“Calliope.” The duke’s tone of voice was one Isabella had not heard before. It was stern and yet somehow indulgent. Long-suffering. “We have already had this discussion. Need I remind you?”
Callie delivered a playful swat to the duke’s shoulder. “You need not fear that I have scheduled a ball or a dinner, Benny. Though I shall never fully comprehend your objection to the last party I held. What harm was there in hosting a conjurer?”
Memories of that particular evening returned to Isabella in a sudden rush. The darkness in the orangery, interrupted only by the silver glow of the moon. Westmorland’s fevered kisses, his touch beneath her skirts, the way he had made her come apart in his arms…
Heat pooled between her thighs.
Mortified, she pressed them together, staving off the impending desire and the thoughts of that night both.
Once more, she felt his gaze upon her, searing her. When she met the duke’s stare, there was no doubt in her mind he was recalling every second of that evening as well. Those frenzied moments on the table, the scent of earth and blossoms and lust permeating the night. The desperation with which they had clawed at each other…
“The evening was an enlightening one, I am sure, Callie,” he said to his sister without breaking the contact of their gazes. “But the conjurer was a charlatan.”
Isabella forgot to breathe.
Callie’s laughter shattered the intensity of the moment, reminding them both they had an audience. She jerked her gaze back to her friend, who was watching the duke with an assessing look.
“The evening was most enlightening,” Callie agreed. “He produced a bowl of fire from beneath his coat, Benny. I do wish you could have seen it yourself.”
“I am certain it was a marvel, goose,” said the duke, the affection in his voice undeniable.
“It was,” his sister insisted. “But this morning, I do require the library for a meeting, I am afraid. Our Lady’s Suffrage Society is having another gathering to plan our strategies, and it is my turn to act the hostess. You do not mind terribly, do you, Benny?”
“It is an admirable cause,” he allowed, “and one which you know I favor. If you must have the library, Miss Hilgrove and I can adjourn to my study for the day.”
“Wonderful, my dearest brother.” Callie gave him a beatific smile. “Thank you. And Isabella, if you are able, you must join us as well, even for a moment. Supposing Benny can spare you, of course.”
Bennymade a low sound in his throat. Isabella was reasonably certain it was a growl.
“Oh!” Callie exclaimed then. “And a goose I am, living up to my namesake. You will think me the silliest creature in all England, but I just realized I have forgotten to write in my journal this morning. I cannot begin my day properly until I have rectified my error. Do go down to breakfast without me, the two of you. I shall join you in a trice.”
Without waiting for either of them to answer, Callie turned and swept away, returning to her chamber. The door closed behind her with a quiet snick. Isabella was once more, and quite suddenly, alone with the Duke of Westmorland.
Benedict.
She looked to him, reasonably certain Callie had intentionally deserted them. More matchmaking? Perhaps. But if so, for what purpose? Isabella was an independent woman. The duke was, well, the duke.
And that was that.
Was it not?
He was still watching his sister’s closed door with a rueful air, passing his hand over his jaw. He was so handsome, a pang went through her. Sometimes, it was easier to appreciate the dazzling nature of his masculine beauty when she was not the focus of his arresting blue gaze.
“You love your sister very much, don’t you?” she asked softly.
Having no siblings herself, Isabella admired the relationship between brother and sister. Callie was a butterfly flitting about, and the duke seemed content to allow her to fly.
The full force of his attention returned to her then, seeming to suck all the air from the hall. “I would give my life for hers. That is the truest definition of love, is it not?”
She knew an instant of envy for Callie before she struck down the sensation.
“In a perfect world, you would not need to give your life in exchange for someone you love,” she pointed out.
“Ah, but my dear Isabella,” he said, a sad smile twisting his lips, “our world is so very far from perfect.”
That was certainly true.
If the world were perfect, she would not be falling in love with the Duke of Westmorland.
