Beatrice laughed quietly and squeezed her arm. “Very well. I shall not pry. But I know that expression on your face, Bella. It looks remarkably like a woman who is trying very hard not to think.”
Isabella looked away, her breath faltering for the briefest second. Beatrice was right; she was trying hard not to think about him.
The memory of his touch lingered upon her skin, the heat of his palm at her back, the firm curl of his fingers around hers, the way his voice had lowered when he whispered for her to meet him.
Half an hour.
Her heart gave a tiny, traitorous flutter.
The cool air of the ballroom corridor seemed to ease the heat in Isabella’s cheeks, at least for a moment, before Lord Falchester’s unmistakable voice reached her.
“Lady Isabella,” he drawled as he stepped neatly into her path, bowing with polished grace. “What a pleasure to find you unoccupied. Might I have the next dance?”
He did not wait for permission before lifting her dance card from her fingers, and with a flourish, he scripted his name upon an empty line.
Why does he never take a hint?
The man was harder to shake than a cold.
“Lord Falchester,” Isabella acknowledged with a polite smile, “I had not expected to see you tonight.” She hoped her distracted reply would make him take leave.
“Oh, but I attend all events of significance,” he replied smoothly, returning her card. “And now that the talk of London is this… Laurel Club of yours, I find my curiosity thoroughly piqued.”
“We must certainly be doing something right if we have earned your interest.” She humored him.
“Mm,” he murmured thoughtfully, offering his arm for her to take. “I did hear of unclothed men at one of its gatherings.”
Isabella felt her spine stiffen, yet she kept her voice calm.
“We hosted a theatrical performance, and the attire of the performers is none of your concern.”
He chuckled lightly.
“Indeed. Though I confess I cannot imagine any respectable lady requiring entertainment of that manner.” He lowered his arm when it became apparent that she would not take it.
She turned a cool look upon him.
“I assure you, My Lord, the Laurels require nothing more than what the gentlemen of the ton have indulged in freely for centuries.”
His brows rose in brief surprise, but he laughed again, though the sound carried an undertone she did not care for.
“Spirited as ever, Lady Isabella.”
“And uninterested as ever,” she replied sweetly.
The music shifted to a livelier tempo, and as the ladies and gentlemen swept onto the floor, Isabella felt the familiar tick of time in her chest.
Nearly there.
“Please excuse me, My Lord,” she said. Lord Falchester blinked, a hint of frustration shadowing his features, but he bowed anyway.
“Of course. Until later,” he waved at her, but Isabella had already stepped away.
She moved quickly, weaving through the clusters of guests, until the terrace doors came into view: tall, white-framed, and invitingly open to the cool night.
Her breath caught when she saw him.
The duke stood alone near the stone balustrade, the moon carving the sharp line of his jaw, the shadows settling around him like a cloak he was born to wear. His head turned at the sound of her footsteps, and his eyes found her instantly.
