The sisterly sobriquet forced Isabella to tamp down an injudicious burst of laughter at how far the duke who had seduced her with a mere look earlier was from the adoring brother.
“His Grace was most polite,” she lied, gritting her teeth as she thought of how near he had come. Of how he had lowered his head until their lips had almost brushed.
Of how badly she had wanted that connection.
Worse, of how badly she wanted it still.
“Excellent. I am so pleased I caught you before you flitted away,” said Lady Calliope then. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“A favor,” Isabella repeated cautiously.
She could not fathom what manner of favor a duke’s sister might ask of her, a lowly shopkeeper’s daughter turned proprietress of a typewriting school. Their circles were worlds away from each other.
“Yes.” Callie gave her a grin then. “I am hosting a dinner party tonight, and I would be honored if you would join us.”
A dinner party?
“My lady, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance today,” she said, reminding herself she must keep the duke and his sister at a polite distance. She was not of their world. “But I am afraid we do not run in the same social circles.”
Six more days, and then she would have her endorsement and the joy of having won their wager as well. Six more days was all she needed.
“Perhaps not currently, but that is all about to change.” Callie’s smile deepened, her dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Join us this evening at eight, if you please. And fear not, my brother will not be in attendance.”
“My lady,” she protested, “I am afraid I cannot—”
“You can,” interrupted the duke’s sister. “And you shall. I will send a carriage for you. Leave your address with Young, if you please. Eight o’clock, Isabella. I shan’t take no for an answer.”
A dinner party. What could be the harm? She vacillated, tempted, for she did truly enjoy Lady Callie. There was something refreshingly charming about her. Besides, she had said Westmorland would not be in attendance, had she not?
“Very well,” she found herself reluctantly agreeing. “I shall come.”
“Wonderful! I will see you later this evening. You will not regret it, I promise,” said Callie.
Isabella had a desperate feeling the duke’s sister was wrong.
Chapter Four
For the secondnight in a row, Benedict returned home to a social engagement of which he possessed no prior knowledge. Not a ball, as it turned out, this time around. But rather, a dinner party.
A dinner party of women.
Laughing, chattering females. And judging by the sounds emerging from his dining room, about two dozen of them. Perhaps more. He had entered in the rear through the mews this time, not taking any chances with carriage traffic.
Now, his most pressing concern was locating his damned butler and finding out who he was hosting this evening and why. He found Young exiting the dining room.
The expression upon Benedict’s face must have been telling. His butler’s eyebrows rose, and his countenance reflected the closest thing he had ever witnessed to fear on the retainer’s face.
He bowed. “Your Grace. You are home early this evening. You were expected to dine at your club, and from then on to visit your other residence.”
His other residence was the discreet townhome where he arranged to visit Roberta. Their liaison had been carrying on quite comfortably for two years. And when he had left Westmorland House earlier that afternoon, following the absolute agony of enduring hours in the library with Miss Hilgrove and no way to satisfy his carnal hunger, he’d had every intention of visiting his lover this evening.
But after a rare night of leisure at his club involving far too much claret, he had been brutally honest with himself in realizing bedding Roberta would not satiate him. He had no interest in it. All he wanted was a disagreeable female who was Roberta’s opposite in nearly every way.
And so, after sharing some drinks with old friends, he had taken his leave with the supposition that the sooner his head hit the pillow, the sooner the sun would rise and he would once more see the woman who was haunting his every waking and sleeping hour. He had come directly home. But clearly his sister had believed he would be gone for most of the night.
“There was a change of plans,” he told his butler now. “I am home for the evening.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Young was grim. “Lady Calliope is hosting a dinner of ladies from the Lady’s Suffrage Society. Would you care to join them? I can see another service is laid.”
