Author: Virginia Vice
Category: Historical
Go to read content：https://readnovelfree.com/p/45305_14
"Wh-who is your lady?" she asked, her voice fiery.
"I ain't ever heard of a Lady of Upton," the driver cut back at her with his growling, coarse tone. "Where's Upton, anyway?" she bristled, but the courage to respond fell out of her when his ghostly gaze pierced her once again. She felt humiliated; ashamed. Ashamed of her jealousy; ashamed of her outfit. Ashamed of this entire, sordid situation.
"Upton is—" she thought to interject, when she heard the creak of the manor doors behind her. Eyes popping wide she spun around, expecting to see the Lord Brighton. Instead, breezing past her with an inimitable sense of unperturbed grace flowed a woman dressed in a gown more expensive and elegant than Isobel had ever seen; thick and long and flowing behind her, a gown of gossamer baby-blues and whites in the exorbitant, Parisian style. Embossed with bows and ribbons, she moved with her back straight, her head held high, unaffected by anything in the world around her; not Isobel's gawking, not the ghastly gaze of the driver; not the burn of the sun or the bluster of the wind. Her skin was nearly as pale as the gossamer-white of her dress; hair of blonde lay braided down her back, with not a stray strand to mar the perfect image of an angelic woman strutting undeterred across rough cobblestones.
"M'lady," the driver tipped his hat to the woman, and Isobel froze, watching the elegant young lady approach the carriage. She moved silently, and when she finally spoke, her voice came out as soft as the silk of her dress; refined, perfectly appointed, but at the same time... icy. Uninviting - and steely in its resolve.
"Thank you, Arthur," she regarded him briefly, before her sky-blue eyes fell upon Isobel, who looked like a scabby pauper by comparison. "Is this woman Lord Brighton's new maidservant, Arthur?"
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"Claims she's a lady," the driver croaked, seedy and shifting across his driver's seat. "From somewhere called Upton." The lady studied Isobel briefly, tilting her head; Isobel silently squirmed, the woman's eyes as hot and painful against her poor dress and her skin as a blazing sun.
"Upton. A lady, from Upton." The dressy woman's voice felt ethereal, and simultaneously disconnected from reality - cold, even painful to the ears, as if every word closely and judgmentally examined its target. "I've not heard tale of Upton in some time. Certainly its prestige must have fallen in the past years. Certainly," she spoke, her eyes expressionless; almost soulless in their appraisal of Isobel, who tried her best to clumsily curtsy.
"My father passed recently. I'm Lady Isobel H... Duskwood," she responded meekly.
"Duskwood. Duskwood," the lady responded, a gloved finger moving to press against her own chin. "Well. Lady Duskwood. Conduct yourself charitably in the presence of my friend, won't you?" the lady tried to sound friendly, even smiling; but it was an inhuman smile, and her words came more as a chilling threat than an invitation. "Lord Brighton is a busy man. I'm ready to depart now, Arthur, thank you," the woman concluded after a lengthy stare into Isobel's eyes. The threat had shivered down Isobel's back - it felt so improper for a woman of such wealth and poise. Isobel again reflected on the lies she'd seen as the woman in the perfect dress hoisted herself into the carriage, giving a small, almost taunting wave, in Isobel's direction through the glass panes of her expensive vehicle.
The driver's venomous smirk flashed in Isobel's direction once more; with a nod of his wide-brimmed black hat, he gave a quick 'yip' to his steeds and their hooves vaulted into motion, carrying the startling, ethereal countess down the long, gravelly roadway. Startled, rattled; disturbed, Isobel gulped down a breath to steady her nerves at the harrowing encounter with two creatures that felt like they'd come from another world altogether. She nearly fell flat onto her back when she dared take a step, her limbs still frozen.
"Are you quite alright?" another harsh voice barked into her ear; another uninvited tone, and with each step she begged to see Mr. Trevingham's face again to whisk her away from the hell she had stepped in to. Over her shoulder she glimpsed a shorn and elderly figure; the old man, Lord Brighton's short-spoken butler, his face curled into a wrinkled frown, his arms crossed atop his chest. "I trust that your arrival didn't disturb the Lady Maryweather. She's a respected guest in the Norbury estate," he added pedantically. "Now, if you're quite finished, you've been expected, Lady Duskwood."
