Dearest Lady Weis,

I went to Standbury to visit Levi Everard.

I must admit that I do envy the man. He is an inventor and he has a wonderful family.

While I am still here in Wickhurst living the old life he and other friends had already left.

Sad, really, how we do not find contentment on things we once thought would make us utterly happy. The mere sight of a different sort of happiness and we want something the same.

Yours,

William

*****

Wakefield was contemplating whether or not he ought to go back to Wickhurst.

He was doing the same thing while he sat with Ysabella and his mother as the two had decided to have another picnic while waiting for Thomas to be done with work. His brother had once more hidden himself in his study to answer missives.

In Wakefield's experience Thomas would not come out until it was time for supper.

His mother was taking a nap in a chair, the white cat on her lap doing the same thing. Merely a few days with Ysabella, the feline and the woman had gone quite inseparable.

Ysabella was reading a book she picked from Thomas' library.

"Do you like geography?" he found himself asking out loud. The cat stirred and stared at him as if it too, found the question odd.

Ysabella did not lift her gaze from the book. "Yes, of course," she murmured.

Wakefield nodded, relieved.

"But I am merely jesting," she said with a chuckle, eyes still on her book. "No one likes geography."

He did not comment. Finally her eyes lifted and met his only to divert away to somewhere else.

The days that followed that night in the parlour had been awkward for him. He could tell she was trying to act as nonchalant as she could, but they both knew better, although he knew she was doing better than he.

Something had changed, he knew it.

And he did not bloody know how to deal with it.

For nearly three bloody years now, he had thought of her as naught but his friends' sister. In his eyes, the sight of Ysabella coming to a ball he was in attendance to meant trouble. Her very presence would push his instinct to walk away.

And now, everything was not as they were. He could blame the bloody Theobald party where he had allowed himself the lack of restraint.

He could blame Lady Weis for disappearing and leaving him with naught but the time to see other things, for leaving him the dark without an explanation and letting him find his way back into the light without her. If she had merely stayed in correspondence, he'd be thinking of what he'd write to her next instead of spending his time looking at Ysabella reading a bloody book.

Sensing his gaze, Ysabella closed her book and stood up, suddenly restless. She was not used to this as well.

She came here to be with his mother, not be courted by Thomas. And most definitely not be the subject of Wakefield's ambiguous attentions.

He was not being fair to her. He claimed to be in love with another, yet what he did that night in the parlour would have probably confused her.

For someone who had always been open of her feelings toward him, she had every right to feel restless.

"I would like to stretch my legs for a while," she said, excusing herself. Without waiting for his reply, she walked away toward the edge of the plantation where the workers were.

She was wearing a light, blue dress that easily moved with each step, emphasizing the sway of her hips. Her bare arms were nearly white under the sunlight coming from above the hole. She had let down her hair and the slight wind blew it to the side.

The sight of her was mesmerizing, making Wakefield wonder how she'd look if she were to walk around the fields of his estate in Wakefield.

Why was he noticing all these only now? Because of his brother? Because there was no one about? They were not in a ball or a wedding where she could draw as much attention to herself.

He realized now that Ysabella was not who she was when she was in front of a crowd. Or mayhap she had always been herself and the ton had never been blind to this side of her.

Mayhap he had been the blind one after all.

Here, they could be alone. He could not feel the urgent need to escape. Rather, he felt he did not wish this moment to end. He merely... stayed and looked at her.

"I have always wondered why you never took a fancy of her, son," her mother's croaky voice said, reminding him that he and Ysabella were not completely alone after all.

He blinked away from Ysabella and turned to his mother. "She's Levi's sister, Mother. She's ten years younger than I."

"Your brother surely does not mind the age, son. So do the other lords in Wickhurst. And I am quite sure that for a family who had allowed a woman accused of witchcraft, a man who broke their sister's heart, and who adopted two little girls to be part of their family, the Everards would not dare be a hindrance to Ysabella's happiness." Wakefield closed his eyes and groaned.

"You've been saying such foolish reasons for years, dear," his mother's amused voice continued. "And I believe you believed them to be enough for quite a while until now, yes?"

"She is not—"

"Keep telling yourself the same things, son, and mayhap you'd be able to believe them in the future, if not now. But know that those around you think otherwise if you continue to gaze at her as if she is a walking dream."

His eyes snapped open and he turned to fix his mother an accusing glare.

