For her.
How could she not love him a little more for that?
“Here you are, my dear,” said Bo, breezing into the library. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Another delivery has come.”
The swell of her friend’s belly was scarcely visible beneath her fashionable blue silk gown, but her radiance was undeniable. She fairly glowed with happiness. Another prick of envy sliced through her.
You could have that happiness, whispered a voice inside her.
But could she? Would she be as happy with Benedict as Bo was with Bainbridge? After all, Bainbridge and Bo were madly in love. Isabella loved Benedict, but of all the reasons why she should marry him, the one she would have found most convincing had been glaringly absent.
Love.
“Another delivery?” she asked, shaking herself from her troubled ruminations.
What could he have sent this time?
“A typewriter,” Bo answered her unspoken question for her, crossing the room and settling into the seat beside Isabella.
A typewriter? Oh, Benedict. Knowing him, it would be the most expensive, finest model available.
“Westmorland is not making my decision easy,” she said grimly.
“He is a man determined,” Bo agreed. “And yet, you hesitate. What gives you pause? Many ladies would be only too happy to accept an offer of marriage from the Duke of Westmorland, I should think.”
In the wake of Benedict’s visit, Isabella had confided in her friend about his proposal. Bo was wise. Understanding. She had taken great care not to influence Isabella in either direction, but to calmly listen and offer her support instead.
“I love him,” she admitted at last.
Saying it aloud—sharing it with someone else—felt freeing, as if a great burden had been lifted from her chest.
“Of course you do,” said Bo. “You have loved him for some time, I expect.”
Misery washed over her. “Am I so very transparent, then?”
She hated to think her feelings for him had been so obvious. Worse, that he suspected she loved him.
“Not transparent,” her friend reassured her. “However, the signs were there. You are both horribly besotted with each other, which begs the question. Why are you not deliriously overjoyed with the prospect of marrying?”
“Because he does not return my love.” This revelation, unlike the one which had come before it, only enhanced her wretchedness.
“How do you know?” Bo frowned at her.
“He has not shared his feelings with me, other than his desire to wed.” And that desire, she was sure, remained firmly rooted in guilt. Or perhaps the need to have her in his bed once more. “And if he did love me, which he does not, I am not certain it would be enough. I am not fit to be a duchess. My father was a shopkeeper, my mother a gentlewoman who was disowned by much of her family for marrying so humbly.”
And even Benedict himself had originally offered for her to be his mistress. That inescapable fact still nettled.
“My dear, I am quite sure Westmorland does indeed love you,” Bo said then. “No man would chase after a lady with this much ardent fervor if he did not. And as for your perceived difference in stations, it is hardly an insurmountable obstacle. You are a respectable lady, and the proprietress of your own school. Your reputation is quite spotless.”
Perhaps her reputation was, but her conscience was not. She had been wicked with Benedict. Reckless. She had gone beyond the bounds of what was right and proper. And still, she could not regret her actions.
“I would have to give up my school if I were to become a duchess,” she said. “I have worked hard to build it, and I have always treasured my independence.”
Bo frowned at that. “Has Westmorland asked it of you?”
“He insists I may keep it,” she grumbled.
Bo’s frown dissipated. “I understand all too well your desire to maintain your freedom. But believe me when I tell you that love with the right man will not feel like a cage, entrapping you. It will feel instead as if you are a bird, set free to fly for the first time.”
