s hand tightened on hers.
‘Isabella darling, you must know how I feel about you,’ he murmured, leaning closer and staring into her eyes. ‘Don’t you think it’s time we set a date for our betrothal?’ Her heart leapt yet she endeavoured to stay composed.
‘I leave for Florence next week, Maxwell,’ she reminded him.
‘The city that shimmers gold,’ he smiled.
‘You’ve been there?’ she asked.
‘Indeed, I have. Father insisted I see something of the world before taking up my position with his firm. I shall think of you on the Ponte Vecchio, the glorious green waters of the Arno gliding beneath your feet.’
‘You paint a delightful picture, and of course I’m thrilled I shall be visiting Rome as well. I really can’t believe my good fortune.’ Her eyes clouded. ‘You do realize I shall be away for over three months?’
‘I know, dearest, and I shall miss you terribly,’ he sighed. ‘However, with your appreciation of the arts, it will be a wonderful experience for you.’
‘I have to confess to looking forward to going, although I do worry . . . ’ her voice trailed away.
‘Worry? What about?’ he asked.
‘You’ll think me silly, but it’s the first time I’ve travelled abroad and, although Gaskell will be with me, I can’t help worrying something will go wrong. Suppose I don’t like it?’
‘Oh Isabella, you will love it, I’m sure,’ he assured her. ‘However, should there be any problem then I shall come and bring you home again.’
‘You’d do that for me?’
‘Of course, your happiness is paramount, sweetest.’
‘Thank you, Maxwell,’ she whispered, her heart swelling. ‘I am going to miss you.’
‘Then with your permission, I shall speak to your father the moment you return.’ He waited for her to reply, his eyes never leaving hers. Butterflies skittered in her chest and she looked down at her plate, pretending to consider. ‘We could hold a ball for your coming of age in the new year and make the formal announcement then.’
‘Goodness, that soon?’ she gasped, staring at him in surprise. His smile widened as he held her gaze.
‘It can’t be soon enough for me, Isabella, and besides as an old man of nearly thirty, I need a wife by my side,’ he told her. ‘I believe amethyst is the appropriate stone for those born in early February. One would be a perfect match for those beautiful cornflower eyes of yours that tinge violet when roused.’
‘Stop it, Maxwell, you’re making me blush,’ she cried, feeling the heat creeping up her cheeks. ‘Fancy you knowing my birthstone,’ she added, for he wasn’t usually given to sentiment.
‘My grandmother told me,’ he admitted with a wry grin. ‘Her birthday is the day before yours and she wears such a ring.’
‘Really? We shall have something to talk about when we meet.’
‘You agree then?’ he urged, tightening his grip.
‘I suppose if we were betrothed, then we would travel together. That alone makes your proposal worth considering,’ she replied, smiling so he knew she was teasing, for there was nothing she desired more. Although he returned her smile, it didn’t reach his eyes and thinking he’d had enough of discussing personal matters, she changed the subject. ‘On my way here, I passed a gallery displaying charming pictures by a Scottish artist. His exhibition debuts this very evening.’ She looked at him hopefully.
‘I’m sorry, Isabella, but I already have