She groaned inwardly at the thought of one of the other ladies marrying him. They would all be insufferable duchesses if that were the case. Something about the thought made the pit of her stomach churn with disgust. She chalked it up to the fact that she would hate to see one of those snooty young women get the better of the duke. Even if he was disagreeable.
Beatrice leaned back, frowning thoughtfully. “Well, he certainly sounds… disagreeable.” She agreed, even though she still seemed reluctant.
Isabella allowed herself a small, wry smile. “Disagreeable, yes. But he is also remarkably perceptive. One can hardly hide anything from him, not even the truth of one’s intentions.” She reassured herself.
There was no possible way that the duke would be fooled by one of the fortune-seeking young women of the ton. He was much sharper than that.
A positive opinion?
Beatrice swallowed hard. She was certainly attracted to the man, but it was dangerous territory to start thinking of him in ways other than a curmudgeon.
Beatrice raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I suppose that makes him all the more dangerous, then.”
“Precisely,” Isabella replied, taking another delicate bite of her biscuit. “Which is why I must tread carefully yet still see this club through. It promises freedom, learning, and perhaps some degree of satisfaction in proving that the Duke of Everthorne underestimates me.”
Beatrice laughed softly. “Knowing you, Isabella, I have no doubt you will.”
With that, a comfortable silence settled between them. Isabella sipped her tea, her thoughts already returning to Lady Kendrick, the club, and the unavoidable presence of the duke in her plans.
She felt a spark of determination flare anew, ready to face whatever the duke might throw her way. However, the memory of his dark gaze and rigid presence lingered stubbornly.
There had been something yet dangerous in the way he had walked toward her. Every step had been made with frightening precision. Even the lazy way he had leaned against the doorframe had ignited something almost carnal within her.
No!
She admonished herself for allowing her mind to wander that far.
She squared her shoulders, reminding herself that the club was far more important than any stirring the Duke of Everthorne provoked.
Chapter Six
“Aletter has arrived for you, My Lady.”
Mr. Jameson’s calm baritone drifted across Isabella’s bedchamber, measured as always.
He stood at the doorway with his perfect posture, gloved hands folded neatly before him, with a familiar white envelope resting between his fingers.
It had been an additional week full of preparations for the club, and throughout the week, Isabella had returned to Everthorne House just once when it was decided that her correspondence with Lady Kendrick would remain through letters until opening day.
Isabella couldn’t have been happier because it meant distance from a certain grey-eyed duke.
Despite her excitement, she barely lifted her eyes as her entire focus was fixed upon the illustration forming beneath her hand. The sketch was of the proposed club’s emblem that Lady Kendrick had asked her to design in her last correspondence.
“Ellie,” she called, without glancing up from her position in front of her desk, her voice soft yet brisk, “take the letter from Mr. Jameson and read it aloud if you please. I am too occupied at the moment.” She waved the instruction over her shoulder.
Her younger sister, perched comfortably at the edge of Isabella’s bed with her legs tucked beneath her, perked up instantly. Eleanor had been watching Isabella draw for the better part of an hour, periodically humming or flipping the pages of a miniature novel she had brought in with her.
At the sound of her name, Eleanor hopped to her feet, proud to finally be of some help.
“Of course,” she said cheerfully, hurrying toward the butler.
Mr. Jameson bowed his head slightly as the younger girl accepted the envelope, stepping back with measured poise before withdrawing from the room entirely.
Eleanor returned with the prize in hand, settling beside Isabella with all the ceremony of one about to announce royal decrees. “Shall I begin?” She asked before adjusting her position in the cushioned stool beside the desk.
“Please do,” Isabella murmured, her charcoal pencil sweeping gently across the parchment as she continued shading the sketch.
With one fine motion, Eleanor slit open the envelope and unfolded the letter.
