Colonel Archer grinned at his mother. “We shall make a jovial bunch this week, I dare—”
A whoop sounded from the drawing room—male voices rising in unison. A rush of footsteps quickly followed.
Two gentlemen burst into the entrance hall, one after the other.
The man in front had an affable grin on his face.
The gentleman on his heels, however.
Gray hissed in a breath.
Isla nearly gasped.
“Ho, Fletch!” the first man called, seizing Colonel Archer’s shoulder in a strong grip. “Remember that night in Porto when we were deep in our cups over . . . .Och, I beg your pardon.”
The gentleman paused, noting the new arrivals.
“The last of our guests has arrived,” Colonel Archer said.
Isla stared in horror as Captain Tavish Balfour halted beside the men.
Tavish.
Tavish was here.
Ehr. . . Captain Balfour. Thinking of him asTavishwould be ruinous.
Captain Balfour, who was a close friend—a confidante even—of Colonel Archer.
Isla could scarcely breathe through her shock.
Her separately constructed worlds—i.e., her secret marriage and her role as Lady Isla—had just collided.
Isla had never considered herself to be the swooning sort of lady.Such missishness was for women of lesser constitution. But the room decidedly spun when she met Captain Balfour’s somber gray eyes.
It was little consolation that he appeared as surprised as herself.
Lady Milmouth grinned, oblivious to the undercurrents. “Ah, there you are, gentlemen! Your Grace, Lady Isla, may I introduce Captain Ross and Captain Balfour, two officers who served with our Edward?”
Colonel Archer smiled brightly, clearly delighted for Isla to meet his friends.
The dear man. He hadn’t a clue.
Isla pressed a hand to her midriff.
Gray said nothing. Isla dared a glance at him. He rather resembled a furious bull, nostrils flared beneath wide eyes.
Captain Balfour continued to gaze at her, expression impassive. He stood a hair taller than the other gentlemen. Though he wasn’t dressed in the height of fashion like Colonel Archer, nor commanded the might of a wealthy dukedom like Gray, Captain Balfour was the man who drew eyes in the room. The sheer gravity of him. As if he were a mountain, unmoved and unyielding.
Silence descended.
Isla couldn’t spare a syllable, her throat too dry. Gray and Captain Balfour likely felt the same. The other four people merely glanced at each other, obviously attempting to understand why the temperature in the room had abruptly chilled several degrees.
It was Lord Milmouth who finally broke the stalemate.
“Balfour?” His brow pinched, his head turning to Captain Balfour. “As in . . .”
“Aye, my lord. My father is the Earl of Northcairn. I am the second son, after my elder brother, Lord Cairnfell.”
