They moved together into Beatrice’s chamber, where ribbons, pins, perfume bottles, and discarded silk gloves lay scattered from their preparations. Their maids flitted around them, adjusting hems and fastening clasps.
Isabella’s gown was a deep emerald satin, shimmering richly in the glow of the chandelier. The bodice hugged her figure snugly, though not indecently, and the skirts spilled like polishedgemstones around her feet. Beside her, Beatrice’s magenta gown seemed to bring a warm contrast, making them appear as though they were about to step onto a painted canvas.
“It suits you beautifully,” Beatrice murmured, fastening the last clasp at Isabella’s back. “If this townhouse had mirrors lining its corridors, your husband would not reach his study door without pausing at every single one.”
Isabella’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of him, an involuntary reaction she wished she could hide. If Beatrice noticed, she pretended she didn’t, though the tightening in her own expression betrayed her sympathy.
By the time both sisters were dressed, the hour had approached. Their carriage lanterns were already lit outside; it was time to go.
“Shall we?” Beatrice asked gently.
“Yes,” Isabella agreed, yet her pulse thrummed not with excitement for the charity ball but with the knowledge that somewhere within the house, Cassian would hear their footsteps descending.
They stepped into the hallway just as a few servants passed below, lighting the last of the evening lamps. Isabella drew in a steadying breath as she reached the top of the grand staircase then she saw him.
Cassian had been walking across the front of the foyer, but the moment he lifted his eyes, he stopped in his tracks. For a suspended breath, the entire house seemed to still, servants pausing, lamps flickering, the grandfather clock halting upon its next tick.
Her gaze locked with his.
Two weeks without seeing him, and yet the sight hit her like the gust before a summer storm, quiet, startling, and unforgettable. His face was thinner than before; shadows bruised the hollows beneath his eyes. The sharp planes of his cheeks were emphasized by exhaustion rather than anger. And yet his gaze… Oh, his gaze held an intensity she had longed for without allowing herself to admit it.
He looked at her as though she were the one thing he had wished to see and feared seeing in equal measure.
Isabella’s breath caught. Her fingers curled around the rail, and she felt her heartbeat thunder against her ribs. Her gown suddenly seemed too tight, her skin too sensitive. For a single instant, hope that he would speak flickered, that he would soften, that he would come to her and reach for her…
Instead, he inhaled once, shallowly. His expression shuttered. And then he bowed his head in a barely perceptible nod, not a greeting, not an apology, not even an acknowledgment of the weeks between them.
Just a nod, as though she were no one at all.
Then he turned away almost immediately, retreating deeper into the house, his steps brisk, his posture rigid. Isabella felt the air leave her lungs. A strange, sharp ache twisted behind her ribs. She could hardly believe what had just transpired. Perhaps she was dreaming, but a confirmation presented itself when Beatrice touched her arm.
“Isabella,” she whispered, concerned dripping from each syllable.
Isabella could not summon words. Her hand instinctively pressed against her sternum, as though to contain the sudden ache. Cassian’s image had seared itself into her thoughts. She had waited two agonizing weeks for that single moment, and it had ended before she could properly breathe.
Beatrice guided her gently toward the stairs. “Forget him,” she murmured softly, though there was no judgment in her tone. “Forget him for tonight. We have a goal, remember? One we have worked far too hard to abandon because your husband is in one of his moods.”
Isabella swallowed hard, nodding once, though her fingers shook slightly as she held the rail.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, of course.”
They reached the bottom step. Isabella was still adjusting her breathing as Beatrice led her toward the door.
“You must think of tonight, not of him,” Beatrice instructed more firmly as the footman opened the door. “It is the first ball planned entirely by the Laurels, and the proceeds will be more than enough to supplement Lady Kendrick’s charity fund for winter relief. Your work matters tonight.”
Isabella nodded again. “I know.”
And she did know. Yet the image of him standing in the center of the foyer, face worn, eyes hollow, would not leave her. His nod replayed over and over in her mind. That nod had not been indifference but resignation, and the thought made her breath falter.
They descended the steps outside, and the night air swept over her like a quiet, cool embrace. Her bodice rose as Beatrice assisted her up into their carriage, and soon they, were on their way to the venue.
Cassian had told himself firmly, repeatedly, and with the unyielding discipline of a man clinging to order, that he had recovered. His hand had finally healed enough for him to return to his workshop; the sharp sting at his palm had dulled to a manageable throb, and with it came the illusion that his mind, too, had steadied. The last twelve days had been an exercise in restraint, in forcing distance between himself and the woman who haunted not simply his rooms but the very rhythm of his heartbeat.
And yet… all it took was a single moment on the staircase.
He had been descending the corridor on his way to the workshop, fully intent on keeping himself occupied with tasks he could not botch through distraction, when she appeared above him. His wife, in a deep emerald gown, one hand lightly lifting her skirts, her dark curls arranged with elegant simplicity, and her lips parted the slightest inch as if caught between breath and thought. She had looked, in that fleeting moment, like an angel descending a marble stairway.
His angel though he would never dare admit it. His breath had seized so abruptly, he nearly staggered.