"I know that look, William." His mother sent him a pointed look. "You think I am using your brother's intentions toward Ysabella to push you to do what I want, use this simple vacation as a means to force you into something you believe you never wished for, but that is not the case. Thomas is doing what he wants to do as he always did. You, on the other hand, could not accept that she had become something else in your eyes and you choose to fluster in one corner rather than claim her for yourself." She helplessly shook her head, turning to watch Ysabella once again. "You have always wanted to be free to think and decide for yourself, see? You love this blind freedom too much and it has made you too proud to listen to us that you fail or choose not to see what we see."

Wakefield's jaw had gone tight at his mother's words but he dared not say anything.

"She has as much spirit as anyone I have ever known," his mother continued. "But trust me when I say, William, that even a strong spirit such as hers can be swayed." She turned to give him a calm, gentle look. "Or worse, weaken and change course."

"I am in love with another," he insisted, but he heard his own voice and he knew his argument sounded dire.

"Ah, that woman who chose to leave you in the middle of a ball. The same one who has not shown herself to this day." His shoulders tensed. "She could be anywhere, really, or she could be near. But could you truly love a mirage, dear?"

"She is not a mirage, Mother."

"This Lady Weis could very well be, you know. And she might remain as that for the rest of your lives. While you waste your time loving an illusion in your head, you are passing up the chance to actually feel something in the flesh."

His eyes flew to Ysabella. She was real, his mind whispered. She was here. She had always been here.

His mother scooped the white cat in her arms and stood up. She walked closer to Wakefield and cupped his face with one hand, looking down at him. "I have to admit that I do not believe Thomas would succeed with her for her mind had long been made up, but I believe your brother had shown her that there is more to life than just chasing after an impossible dream." She patted his cheek. "She'd soon realize that, son. And soon she'd start searching for something else as her life opens her to more possibilities. Bertram is not the only place for that."

Lady Hayward bent down to kiss his forehead. "Tell her I am retiring. Your brother is not coming out of his study soon. I shall see you all for supper."

He watched his mother walk away before he turned to gaze back at Ysabella. She was now talking to a male worker, her face utterly interested to what the other was saying. He started to frown when she jumped to her feet, turned and ran toward him with excitement in her eyes.

He could not help but smile in return.

"Wakefield!" she cried as she approached. "I just convinced the worker to teach me how to shoot."

Wakefield stared at her, frozen in his seat. Then he blinked. "Shoot?"

She nodded.

"Shoot what?"

"Well, a gun, of course!"

*****

He could not believe he was doing it. Levi would kill him and the rest of her brothers would definitely hang him.

"I ought to learn fast, you know," she said as she waited while he loaded the pistol. "I had always wanted to learn how to shoot."

"You had so confidently pictured yourself holding a gun in Nimrod's mind and yet you have not even held one your entire life," he murmured wryly.

"Well, I was distraught that night. I could have told him anything." She held out her hand at the ready. "And thank you for your kind offer. You did not have to do this. That kind man had gladly offered."

"That kind man was working. Teaching young ladies how to shoot a gun is not working." He made a move to give her the loaded pistol but stopped. "Remember—"

"Point and shoot," she eagerly said, tucking her hair behind both ears. She held out her hands once more.

Wakefield hesitated. Thomas was yet to learn of this and he would definitely not like it. Most especially if they were about to make three pillows from his estate their target.

The three said pillows were tied on three poles ten yards away.

"You do not point it at anyone or anything but those pillows," he reminded her sternly.

"Yes, yes, I know." She grabbed the gun from him and stood the way he taught her.

"Careful," he warily said, stepping behind her to look over her shoulder. "And prepare for the—bloody hell!" he cried out when she suddenly pulled the trigger, missing the target. "I did not—"

She looked over her shoulder with a proud smile. "I heard that surprise makes a successful attack."

He gaped at her. "You did not even hit the target."

She shrugged, lifting the gun once again. "If that were a person, my lord, he would have already ran away at my surprise attack, see?" She pointed the gun once more and shot. The sound rang around the plantation.

The workers had all vacated the area they were facing, all looking wary and amused all the same.

He shook his head when Ysabella jumped, surprised to see the pillow to the right fall down on the ground. "I aimed for the left but still I hit one!"

His laughter came out as a snort in his attempt to hide it. Clearing his throat and maintaining a serious mien he said, "If you were aiming for a criminal who stole a child, you would have then shot the child."

Her face blanched and he almost regretted his words.

"You can always practice," he added under his breath, taking the pistol from her to load it once more. "I wonder why your brothers never taught you this."

"Oh, they hate teaching us anything that has to do with violence."

Wakefield gave her an incredulous look and set the gun away. "Then you shall have no more violent lessons this afternoon."

