The duke nodded. “Yes. Yes, you’re right,” he mumbled, while keeping his gaze fixed on hers.
As if experiencing a moment of clarity, he took a step back and cleared his throat, gesturing for her to follow.
That was a close call.
They walked together, and she kept at least two respectable steps between them. The maze twisted endlessly, each turn resembling the last. Isabella felt her frustration building; each moment alone with him drawing her thoughts toward dangerous terrain.
“Is this what you wished, Your Grace?” she muttered under her breath. “To trap me here with you?” She could hardly believe that she had spoken out loud until he turned to her, his eyes wild with indignation.
“You believe I orchestrated the hedges?” The duke stopped and peered at her in disbelief.
“I believe you always appear where I least want you,” She retorted, regretting speaking up in the first place.
He exhaled slowly, his breath clouding in the cold air. “You think I wanted this? That I sought another moment alone with you when we have already—” His voice broke.
He hesitated, and she looked away, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson, at the reminder of their kiss. She shouldn’t be thinking about it, or reacting to it, but she couldn’t help herself.
“We need not speak of it,” she muttered.
“It seems we must,” his voice dropped.
She turned sharply to him, her breath catching.
Their gazes locked, charged with unspoken words. The pathway narrowed, forcing her into the wall of hedges as he took an involuntary step forward. Her back brushed the cold leaves, and his presence closed around her fiercely.
“Lady Isabella,” he said quietly, “you know very well that what happened between us… was not something either of us planned.”
Her pulse hammered as the words stabbed at her heart, but she steadied herself for his next words despite the disturbing quakes she felt in her body.
“It was a mistake,” he whispered, catching her off guard.
The words cracked through her chest like a blow. It felt as though her breath was cut off. She had pondered on that kiss for days; she’d wondered what she was to do and how to act around him, but to him, it hadn’t meant anything more than a simple lapse in judgment.
A flame of hot anger lit up in her, and she sought to erect a wall between them, yet his gaze stilled her, even as she felt as though her chest would burst.
He was close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and the icy tension in his grey eyes. Her breath stilled. His face was inches from hers. His hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, trembling as though he fought with himself, and she felt her entire world narrow to that one point of possibility.
“Yes. A mistake.” She bit out the words venomously.
At her agreement, the duke stepped back sharply as if she had burned him.
“And it cannot be repeated.” She added, before turning away from him and running as quickly as she could toward the approaching voices.
Chapter Twelve
“It would do you a world of good to work on your reputation, Everthorne,” Tristan proposed. “I personally sent an invitation to you, yet I’m surprised you answered it. You have acquired the presence of a man whom nobody expects to show up.”
Tristan decided to host a ball at his mansion, a grand affair that Cassian had no wish to attend. He had argued, refused, protested, and even threatened to cease communication with Tristan, but Tristan had waved off every excuse with expert indifference.
And so, Cassian had attended with his grandmother, who was, only the heavens knew, where.
They had arrived early, and he chose to remain tucked away in one of the side rooms, lingering in the shadows like a disgruntled ghost. He had agreed to grace the event with his presence, but he hadn’t promised participation.
From the room, he could hear the hum of the ballroom as guests flooded in, the rustling of gowns, the murmuring of gossip. It was everything he despised, but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.
While enjoying his whiskey, Tristan had appeared by the doorway with a look that was two parts patience, one part exasperation.
“You cannot hide here all evening,” Tristan complained. “You are the Duke of Everthorne, not some criminal fearing the hangman’s noose.”