"Have you always got to be so frank, Werner?" Isobel sighed in soft relief when she saw another familiar face, Lilian the maid, emerge from behind the grunting and barking butler at the doorway. She grinned weakly, comfortably invited by the hardworking woman's loose, ragged smile.
"It's not my job to be kind to everyone," Werner growled.
"That's exactly your job, considering you're the first face most of Lord Brighton's guests are likely to encounter," Lilian commented incredulously. "Come on, Lady Duskwood. Don't mind him, truly." Werner responded with a simple groan and a roll of his eyes, beckoning Isobel into the Norbury estate. She followed dutifully, Lilian assisting her with the single trunk she had brought to contain what garments and effects she could handle. Werner slammed the doorway shut behind the women, and Isobel, with a de
ep breath outward, finally spoke.
"Ms. Lilian, who was—"
"Oh, the woman in the long, flowing dress? That way she looks at you, it's right frightening, isn't it?" Lilian whispered; the scandalous gossip brought a searing blush to Isobel's cheeks, yet she couldn't help but giggle at the maidservant's assessment. "That's the Lady Maryweather. An heiress from an estate up... somewhere," Lilian laughed and shrugged in a quiet, conspiratorial manner. "I'm not terribly familiar with the politics of nobility."
"You're not missing out," Isobel responded, exasperated. The two huddled beneath the shadow of the grandiose stairwell at the heart of the estate.
"I'm certain I'm not. Though, if there're ladies like you stuffed in those manors, perhaps that's something worth seeing," Lilian grinned. "Though, I suppose I need not go on a search for them. I didn't know that you'd be back for any particular amount of time... are you staying in the village? Has Lord Brighton arranged for accommodation?" Isobel stopped herself from quite immediately blurting out the nature of the arrangement. She stopped, looking up the stairs, indecisive. She so desperately wanted a kindred soul to confide her troubles in.
"I'm going to be... staying here, for some time. I've not yet decided how long," Lady Isobel answered, evasive in the true nature of the arrangement. Lilian pressed her, nonetheless.
"Staying in the manor? With Lord Brighton?" she whispered. "You're not... that's scandal, certainly waiting to happen. An unmarried woman," Lilian said.
"It's not my choice of things," Isobel sighed. "It's—"
"What's this conspiracy against me here at the foot of the stairwell, hmm?" Lord Brighton's voice tore into the quiet assembly of shared thoughts; Isobel cleared her throat, and Lilian smiled up at the duke, who smiled back. "Lilian. Always plotting against me, aren't you?"
"You'd be quite easy to plot against, m'lord," she joked. "You've left little to the imagination."
"There's always something to imagine, isn't there?" he responded in jest. "Lady Duskwood. A pleasure." He strode down the stairs, grasping at Isobel's hand. "I pray that you didn't suffer an encounter with the Lady Maryweather. And if you did, I hope that she didn't quite unsettle you the way that she unsettles Lilian, and the other ladies around the manor. She has a habit of that," Lord Brighton squawked facetiously. "Come. The study awaits our matters and negotiations." Matters and negotiations. Isobel felt a fire in her chest - both confused, anxious. Enticed, but full of dread and shame. Isobel gave a friendly nod to Lilian, who disappeared into the shadows of the foyer. Her eyes met Lord Brighton's again - his brow lofted, charm in his smirk. She took slow, moderated steps up the stairs, keeping her eyes to herself - because she knew he could see so much of her, there. The eyes.
"We still have matters to discuss, don't we, love?..." he murmured as she reached him. Her breath caught tight in her throat when she felt his words breathe against her neck. Suddenly the bite mark he'd left on her neck surged in pain - she remembered it, and the feeling of his teeth buried into her skin; it had swollen, reddened, but now lay as a small, bruised mark, barely visible above the neckline of her dress. It hurt, but it reminded her so much of him, making her legs quiver.
"Who was that... woman?" Isobel breathed out unsteadily.
"Lady Maryweather? Why? Are you jealous?" he teased; she looked away, eyes cast to the carpet.
"Jealous? Don't be absurd," Isobel scoffed, her words not quite as sure as she seemed to be.
"I think you are," he purred, and she felt him closer, upon her body in a whirl; she breathed harder and heavier, her body shaking. She felt him loom so close again and it rattled her - she remember what it was to smell him, feel him, and it crashed like a roaring tide against her mind, her words growing meeker and her cheeks blushing hotter.