He was surprised Roberta recognized Isabella’s name, but then he supposed his endorsement of Isabella’s school in theTimeshad not gone unnoticed. “She is the proprietress of a typewriting school, yes.”
“I had not thought to see you marry ever, and certainly not to a woman so obviously beneath you,” Roberta said sharply.
Some of her response was, he did not doubt, tainted by her own disappointment. But he did not care for the manner in which she scorned his future duchess.
“On the contrary,” he countered coolly, “she is my better in every way.”
“You fancy yourself in love with her, do you not?” Roberta questioned.
He detected the scorn in her voice, in her expression. After having suffered a vastly disappointing marriage of her own, Roberta had little respect for the institution. It had been one of the qualities which had made her an ideal lover. There had been no expectations, on either of their parts. He had long believed his parents’ awful marriage had cured him of the desire to ever wed himself.
Isabella had proven him wrong.
“I know I am in love with her,” he told Roberta, though his feelings for Isabella were hardly her concern.
He owed her no explanation. But neither did he want her to harbor any illusions he would change his mind. He was marrying Isabella Hilgrove as soon as she gave him ayes.
“I wish you well,” Roberta said then, dipping into an elegant curtsey. “Thank you for your honesty.”
He bowed, then watched as Roberta walked from his life forever. There was not a hint of regret in his soul, nor was there a modicum of fear that he had chosen the right path.
Isabella was abundle of worry as she waited in the entry hall of Westmorland House beside Bo, who had joined her on this mission in a show of true sisterly solidarity. And so when she heard footsteps approaching on the marble floor, it took her a moment to realize they were not the butler’s measured footfalls. But feminine ones.
Callie, perhaps?
Her supposition was instantly proven wrong when a strikingly beautiful woman rounded the corner, sailing through the stone busts and pastoral pictures lining the hall with the natural elegance of a true peeress.
The woman stopped when she saw Isabella waiting, almost as if she had been physically struck. Her gaze flicked over Isabella, assessing her. She felt rather like a crow in the presence of a swan at that moment.
But she offered Bo a tight smile first. “Your Grace. What a pleasure it is to see you again.”
Bo inclined her head, possessing the regal air of a queen. “It is a pleasure to see you as well, Lady Entwhistle. Have you met my dear friend, Miss Isabella Hilgrove? Miss Hilgrove, I present to you the Countess of Entwhistle.”
Lady Entwhistle’s nostrils flared, her smile turning acrid. “I have not yet had the pleasure, Miss Hilgrove. I must say, you are not at all what I expected.”
Suspicion struck.
Isabella frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, do forgive me.” Lady Entwhistle’s tone was patronizing. “I am an old, dear friend of Westmorland’s. Pray do not be cross with him for sharing your happy news. He has only just told me of your impending nuptials. I meant no insult, of course. You are simply not the sort of lady I ever envisioned capturing Westmorland’s interest, particularly since your situations are so very dissimilar.”
An old, dear friend? One who had just been paying a call upon Benedict? One who was on such intimate terms with him that he had shared his intention to marry Isabella? One who was beautiful and sultry and wearing a dress befitting a duchess whilst Isabella was garbed in a prim day gown of dove-gray wool?
“Miss Hilgrove’s family has an almost ancient friendship with the Marlows,” Bo said, jumping to Isabella’s rescue with ease as she referenced Bainbridge’s incredibly illustrious family. It was also a bold prevarication, but the duchess showed no indication of concern her falsehood would be discovered. “Her situation is not so very dissimilar from Westmorland’s, given that her family hearkens back to the days of the Conqueror. And I, for one, cannot fault His Grace for his choice in future bride. Miss Hilgrove is refreshingly unjaded, intelligent, and kind, unlike so many others in society.”
Her pointed tone left no doubt that the Duchess of Bainbridge was delivering a thinly veiled jab to Lady Entwhistle. Isabella was most appreciative, but her heart was in agony. The beautiful woman before her was the personification of her fears.
“I wish you every happiness,” Lady Entwhistle told her coolly. “But be warned—His Grace is difficult to please, and he grows bored quite easily.”
Isabella resented the countess’s implication that she knew what pleased Benedict. And worse, that he would grow weary of Isabella.
Her chin went up and she found her tongue at last. “Thank you for your well wishes, Lady Entwhistle. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
The countess’s gaze flitted over Isabella’s practical gown, a smug smile flirting with her lips. “It was a great pleasure indeed, Miss Hilgrove, Your Grace.”
She dipped into an elegant curtsey. Then, she sailed past them, claiming her coat, hat, and reticule from a footman before disappearing into the cold, late-January day.
Isabella shivered, but her sudden chill had less to do with the blast of frigid air than the insinuations Lady Entwhistle had just made.
