Dearest William,

I am afraid I cannot perfect the waltz although I do enjoy dancing.

Perhaps, in time, you might teach me? I shall try not to step on your foot.

Your friend,

Lady Weis

*****

Ysabella had never attempted to carry any of her brothers—all five of them—for she never found a need to. They spent countless nights foxed on the floor of a drawing room and she never had to take the task of taking them to their rooms.

Yet now here she was, carrying a limp man as the rain thundered down toward them.

Oh, she would have enjoyed the rain, even danced under it, if not for the heavy weight she had to drag toward the cabin!

"Blood!" she cried, sputtering rainwater. "Not even my advances work on you, yet you swoon at the mere sight of blood!"

Wakefield moaned as the raindrops became heavier, soaking them both.

"Good! You're finally awake!" she cried out, dropping him on the wet grass to regain her strength. His hand moved but soon dropped back on the ground. "Oh, Sweet Mr. Jones, help me," she prayed as she bent back down to grab Wakefield by his coat over his shoulders and started dragging him toward the cabin once again.

By the time she reached the door to the cabin, Ysabella was breathing hard and both of them were completely soaked.

Wakefield opened his eyes with a moan and she rolled her eyes, resting him to the side of the cabin to open the door. Once done, she went back for him and this time he was able to regain a bit of strength and she managed to help him stand up.

"I came to Bertram for a relaxing respite, not for this," she told him as she guided him to the small bed, one probably used by the workers to rest. With a grunt, she helped him down on the bed none too gently.

"Water," he muttered.

"There are quite a lot dropping through the holes outside," she snapped, backing away from the bed, hands on her hips, her chest heaving. "I am afraid there is none here," she added, looking around the cabin. It was filled with tools but she doubted there was any food or water.

The rain was heavily pouring and she feared of going out to call for help. Flood had always been a problem to plantations such as this. She would not risk her own life to get him a bloody drink!"

Looking about, she saw a small fireplace and winced. She did not know how to light a fire. They never needed one in Wickhurst, but she understood why this particular cabin needed it. It was under a hole and one could say it was almost the same as living aboveground where they could be vulnerable to many of its elements, snow in particular.

Looking for something else to help the both of them get warm, she looked under the bed and found thick blankets. She wrapped one over her shoulders and proceeded to help Wakefield by tugging at his hands to make him sit. Taking off his soaked coat and leaving his damp shirt on, Ysabella wrapped another blanket around him.

He was almost back to consciousness as he was able to finally keep himself upright in bed while she proceeded to find anything to help clean his wound. Finding clean cloth in one of the drawers, she went outside the cabin to soak it with rain water.

When she returned, his eyes were fully open and he was staring at her with confusion.

"I did not know you are sensitive to blood, my lord," she said as she approached.

He groaned in embarrassment.

"Bloody shameful, eh?" she could not help but say, laughing at her own wit.

"What are you doing?" he weakly asked her as she kneeled on the floor and carefully began to fold his tattered trouser over to his calf.

"Doing my bloody best to clean the wounds, my lord," she murmured, sputtering with mirth at the word bloody.

"You are mocking me," he accused.

She looked up to offer him a satisfied smile, her eyes glinting with laughter. "Yes, I think I bloody am, my lord."

His eyes narrowed and she had the sudden urge to reach up to brush his wet blonde locks away from his face. They had darkened to nearly brown. But she did not do that, reminding herself that she would merely potentially scare him away. Instead, she focused on cleaning his wound, wiping away the blood and dirt. He remained quiet, but the bunching of his muscles told her he was in pain.

As she finished, she wondered why he never told Lady Weis about this fear of blood. Mayhap there were things she did not know about him after all, things she was yet to discover.

Ysabella was not certain if she ought to feel excited or disappointed. She had thought she knew him well enough, but it did not seem so.

What could have caused him to have this sort of fear? She wanted to know the story behind it.

"It is raining," he commented as she finished her task, wrapping another clean cloth around the cuts. He should be fine. The bleeding had stopped and as she had first thought, they could merely be considered scratches. He should be leaping on the same leg after a day or so.

"I would have enjoyed the rain if I was not dragging you here," she murmured, standing up.

He looked up at her from the bed. "Thank you."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. Turning away from him, she walked to the window to look outside. Tiny streams of water were running through the grassy land and into the crops. "Levi once made Tori, his wife, an artificial rain," she said, pulling at the blanket around her. "He punched tiny holes into the bottom of bins, hung them over the tree and connected tubes over them to supply them with water."

He was silent for a while that she thought he decided to not comment until he said, "I never knew my friend had such a streak of romance."

Ysabella looked over her shoulder to grin at him. "Love, I think, moves one to do foolish, romantic things."

He stared at her, his eyes gentle and bluer than the last time. He looked pale still, but colour was slowly returning to his cheeks.

Turning away to face the window again, she contented herself with but the mere sound of rain outside and the sight of water rushing toward the corns. Sunlight was starting to shine down once more. The rain might stop soon.

"What made you decide to do it?"

She turned away from the window to face him from across the room. "Do what?"

He shrugged. "What made you decide to pursue me? It had always been a baffling matter for me."

The smile on her lips faded as one corner lifted into a wicked grin. "You have always thought I was merely playing games. Why can it not be the only reason?" When he frowned, she laughed. "I have always known you existed, my lord. I've seen you in many balls and heard my brothers talk about you in passing. I never thought you were that great until I talked to you."

"Talked to me?"

She nodded. "Do you remember when I tried to stop you at the Walkelin ball when you tried to go after Tori?"

