“Do not let her shake you,” Bo advised, voice low. “She was attempting to upset you because she is jealous.”
“Jealous?” She searched her friend’s gaze, seeing the answer she had been dreading there. “Of me?”
Dear God, did Benedict truly have some sort of relationship with the countess, as she had inferred? Her words returned, mocking.I am an old, dear friend of Westmorland’s.
Her sudden upset must have been visible upon her face.
Bo’s countenance turned sympathetic. “Any number of ladies in London would dearly love to be the new Duchess of Westmorland. Lady Entwhistle is among them, no matter how much she declares her distaste for matrimony. She is a widow, of course, who suffered an unwanted husband. Entwhistle made her quite miserable while he was alive. But it would come as a surprise to no one if she had secretly harbored expectations where Westmorland is concerned.”
“Why should she have expectations?” Isabella asked quietly, though she very much feared she already knew the answer.
And that the answer very well could change her mind.
Bo was saved from responding by the return of a harried-looking Young. “His Grace and Lady Callie will receive you in the gold salon,” he announced.
Bo gave her arm a reassuring squeeze as they followed the butler through the expansive main hall of Westmorland House, stopping at a chamber Isabella had never seen. Of course, that was hardly a surprise. Westmorland House was unusually immense by London standards, the veritable size of a palace itself.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Bainbridge and Miss Isabella Hilgrove,” Young intoned.
Isabella felt as if something had come loose inside her. She had been so certain of her decision. Determined to follow her heart. But now?
She entered the room like an automaton, following in Bo’s elegant wake. Intentionally, she avoided Benedict’s gaze, though she felt it upon her. Searing her. Her panic increased. A fine sheen of sweat broke out on her brow. Her stomach felt as if it were being clasped in the unrelenting grip of an invisible fist.
More questions swirled. Who was Lady Entwhistle to Benedict? Why had she been here at Westmorland House?
She thought she dipped into a perfunctory curtsey before seating herself on a settee. Callie’s concern was almost palpable as she watched Isabella, as was Bo’s. Still, she could not look upon Benedict.
Meaningless chatter, polite and stilted, began. Isabella clenched her skirts, unable to speak amidst the tumult churning through her. How could she promise herself to him if she did not trust him? There was so much about him she still did not know. Coming here had been a mistake.
Her decision was a mistake as well, she feared.
Benedict cleared his throat. “I am told there are ripe strawberries in the orangery today, Miss Hilgrove. Perhaps you would care to take a stroll there?”
No, she did not want to stroll about the orangery, or to return to the place where he had kissed her senseless in the moonlight. But three sets of eyes were upon her, expectant.
“Callie and I shall remain and have our tea,” Bo told her. “My feet are positively aching today, as is my back. I hope you do not mind keeping me company, Callie?”
“Not at all,” Callie said with false brightness.
There was no question about it—Bo and Callie were giving Benedict and Isabella the chance to speak. In private.
She did not know if she could bear it.
“Miss Hilgrove?” he prodded.
She gazed upon him at last, his tense jaw confirming her suspicion. He was on edge. So was she.
“Of course,” she said, rising along with him, then taking his arm.
His warmth seemed to radiate through the sleeve of his coat. His deliciously masculine scent hit her. Together, they walked from the salon. She counted their steps:one, two, three, four—
“You are a day early,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Yes.” And more confused than ever.
“Have you decided?” he asked rigidly, politely.
As if they were speaking of the weather rather than the rest of their lives.
