Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

I zzie spotted Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy as soon as she arrived at Lady Waldegrave’s house.

He looked magnificent in a black coat, cream breeches, and a garnet-red waistcoat. The clothes were similar to what every other gentleman in attendance had on. But lud —she had never seen a man who could fill out a coat like that !

Standing with her mother and sister, she fanned herself patiently, waiting for the chance to catch his eye and send him a smile. But he didn’t look her way, not even once.

The supper dance that marked the midpoint of the ball came and went. Izzie danced twice more, still paying more attention to the man standing alone in the corner than to her actual partner.

The ball was almost over, and he hadn’t so much as looked at her.

It was time to take matters into her own hands.

As a country dance ended, she saw him slip from the room, heading down a deserted hallway.

“Oh, dear!” she cried to her partner. “My, um… sister! She needs me.”

Lord Cuthbert, who was heir to the Marquess of Lindisfarne and whose shoulders compared very poorly indeed with those of Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy, glanced around. “Do you mean Lady Lucy? I don’t see her anywhere.”

Izzie pressed a hand to her heart. “I don’t have to see my sister to know when she is in”—she paused, staring into the distance, as if communing with some mystical power—“not distress, precisely, but… We’re twins, you see. Do excuse me!”

She left Lord Cuthbert looking extremely confused in the middle of the ballroom and threaded her way through the crowd.

The corridor Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy had entered wasn’t dark, but it was sparsely lit, suggesting that this was not the main area intended for guests. Izzie checked a few doors along the way but found the rooms deserted.

Finally, just as she was reaching the end of the hallway, a door clicked open, and her quarry stepped into the shadowy corridor.

“Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy!” she exclaimed, rushing over. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”

“M-me?” he asked, pointing to his chest, then looking around as if there could possibly be someone else with the last name of Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy in the deserted hallway.

“Of course,” she said, giving him her most brilliant smile.

They lapsed into silence. This flirting business was more difficult than it looked. Izzie cast about for a topic. “What brought you down this way?” she finally asked.

His ears turned as red as his waistcoat. “Oh, um. I was just visiting the, um… You know.”

Suddenly, Izzie’s face felt warm as well. Perfect . She had cornered him while he’d been using the necessary.

Very romantic, Isabella!

Oh, well. Sometimes you had to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, so she smiled at him again.

He cleared his throat. “What, um… What are you doing down this way?”

She decided that fortune favored the bold. “Waiting for you to ask me to dance.”

“ Oh !” His whole body jerked, as if something had crept up behind him and bitten him on the leg. “I… I… Would you grant me the pleasure of a dance, Lady Isabella?”

He was so masculine, unquestionably a man, not a boy. But he really did look adorable with that befuddled expression.

Isabella smiled. “No.”

He looked not annoyed so much as perplexed. “No? But you just said—”

She seized both of his hands in hers, smiling coquettishly as she walked backward, pulling him along after her. “Now that I think on it, I find that I would much prefer a turn about the gardens.”

He tripped over his own foot. “A turn about the—” He stared at their joined hands, his expression one of complete and utter confusion. “Are… Are you flirting with me?”

She gave a bleak laugh as she turned to face forward, looping her arm through his. “Not very effectively if you have to ask that question.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest it was ineffective so much as incomprehensible,” he muttered.

They entered the ballroom. Incomprehensible . How she hoped that didn’t mean that he thought her a little fool who wasted her time writing silly Gothic novels, and the notion that an important man like him would ever be interested in the likes of her was patently absurd.

Steeling herself, she asked, “Incomprehensible in what way?”

“Just look at you,” he said, sounding shocked that she had asked. “You’re the most beautiful woman ever to live. And I’m…”

He trailed off, his ears reddening again. Izzie felt a pleasant thrum in the center of her chest. The most beautiful woman ever to live —was that truly how he saw her? What a marvelous development!

She was so glad she had summoned the courage to corner him outside the gentlemen’s retiring room.

Archibald tried not to trip over his own feet— again —and embarrass himself as Lady Isabella steered him straight across the ballroom and out the French doors that led to the balcony.

She didn’t stop there but made for the stone steps that led down into the gardens. “I am embarrassed to say that I don’t know much about you, Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy. I have heard that you are a blacksmith. Is that correct?”

It was rare for someone to say that to his face. He glanced at her, expecting the worst, but her expression was all sincerity. She looked… genuinely curious. And she had not imbued the word with the usual note of derision. She said it as if being a blacksmith was no better or worse than being a duke, an earl, or a naval captain.

“I do some smithing, yes,” he said cautiously. “It is often necessary to create the things I want to build. But I primarily consider myself to be an engineer.”

She chuckled. “I fear I don’t know much about what that entails, either. What kind of engineering do you do?”

She was leading him deep into the garden as if this were completely ordinary and not something that could very easily lead to her ruination. “I build machines.”

“That sounds fascinating. What kind of machines?” she asked, tugging him through a stone arch.

The machine he was most proud of was his screw-cutting lathe. He’d been working on it for the past three years, and now had it to the point that it was ready to replicate. Once he had a dozen of them, he planned to open a factory dedicated to manufacturing machine-cut screws.

The machine represented his greatest goal as an engineer: to introduce true precision into manufacturing. His screw-cutting lathes could make precisely the same size of screws every single time, and they could do it at a volume impossible for a single craftsman working by hand to dream of.

