Chapter Two
Raised voices from her father's study could be heard all through the house, and flaming hot words licked at her door. Isabella feared that the heated discussion between her father and Simon DeVillier would never end.
Confined to her room Isabella paced back and forth. What are they arguing about? Surely after discovering her with Luke, Simon would call off the engagement, get on his horse and leave. It was a pleasing prospect and yet, after what seemed like an interminable two hours, the two men were still in intense conversation and Isabella wondered what matters were being settled.
Isabella was exhausted after her the ride on Shadow and the dalliance with Luke. She kicked off her boots and threw the crop onto the bed. The stark realisation that she was not going to be summonsed immediately and was to be detained in her room worried her. The smell of Shadow, the stable and the lingering scent of Luke clung to her skin. Isabella rang the bell. Mary would help take her thoughts from her immediate predicament and a session with the maid was always distracting.
When Mary failed to appear, Isabella impatiently rang again and it was not long before she heard a gentle tap at the door.
'Come in Mary,' Isabella called. It wasn't Mary, but Miss Ellis, the housekeeper, who entered Isabella's bedroom
'Do you have need of anything Miss Isabella?'
The old woman, her silver hair scraped back severely, her hands and face crazed and wrinkled, and never dressed in anything but black, was a woman who stood no nonsense. Even her father would not argue with Miss Ellis, a woman who ruled the household with a rod of iron.
'Thank you Miss Ellis,' Isabella eventually said. 'I had been hoping that Mary would come and draw me a bath. After my ride, I feel quite...'
'I am afraid Mary has been assigned other duties,' Miss Ellis said sharply. 'The disruptions in this household have caused me a great deal of extra work, the luxury of a personal maid is one that I cannot countenance for you any longer, Miss Isabella.' The woman pecked around the room, picking up clothes, folding up undergarments, like a black crow picking over carrion. The abandoned riding crop was lifted between two fingers, as if it would contaminate her and placed in back into the mahogany box.
'I shall draw you a bath and lay out some fresh clothes, you should be correctly prepared. The garments you are wearing are only good enough for vagrants and beggars.'
Isabella remained tight lipped, but in her silence she could do nothing but agree, she was in a dishevelled state. It was obvious to Isabella that Miss Ellis was fully aware why her mistress had straw in her hair and smelled of stable manure.
Over the next half an hour a series of footmen traipsed through her room carrying buckets of scalding hot water, tipping each one into her bath. Isabella slipped into the perfumed bath, and lay back, relishing the way the hot water made her skin tingle. Taking hold of the soap, Isabella rubbed it in her hands until they were covered in lather, and began to wash the day from her body. She ran her hands down, cupping her breasts, soaping them until they glistened. The memory of Luke's mouth and hands enjoying her full, firm, breasts, tweaking the nipples until the buds became as tight as cobnuts, had her wanting to feel his eager fingers on her again. Her slippery hands slid lower, over her flat stomach, and over her slim hip. Isabella closed her eyes and moved her hands down gasping as she felt her fingers slip between her legs.
Isabella raised her knees and opened her legs wide, hooking her feet over the edge of the bath and allowing the water to caress between her legs. She could feel it warming her, the gentle movement of the soapy water brushed against her sex lips and lapping against her clitoris. Isabella slipped her head under the water and into glorious silence. No disapproval. Nobody telling her how she should behave. With only her mouth and nose exposed she was cut off from the maelstrom that her life had become.
As the water washed over her, she pulled her hair free from it clips and ribbons and allowed it to float on the water, copper and gold hair drifted around her face and Isabella felt like one of the nymphs in a Pre-Raphaelite painting, her smooth pale skin shimmering with soap and arousal. Isabella took hold of the soap and sliding it between her thighs she found the hard core of her clitoris and with wet slippery fingers began rub hard. Isabella's thoughts were of one thing only, releasing the tension in her body as if bringing herself to the brink, in some way, would give her the freedom she craved.
It only took a few strokes before Isabella yelped as a shock of intense pleasure coursed through her body. All the pent up anger and frustration of the past few days were for that instant swept away as the orgasm sent wave upon wave shuddering through her. Water splashed over the edge of the bath and Isabella slowly sat up.
'Are you alright Miss Isabella?' Miss Ellis shouted from the other side of the bathroom door.
'Yes,' replied Isabella hoarsely, not trusting herself to say more as she recovered from the release from fear and anger at her situation, leaving her devoid of emotion. 'I will be out shortly.'
A Chinese-silk gown clung to her wet skin, her hair dripped and her cheeks were flushed as if powdered with rouge, when she eventually left the bathroom. But Isabella felt blissfully calm. Even when Miss Ellis handed her the dullest dresses in the wardrobe, dark blue serge with a lace collar, Isabella did not complain. She knew the freedom she craved was within her grasp, she only had to be herself, someone who would take pleasure in her own body and delight in the effect she had on men and on some women. Lord Simon DeVillier will never get to know the real Isabella because, at that moment, she determined she would never willingly marry that man.
Isabella entered her father's book-lined study and the silence was so thick that a knife would have difficulty cutting through it. The heat that still remained between her thighs was quickly doused by the coldness of her reception. Simon was sitting in her father's chair, watching her every move, and Isabella's resolve to tell Simon exactly how she felt about him faltered. Her father was standing by the window, staring into the distance and refusing to look at her.
'Sit down, Isabella,' her father said in a voice chillingly cold.
Without a word Isabella sat on a red velvet chaise placed in the centre of the room.
