Isaac surveyed the room until he found Sophia, standing near a heavily draped window. She was dressed in white, just like his nightmare. She wasn’t wearing a veil, or holding a bouquet of flowers, but the sight was still eerie enough to make him freeze in the doorway.
Amongst the other guests was Lord Blackstone, who thankfully hadn’t noticed Isaac yet either. He had been avoiding his club since the auction, knowing full well that the viscount would have a stern look and several questions for him.
With an inexplicable knot in his stomach, Isaac walked into the room.
When Sophia noticed his approach, her face melted into a look of dismay.
Her cheeks paled.
Isaac slowed his steps, keeping several feet between them. Had she not expected him to attend? She looked like she had seen a ghost.
He bowed, no longer certain of the words he had planned. He couldn’t be certain of anything. His throat was dry, his pulse racing. “You look…surprised to see me.” He searched for clues in her expression.
Her dark lashes shielded her eyes from his view. Her lips parted, her throat shifting with a swallow. “I—I didn’t know you received an invitation.”
“I’m as surprised as you are.” Isaac smiled, but Sophia’s expression was cold. Panicked.
Something was wrong. Sophia’s gaze darted to the right, then back to Isaac’s face. Her hands twisted together.
Lord Finchley came into view, a vision of bright orange. His stiff curls shone like brass. “Ah, Mr. Ellington, I’m pleased that you accepted my invitation.” His eyes were colder than a sheet of ice as he took Isaac in, an arrogant smile plastered on his face. “I apologize for the late notice, but I thought you might like to be present to celebrate the engagement of one of your dearest friends.” He took Sophia’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of her glove.
Her face was still pale.
Isaac’s entire body felt numb. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.
“My congratulations.” Isaac’s voice came from the depths of his chest, nothing more than a weak mumble. He cleared his throat. His heart was on fire, burning into a pile of ash. Sophia’s eyes came into view. Were they sad? He couldn’t tell. But in that moment, they were the color of the sea, her cheeks were dotted with freckles, and her hair was bleached by the sun. Isaac was twenty-two, and she was nineteen. His heart was in pieces as he ran home on the back of his horse, back to an empty house with no grandfather. And no hope for Sophia Hale.
He had lost her. He had lost her a second time.
The walls seemed to close in around him, and the voice from his nightmare whispered in his ear: “I have everything I have always wanted. Are you not happy for me?”
What he felt now was not happiness, not even close. A storm raged inside him, a bitter rain that drowned him from the inside out. He took one step back, then another. He had known that Lord Finchley’s reasons for calling him there couldn’t have been cordial. No doubt the earl had planned this moment with great pleasure. Isaac had won the painting, but Finchley had laid his claim on Sophia’s hand.
But did he have any claim on her heart?
Sophia was stiff beside him, her neck straight and her eyes averted. Isaac’s arrival had rattled her, just as the announcement of her engagement had rattled him. Heknewshe didn’t love Finchley. But that didn’t matter. She had still chosen him. The fight was over.
There was no need for more false pleasantries. Isaac couldn’t bear to look at the two of them a moment longer. He would endure the evening with as much civility as he could muster, and then he would leave. And he would never come back.
With a bow, he turned, searching the crowd for someone else to speak with. He felt Sophia’s gaze on his back as he crossed the room to a gentleman he recognized from Blackstone’s—Mr. Nash Markham. At least that was one stroke of luck.
The sickening sensation in Isaac’s stomach remained, weakening his steps as the group made their way to the dining room. Isaac took his place at the long mahogany table. The china and silver cutlery gleamed under the crystal chandelier. How could Isaac eat when he felt so ill? His heart was like a rock in his chest, heavy, cold, and growing harder by the second.
He looked across the table at Sophia. She smiled at the woman beside her, giving a polite reply to something she said.But the moment the exchange was over, the smile faded from her face.
She seemed intent not to look at him.
Throughout the meal, the conversation varied from group debates to smaller discussions. Isaac ate what he could in silence. When the ladies retired to the drawing room, he remained at the table with the other men. He stared into his glass of port, rocking the red liquid from side to side.
“Lord Blackstone has been generous enough to provide me with a few exotic delicacies.” Lord Finchley waved a footman forward, who placed a small bowl at the center of the table. “I thought I might share them with you all.” His eyes lifted casually in Isaac’s direction. Isaac didn’t even have to look to know what the ‘exotic delicacies’ would be.
Lord Blackstone peered into the bowl. And then his eyes snapped toward Isaac with concern. “I should hope that you boiled them, Finchley. They are quite unpredictable in nature. Mr. Ellington can attest to that.”
Isaac stared at the bowl of cashews, his jaw tight. The lengths Lord Finchley had taken for his revenge were ridiculous, yet he had to give him credit for the creativity of this particular hit.
“There should be no need to boil them, Blackstone,” Lord Finchley said with a laugh. “I have been eating them all week and have experienced nothing out of the ordinary.” To prove his point, he popped one in his mouth. His lips twisted into a smirk as he chewed.
Lord Blackstone’s brows shot up. “How peculiar. Is your throat burning at all? Itching? Swelling?”
