“I do beg your pardon,” Bo said, smiling then. “Since I have found myself in my delicate condition, I cannot seem to quell my insatiable urge to see romance all around me. Bainbridge had been indulging this by providing me with an endless supply of reading material. Perhaps it has caused my imagination to go wild.”
The duke and duchess were madly in love. Isabella could not help but to feel envy as she watched their ease with each other, the open fondness with which they spoke of one another. It was little wonder they were expecting a child. They wore the perpetually besotted looks of true lovers whenever they were within the same room.
Oh, to have a love like that.
But a one-sided love was hardly love at all, was it? No, indeed. It seemed rather more like torture to Isabella. Splendor and agony, all at once.
“That is most accommodating of His Grace,” she forced herself to say, before taking a sip of her own tea.
“Anything to keep Her Grace happy,” said a masculine voice from the threshold of the salon.
How such a large, handsome man moved with so much stealth perplexed Isabella. She had not heard the duke approach.
“Darling!” Bo’s happiness at seeing her husband was undeniable. “What are you doing, hovering about in the doorway? Do come in! Would you care to join us for tea?”
“I am here to whisk you away for a few minutes,” Bainbridge said. “Westmorland is here, and he needs to have a word alone with Miss Hilgrove.”
Isabella’s heart seemed to freeze. Benedict had found her.
Already?
She had been gone but a scant few hours. She had not imagined he would give chase so readily, or that he would locate her with such alarming ease. Had Callie broken her promise? She stood, panic descending. Her expression must have given her away.
“Shall I remain?” Bo asked her quietly, concern lacing her voice.
Yes, she longed to scream.
“Of course not.” She forced another smile, attempting to gather her rapidly fleeing composure. “I shall be fine.”
“Come, my love,” Bainbridge said to the duchess with a look of undisguised adoration.
Isabella scarcely had enough time to rise from her seat and attempt to steel herself against the prospect of seeing Benedict again when he stalked into the room, slamming the salon door at his back. His jaw was hard, his eyes dark and stormy.
He was seething.
It was a stark contrast to the way she had left him that morning. How innocent he had looked in slumber as she had left him by the light of dawn. He had appeared so much younger, as if all the weight holding him down had been removed.
“Your Grace,” she greeted him tonelessly, dipping into a polite curtsey.
His strides ate up the distance between them, and he did not bother to bow. “Damn you, Isabella, do not pretend we are strangers.”
“Why have you come?” she asked, almost flinching at the vehemence in his voice.
“To make you see reason,” he ground out.
“I did see reason, and that is why I left.” She moved away from him, knowing that if he was within reach, she could be far too tempted.
“After what happened last night, how can you possibly believe leaving me is the right decision?” he growled, stalking after her. “Have you forgotten you could be carrying my child?”
The thought of carrying Benedict’s babe filled her with a warmth she had no right to feel. She clung to her pride instead, which reminded her she would not marry a man who only wanted her in his bed and not his heart. Besides, she had worked far too hard on her Ladies’ Typewriting School to give it up so summarily. Too many others depended upon her.
She clutched her skirts to hide her trembling hands. “How did you convince the Duke of Bainbridge to grant you an audience with me alone?”
Not that it mattered. The damage was already done. Benedict was here, infuriatingly handsome, far too enticing, searing her with his angry eyes. Making her want to throw herself into his arms.
Had it been just that morning when she had left his bed? It seemed, somehow, a lifetime ago now.
“Bainbridge is a man of reason,” he told her coolly. “He acts rationally. Makes decisions wisely.”