He slowly nodded although she doubted he remembered fully well.

"It was when we learned Lady Clarice was having an affair with Lord Archibald," she provided, refreshing his memory.

His eyes widened, his expression clearer now. "Ah, yes, that night."

"I thought you were the most handsome man I had ever seen when I walked up to you for a dance, which you refused, of course. But then, most ladies would agree with me." She shrugged, smiling at the memory. "But when I surmised why you wanted to stop Tori from meeting Lord Archibald that night, I knew then that you are not just a simple dandy, nor a stupid rake." When he did not comment, she added, "Because you did intend to stop the meeting, did you not? You know Lord Archibald had been having an affair with Lady Clarice and if Tori learned of it she would be hurt."

His gaze faltered and he looked away in discomfort.

"You do actually care about others," she said, smile widening. "And it was then that I decided I shall be your wife."

His blue eyes flew back to her. "There is more to me that you do not know, little one. And I must say that most of them are not desirable."

With cocked brows, Ysabella asked, "Like the fact that you hate your brother? I am not a fool not to notice that."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Is that why you suggested he make the first move and talk to me?"

She went cold, blood rushing down her face.

To her surprise, his lips twitched into a smile. "I heard it, little one."

*****

"You must be furious then," was her nonchalant reply. Her hair was damp and a few strays stuck to the side of her full cheeks, a feature that reminded him of her age. Yet the rest of her was no child. Her slender neck and hands were that of a woman. So were her shoulders. And her full hips. And her—

Mentally shaking his head, Wakefield ignored the sight of her as he did the throbbing of his wounds and said, "Thomas, like my father was, is a domineering one."

She looked as if she was seriously considering his words. Good, he thought.

"He would do anything for his wealth and name, even marry someone far too young for him so long as she is rich and with title." She started to say something but he did not let her. "I've lived in his shadows for too long to know this. He shall never let you take control of anything for that is what he is. I was merely lucky to have landed myself a title, but I could not say the same for you should you marry him. You shall never be free again."

He watched as her eyes narrowed. It seemed forever until she moved and sighed to give him an inquiring look. "Why do you always think that your brother and mother are working against you? Could it not be that everything is merely in your head? I have been with the both of them and they had nothing but nice to say about you. Mayhap Thomas is arrogant and prejudicial, but he never spoke of you the way you speak of him."

Wakefield's jaw tightened. "Mayhap because they wish to paint Thomas as a good and honourable man."

"Or mayhap you do not truly wish to know your brother for who he is. After all, it had been years since you've lived under his shadow. He could be a changed man," she countered.

Wakefield shook his head. "You must return to Wickhurst. Surely there are other places for you to go should you really wish for a vacation. Bertram—"

"—is a lovely place," she interrupted, walking away from the window to sit beside him. He inched a little farther away to give her room. Suddenly it felt warmer with her beside him.

"Then what do you intend to do with my brother's plan to marry you?"

When she did not reply, he turned to look at her and to his surprise, her face had gone scarlet. His eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you—"

She was already shaking her head in response. "Of course, I am not in love with him for it is quite obvious my affections are fixed on someone else." Her eyes flickered toward him before they looked away. Her fingers twiddled with each other. "But today," she added with hesitation, "I must admit that your brother did make me feel like a woman."

Something inside Wakefield flinched, near his chest to be precise. Somehow, those words by her struck him.

She must have sensed his intense, curious gaze for she suddenly grew conscious. Her back straightened and her shoulders squared. She turned to steal a glance at him and she let out a small smile, one that was meant to appear confident, but one that came out as something innocent.

Thomas did see her as a woman. So did a few other lords who had been courting her since her first season.

And she was a woman.

He must admit that now. She was one and twenty, an age men would want for their wives.

And if Wakefield could further be more honest, Ysabella Everard had matured in thinking. Her actions toward him may have been merely to have fun, but the more he listened to her talk when she was not playing one of her games or when she was talking to others, she talked more sense than anyone older than her.

He went cold when a thought precipitously entered his thoughts.

Mayhap it was not her that did not grow in the three years, but it was how he saw her that refused to grow.

Suddenly a sudden inscrutable feeling that bordered fear kindled in the pit of his stomach.

He started to fear that he was seeing Ysabella Everard in a different light. In fact, again, should he truly be honest, it started at the Theobald's.

*****

Ysabella was praying for the rain to stop for the longer she was with Wakefield, the more she was growing uncomfortable. She was getting restless, something she was not used to in his presence.

It could be because there was no one around and there was just the two of them. No corner of a ballroom to escape to, no dances for excuses. There was just the two of them and she was even more so aware of his presence. She realized she knew not how to handle him without something planned in mind. It was as if it was the first time she met him. Those letters they shared suddenly seemed useless at that moment. Her mind was blank of a plan.

Clearing her throat, she thought of something that would turn the tables. It was better for her to deal with a frustrated Wakefield than this silent one. It was more familiar, she thought.

"I have heard rumours that you have already found Lady Weis," she uttered, daring herself to face him.

His eyes seemed distant for a while before her words registered and the familiar sardonic look reappeared. He did not answer, merely stared at her, waiting for her next words. He knew her too well this way, she thought with amusement.

"Mayhap you merely let them think you have already found her because you want me to believe the same, thus forcing me to cease all my advances."

His left eye did not twitch as he said, "Mayhap they are correct and I truly have found her and are quite in love."

Ysabella frowned. Her insides began to knot. Was he telling the truth?

Had someone truly stolen Lady Weis' identity?

But who could it be?