Page 1 of Rescuing a Tantalising Heiress
Chapter 1
Hampshire, England, Spring, 1812
“You must sit still, my lady. I can’t get the pins out otherwise,” Isabella Burlington’s maid, Anne, said, tutting, as Isabella flinched.
“Oh, leave it, Anne. I think I heard the carriage outside,” Isabella replied, rising to her feet and hastening to the window.
But it was a fool’s errand, and the forecourt at the front of Burlington Grange was empty—as it had been the previous half a dozen times Isabella had checked that evening. She was waiting for her father, the Duke of Burlington, to return from an evening of playing cards, and would not settle until he was home.
Dusk was falling, and the moon was climbing into the sky, the sun setting over the wooded parkland beyond the gardens, and Isabella sighed, sinking down onto her bed and picking up a volume of poetry she had been idly flicking through.
“I’m sure he won’t be long, my lady. And he’ll go straight to bed. You know what your father’s like. He detests late nights. He’ll demand a brandy from Jenkins and go straight to his bed,” the maid said, and Isabella tossed aside her book and rolled onto her side.
“I know, but…I worry about him. What if something has happened? What if the carriage is lying upturned in a ditch, or bandits have seized him, or…” she began, working herself up into a frenzy of worry as she rose again to her feet, unable to keep still in her agitated state.
Her dog, Caesar, barked, jumping up at her as though assuming it was time for his walk. He was a delightful creature, a yappy little thing with a chestnut brown coat and big, droopy ears. He had been a present from her father at her coming out, and she doted on him, always spoiling him with titbits from the table, and allowing him to sleep on her bed.
“Oh, my lady. Don’t worry yourself so. He’ll be back. Have no fear of that. Now, why don’t I go down and fetch you a nice cup of chamomile tea? You can get into bed and read your book. You’ll be asleep in no time, and you’ll wake up to find your father home, safe and sound,” Anne said, giving Isabella a reassuring smile.
Anne had always indulged Isabella. She had been her maid since she was a child, and had been something of a mother to her, as well as a friend, following the tragic death of the duchess when Isabella was only nine years old. It was for that reason Isabella worried about her father. Ever since her mother’s death, she had been gripped by a pathological fear of being orphaned.
Her mother was dead, and if her father died too, she would be forever alone. At least, that was how she thought of it. She had no siblings, and only distant relatives to call her own. Her father meant everything to her, and until she knew he was safely home, there would be no possibility of sleep.
“A cup of chamomile teawouldbe nice, but…oh, I can’t settle, Anne. Is that a carriage I hear?” Isabella said, springing to the window as Caesar bared excitedly.
But there was no carriage and no sign of her father’s return. Isabella sighed, knowing she would never, and only feeling more agitated as she paced up and down on the rug in front of the hearth.
Her bedroom at Burlington Grange contained all manner of distractions—piles of books, her easel and paints, a pianoforte and several other musical instruments, all of them indulgent gifts from her father. But until he was safely home, Isabella could find no satisfaction in anything.
“My lady, please—you’ll have me fetching the smelling salts if you don’t calm down,” Anne said, but Isabella could not calm down, and seizing Caesar’s lead, she called for a shawl.
“I’m going to take Caesar out for a walk. We’ll go to the folly by the lake and back. Perhaps my father will be back by then,” Isabella replied.
Her maid looked doubtful, but Isabella would hear no argument. Her mind was made up, and despite the gathering dusk, she was determined to take Caesar for a walk, hoping the fresh air might calm her nerves. Anne did as she was told, though she insisted on Isabella having her travelling cloak wrapped around her shoulders.
“A spring evening can bring a chill with it, my lady. It’s a clear sky. There might even be a frost tonight. I’ll have your cup of tea ready for your return. And try not to worry about your father, my lady. He’s old enough to take care of himself. He’ll be back. You’ll see,” she said.
Isabella nodded. She would not argue with Anne. Her maid was the most loyal of friends—her only real friend, despite their differences of class. Isabella had lived a lonely childhood in Hampshire. She did not make friends easily, for she found the company of other women dull and their conversation tedious. Isabella was a blue stocking—interested in intellectual pursuits and was far happier in a library than a salon.
“I won’t be long. But I just can’t settle, Anne,” Isabella said, tugging on Caesar’s lead and hurrying the dog out of her bedroom.
Caesar thought it a marvellous adventure, and he barked happily as they made their way downstairs and through the darkened hallway, where the portraits of Isabella’s ancestors looked down on them imperiously. A single candle burned in a sconce by the door, the key hanging ready for the butler to admit the duke at whatever time he returned.
Isabella let herself out, making her way down the steps from the main door of the house and onto the forecourt. The silvery light of the moon illuminated the house, the grand edifice rising above her, and her own window the only one illuminated.
“Come now, Caesar, to the folly and back. There’s a good boy,” Isabella said.
Caesar was tugging on the lead. In the daytime, she would let him off, allowing him to roam freely in the shrubberies and sniff away to his heart’s content. But with darkness falling, she was more cautious, only letting him go when they were in the middle of the lawn, and she could watch him running back and forth in the moonlight.
Anne had been right about the chill. The sun had shone during the day, but the evening was cold, and she pulled the cloak around her, glad of her maid’s insistence on her wearing it.
“I wonder where he could be? I do hope Sir William doesn’t keep him at Seymour House all night,”Anne thought to herself, glancing along the dark driveway in the hope of seeing her father’s carriage approaching.
But all was quiet on the estate, the hooting of a distant owl the only sound to break the stillness. Burlington Grange stood in lonely isolation at the centre of a large estate, bordered by the River Burl, which arced its way around the small village, which also bore the duke’s name. The church clock was striking midnight, and Anne called to Caesar, who had disappeared from sight as they approached the folly.
“Caesar? Where are you? Oh, I shouldn’t have let you off the lead. Come here, Caesar,” Isabella called out, just as the dog yelped, as though in pain.
The folly was a fancy of her grandfather’s—a neo-classical temple in miniature, built of white marble, which stood ghostlike at the far end of the lawns, facing the boating lake. Isabella had never liked it—it spoiled the view across the parkland and was hardly built to exacting terms.