Some people would say they were just screws. And they were, but this was merely the first step. The breakthrough was that they were built with precision. And the possibilities…

The possibilities if he could build things with precision were endless .

But however excited Archibald was about the progress he had made, he had learned the hard way that no young lady, much less the likes of Isabella Astley, who had the quickest wit of anyone he knew, would be impressed to learn that his life’s work involved making screws .

“I wouldn’t want to bore you,” he muttered. “But what about you? I understand that you write Gothic novels?”

They had come to a little stone bench. The rose bushes had been pruned back in anticipation of the coming winter weather, but it was still lovely.

Lovely… and secluded.

“That’s correct,” she said, taking a seat on the bench and pulling him down next to her.

“Won’t you tell me about them?” he asked.

She peered at him uncertainly. “Are you truly interested?”

Did she really have to ask? He could sit and listen to this woman read whatever the most boring book in the world might be… Debrett’s Peerage , most probably… for hours. The chance to hear her talk about the thing that excited her most in the world?

Priceless .

“I am.”

“Well,” she said hesitantly, “I recently finished a story about a poor young priest who takes up residence in a crumbling Welsh castle…”

It was Archibald’s dream come true. Isabella Astley was talking to him . She started out hesitatingly, eyeing him as if she were nervous about his reaction. Needless to say, he hung on her every word. As she saw that he was genuinely interested, her manner slowly became more open, like a flower unfurling its petals to the sun.

Her book sounded like a madcap romp, full of the vivacious energy he associated with her.

“And then,” she said, leaning forward, “the Marquis de Valeur discovers that his father, the Duke de Meritè, was not killed in the Terror after all, and is, in fact, the ghost living at the bottom of the well!”

“What?” Archibald said, laughing. “How did he manage to go so long without being discovered?”

Her eyes were solemn, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “There’s a guard bear.”

“A guard bear?” He threw back his head and laughed. “That’s marvelous! How did you think that up?”

He noticed her shiver, so he started peeling off his coat.

“I don’t know, I— Oh, thank you!” she said, sounding surprised but also delighted as he draped it about her shoulders.

He found he liked the sight of Isabella Astley wrapping herself snugly in his coat, a soft smile upon her rose-pink lips, but her expression suddenly turned solemn. “You don’t think it’s too ridiculous?”

“Of course, it’s ridiculous but delightfully so. That’s the point.” He paused as it occurred to him that he might have misunderstood. God, he hoped he hadn’t just offended her. “Isn’t it?” he asked hesitantly.

“Precisely!” she exclaimed, leaning forward and squeezing his forearm with both hands. “The plot is admittedly outrageous—”

“Which is what makes it so entertaining,” he finished.

“I’m so pleased you think so.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “This is such a relief!”

He tilted his head. “A relief? Why?”

She waved this off. “It’s just… Most people tell me that Gothic novels are a waste of time. That I should devote myself to serious literature, instead of writing this”—she suddenly looked down—“this rubbish .”

Archibald wanted to ask who these people were, where they lived, and what time they would be home so he could go to their house and punch them in the face. “Well, they’re wrong. To be sure, there’s a time and place for serious literature. But it’s books like yours that lift people’s spirits, that let them forget their troubles for a time. That is not to be discounted.”

She smiled at him, and his heart tripped. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”

He rubbed the back of his head, feeling as bashful as a schoolboy. “I’d quite like to read it.” It occurred to him in a flash that she probably only had one copy. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he added hastily.

She bit her lip. “Can you keep a secret?”

Could he keep a secret? He would fight a horde of angry Vikings for this woman. “I can.”

She dropped her voice to a hushed whisper, even though they were alone. “It’s being published by the Minerva Press.”

“Izzie!” he exclaimed. “That’s wonderful! I mean…” It occurred to him in a flash that he shouldn’t have called her by her first name. “I’m sorry. Lady Isabella —”

“No, you can call me Izzie. In fact”—she glanced up at him, her eyes suddenly shy—“I would like it if you did.”

He couldn’t believe this was happening. This was the best night of his life. “And you must call me Archibald.”

She nodded. “Very well. Archibald.”

God , but he liked the sound of his name on her lips. He cleared his throat. “What is the title?”

“ The Castle of Brynberian . I had to publish it anonymously, as writing Gothic romances is not a remotely appropriate undertaking for the daughter of an earl. It’s coming out next week.”

“I will be the first in line to get a copy,” he promised. “And you must sign it for me.”

“I will. Except…” Her face fell. “Except it will have to wait until next Season as I’m returning to Gloucestershire tomorrow.”

“ Oh .” He had known that, of course. He had even been thinking about how much he would miss her.

But suddenly, her leaving felt like a full-blown tragedy.

“Could I write to you?” he asked. It occurred to him immediately that the answer was probably no. “Or would that be considered improper?”

“It would be completely improper. But that has never stopped me before.” She tapped her lip, lost in thought, then perked up. “Address your letters to my sister-in-law, Elissa. She and Edward will be staying at the Dower House down the lane. She’ll pass them to me. I know she will.”

“Perfect. That’s what I’ll do.”

They lapsed into silence. After a moment, Izzie chuckled. “Look at us. I didn’t drag you out here so we could sit here, feeling morose.”

His heartbeat ratcheted up a notch. “Why did you drag me out here, then?”

She looked up at him, her eyes both eager and shy. “I dragged you out here hoping you would kiss me aga—”

His lips were on hers before she could even finish the sentence.