She faced him. “I need more time, Benedict. I am sorry. I cannot marry you now. Not like this.”
His lips tightened to a firm, grim line. “If more time is what you wish, I cannot stop you from taking it.”
No, he could not.
“You would do better to find a lady who would do you credit,” she said softly, painfully. “Good day, Your Grace.”
Before he could offer another word of protestation, she fled down the path of green vegetation and lush fruit, leaving him behind.
Chapter Eighteen
Two days passed.
Benedict threw himself into his work for the League. Another arrest was made in the Tower of London bombing. But the men responsible for the Westminster explosions remained out there, somewhere, capable of perpetuating more crimes upon London.
A third day passed.
Still, no word from Isabella. By the morning of the fourth day, grim realization hit him as he received his daily reports from the Home Office and Scotland Yard. There would be no word from her. Her answer was her silence.
He had been determined to give her the time and the space she had needed, hoping she would come to her senses concerning Roberta and understand that whatever had existed between them meant nothing now. But it was clear to him that no amount of time would change her mind.
He loved a woman who did not love him back. It was a hell of a situation to find one’s self in, especially as a man who had supposed he would never experience such a tender emotion. Even more so for a man who had never intended to marry. The only woman he wanted did not want him.
A knock at his study door disrupted him.
“Enter,” he called.
Callie bustled over the threshold in her usual burst of bold color. “Benny, you look positively dreadful.”
He stood at her entrance, grimly passing a hand over his jaw. “I expect I do.”
His nights were mostly sleepless, and he alternated between spending his time studying reports and new information arriving from America and visiting Scotland Yard to check upon the status of the investigations. But though he took his duty seriously, he would be lying if he said the reason for his lack of slumber and general unrest was caused by anything other than Isabella and the mounting fear he had lost her forever.
“Will you not come and take tea with me?” she asked, her voice laden with concern.
It was not like Callie to be a mother hen. He must look pathetic. Lord knew he felt pathetic.
“I haven’t the time for tea, Callie.” He sighed, thinking of the call he would have to pay upon Scotland Yard. More witnesses were being gathered for examination today, with the hopes that additional arrests would be made.
But Callie persisted, moving deeper into the study. “Why are the window dressings closed, Benny? It is depressingly dark in here.”
He had scarcely given notice.
“I have requested solitude,” he said pointedly. “There is a great deal of work to be done. Was there something you needed?”
“Yes, there is.” She moved to the window, opening the curtains herself.
He blinked as light filtered through the panes. Right. Perhaps it had been depressingly dark in the chamber. Apparently, London was enjoying a rare day of early February sun amidst all the grim winter fog.
He wished he had some bloody whisky on hand. “If you want to throw another ball, the answer is no. Also no to conjurers, dinner parties, gathering of suffrage societies, and any other form of societal entertainment running through your Machiavellian mind.”
“I do not want to host any entertainments, Benny.” Apparently satisfied with her work at the window, she moved toward his desk with purposeful strides. “I want to know what you are doing about Isabella.”
Isabella.
Just her name aloud was enough to make his heart pang.
He clenched his jaw. “There is nothing to be done, Callie. Miss Hilgrove has rejected my suit, and I must gather my pride and carry on.”
