Free Fallen by Celeste Bradley Page A

mornings after had provided much giggling and whispered conspiracy as the child had been whisked secretly back to her own room. She could recall being "dear Ithy," and the stickiness of a child's precious kiss.
    Millie had been daughter, sister, and playmate to a lonely twelve-year-old.
    Eventually, age and Hildegard's disapproval had come between them. Izzy's expanding duties had left little time to play, and Sheldon's presence in the schoolroom had squelched any intimacy where they might have escaped Hildegard's influence. Millie had begun parroting her mother's criticism, and Izzy had been deeply hurt.
    Now, she restlessly prowled the emerging gardens. Although she saw many tasks that needed doing, she could not seem to concentrate on them. The coming night's mortification weighed on her, making her feel as if her pride faced the gallows of society's judgment.
    She had to smile at the dark drama of that thought. Deciding an hour of mulch raking was precisely what was needed, she entered the warm stable to fetch her rake. Passing by the horses, she stopped to visit Lizzie.
    "Sorry, dear one. No apple today. Just a heavy heart, and you cannot relieve me of that."
    "Will you be ridin' today, my lady?"
    Izzy jumped. "Oh! Hello, Timothy. No, I do not feel much like it today." Truly, she was afraid if she rode away right now, she might never return. However tempting the thought, she had made a commitment to Julian. Straightening away from her horse, she gave Timothy a stern look. "Did we not discuss this 'my lady' business already, Timothy?"
    "Yes, miss. But I'm thinkin' you better get used to hearin' it, same as I better get used to sayin' it." He grinned at her with insouciant charm.
    Giving him a glare of mock anger only made his crooked grin wider. Izzy laughed despite her mood. Dear Timothy. The stable was a new haven, like her garden, now that Timothy and Lizzie were in residence. The stablehand never failed to make her laugh, and Lizzie's uncomplicated affection soothed her soul. Izzy left with her rake, her mood lightened.
    Hildegard had not liked feeding a servant she could not put to work, but Izzy had only to mention Julian's probable opinion of a household that could not manage to support one lone stablehand. That quickly stifled her protest.
    Timothy had proven to be quite a smash with Cook for his appreciative appetite, and Betty, Hildegard's maid, had quickly fallen for his sturdy appeal.
    Timothy had nothing but disdain for "tha auld sow," as he called Hildegard, and Izzy was often forced to hide her smiles and chide him for his disrespect. He only pursed his lips at her and teased her into laughter yet again.
    As she raked the winter mulch from her returning perennials, she fell back into brooding over the ball.
    She had a lovely gown. She had a very attractive escort. She had a friend awaiting her there. She even had the support, if one could call it that, of family.
    Why, then, was she dreading it so? Why the cold, hard lump of fear in her middle? It was only a large gathering of some of the most important and wealthy people in England. It was only a court of judgment on looks, fashion, and behavior, with sudden deadly annihilation for those found guilty of trespass.
    And she had no doubt she would be. A trespasser. A poseur. An imposter.
    She suddenly wished Julian would not be there. Of course, if he was not, neither would she be. Yet to have him see her miserable failure tonight seemed the worst of all.
    He was the first person in years to listen to her, laugh with her. She loved his eyes when he was with her, the way he truly looked at her, truly
saw
her. It had been years since anyone had bothered to see her. She did not want that look in his eyes to fade, to be replaced by scorn or indifference.
    She was well snared, however. Forced to go, for he had asked it of her. She tried to tell herself that none of it would matter, that soon she would cross the sea and forget all about England and the Marchwells.