Her eyes widened. "But—"

"You've had your fill, little one."

"But I have not—"

"Next time—once you've asked for all their consent," he said, taking the gun with him to his chair where his glass of wine was waiting. "What could your family be thinking of you being here, I wonder?"

"Oh, they know I am here, of course," she said with a huff, sitting across from him, disappointment in her features. "They simply do not know that you are here." Her eyes could not meet his still, but she tried.

Classic Ysabella Everard, of course,—facing anything with a brave face.

"Which reminds me, my lord," she said, watching him drink from his glass. "Why did you come here again?"

"To talk business with my brother, of course." Her brow arched and before she could challenge his lie, he offered, "Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Oh, I do not fare well with spirits. Do you have lemonade instead?"

His mind flew to the kiss at the Cinderella ball but he shook it away by saying, "I am afraid we do not have that at the moment, but they did prepare sweetened tea."

"That will have to do."

As he poured her a cup, he stole a glance. "What is your most profound dream?"

"Marry you, of course."

The hot tea spilled over the cup and she laughed at his surprised reaction.

"And have many children by you," she added, eliciting a scowl from him.

"It was a very serious question, little one."

"And it was also an utterly serious answer!" Her lips quivered with her restrained laughter. She was mocking him once again. She was good at it and he had to finally admit that.

He chose not to comment although his mind could clearly picture little children with her black hair and green eyes running around his drawing room with a distraught Morris chasing them about.

"I share my sister-in-law's dream," her serious voice said, drawing him away from his thoughts. He handed her the tea, which she took with her bare hands.

"Sister-in-law?"

She nodded before sipping from her cup. "Agatha."

"Benedict's wife."

"She was once our governess, see? And she had told us of her dream of building a school for service people, young girls and boys who would like to learn how to read and write."

He frowned. "I have heard of a school being put up near Devonshire."

She nodded. "Benedict supports this dream as well, of course, and he has decided to build it. It would definitely cause quite a scandal once it opens."

"Why service people?" he asked, curious.

She frowned at his question. "Do you not think they do deserve a better chance in life?"

"But would that not mean we shall soon be lacking of servants to do our bidding?"

She laughed. "And will you die without one?" When he merely stared, she shook her head. "For I am telling you, my lord, they can very well live on their own without us. They know how to till land, plant crops, care for livestock, butcher and make food out of them. They know how to cook and bake bread—and pies, of course—and dress themselves. While you and I can barely survive without them tying our cravats or buttoning our dresses! Good Lord we shall all perish without them!"

Her mocking tone amused him. The passion in her speech was undeniable.

I do have many sides, you know.

Her very own words rang in his ears, transporting him back to that carriage ride in the middle of the night.

Once you do that, my lord, you might see the real Ysabella Everard.

Mayhap she was correct. Ysabella Everard had many sides to her that he ought to have seen.

*****

"I apologize for having not been able to spend the afternoon with you," Thomas said later that evening.

"It is quite all right, my lord," Ysabella said with a smile.

They were in the parlour having tea after supper. Wakefield had excused himself to attend to the letters and documents his butler had sent from Wickhurst.

"I heard my brother taught you how to shoot."

"He did," she said with a smile, remembering the afternoon. "But not quite very effectively."

"He does not have the patience, I fear."

"Oh, it was more of him being afraid of what my brothers might do to him should they find out."

Thomas chuckled. He asked more questions and he paid great attention at her every word.

She had never experienced such thing. And it was bloody confusing.

"You are leaving soon," Thomas said much later. "How big is the chance that you could extend your stay?"

She blushed. "None, I am afraid. My mother has sent a note that she already misses me. And I have matters to settle in Wickhurst upon my return, things that I can no longer escape from."

His eyes flashed with curiosity but she appreciated that he did not press for more details.

"Then do you have your answer for me?" he asked in a manner that was very like him—straightforward.

She laughed to cover the uncomfortable feeling. "You cannot possibly expect me to have one in merely a short time, my lord. It is the rest of my life you are asking of."

He gave her an assessing look. "You think love should come before marriage."

She flushed. "Yes."

"But it does not have to." He took her hand in his. "It can come after and I believe it shall happen to us in no time should you say yes."

Ysabella's heart was feeling quite heavy. He was putting so much pressure in her. Was this how he did many of his business deals?

"Companionship and friendship are enough to make it work, dear one," Thomas said. "And in time, you might even agree that they are far better than love."

Could Thomas be correct? Love had brought her naught but frustration and confusion. Companionship and friendship—now, those things sounded better.