Why had Isaac broken their hostess’s rule?
Why had he removed his mask? Did he think she would do the same? She scoffed out loud, pushing away from the wall at the same moment the door behind her opened. She jumped back, her heart leaping to her throat.
Isaac Ellington stood in the doorway, half shadowed by candlelight from the corridor. His mask still hung from limp ribbons in his hand.
“Sophia?”
Her name on his lips sent a shock through her chest. She took a step back. “What are you doing in here?” The words came out harsher than she intended, but perhaps that was a good thing. She couldn’t trust the softer, more vulnerable side of herself. Not now. Not tonight.
“I wanted to speak with you.” His voice was as gentle as she remembered, with the same deep, rich tone. His face was nearly the same, but older. When she had known him before, he had been a little narrower, his features a little more boyish and youthful. The years had added width to his chest and shoulders, a solidness to his jaw, and a deeper set to his eyes. It was strange. She had never imagined him growing older. The image she had carried in her mind for four years had been much different than this one.
She couldn’t look away as Isaac drew a step closer. The door closed behind him, swallowing up the last remaining candlelight. He approached her with caution, as if her slightest movement could make him flinch. Perhaps he felt guilty for how he had disposed of her all those years ago.
“I don’t think that is wise, Mr. Ellington.” She took another step back, toward the ashes in the hearth, until her back was against it. “You are risking my reputation by being here.”
“Mr. Ellington?” The moon illuminated the outline of his features, nothing more. “Are we to begin again as strangers, then?”
“Yes.” She held her breath after the word, her heart beating fast against her ribs.
Isaac nodded slowly, but she couldn’t read his expression in the dark. “I never thought I would see you again. How long have you been in London?”
“A month.” Her voice was weak.
“With your stepfather.” He paused. “I didn’t know your father died.”
“Yes, nearly three years ago.” Sophia gripped the sides of her skirts in an attempt to anchor herself to something. “My mother married Lord Blackstone soon after.”
“And…you haven’t married?” The question came quietly. He must have known how audacious it was of him to ask such a thing.
“No.” She looked down at the floor. “It would seem I am not very skilled at securing the affections of a gentleman. A well-intentioned one, at least.” The bitterness in her voice could not be mistaken. Perhaps it was too much, but she preferred to think it was too little.
Isaac’s expression was still hidden by the darkness, but she could guess at the guilty expression he must have been wearing.
She considered using her courtship with Lord Finchley against him, but she stopped herself. What if Lord Finchley changed his mind? Isaac had been the one to teach her the fickleness of men. He had been the one to make her afraid of hoping for things.
Isaac didn’t seem intent to leave, so she stepped forward. “Please excuse me.” Cornered by the hearth as she was, there was only one way out of the room. She tucked her chin and started for the door.
“Sophia, wait.” Isaac walked into her path.
Her short strides were no match for his. With a frustrated breath, she looked up. Her chest flooded with regret the moment his eyes found hers.
She should not have looked.
Her heart pounded with recognition, with an urgency that terrified her. Isaac had no right to ask anything of her—and if he did not move out of the way, she would push him herself. She held her ground for several seconds before Isaac finally spoke again.
“Don’t leave,” he said in a quiet voice. “You were here first. I’ll go.” He took a step back, his shoulders slack.
And then he left her there in the center of the room.
She watched the door close behind him. The moment she was alone, she tore the mask from her face. She felt stifled by it. Her breath shook as she paced the floor. She tried to stop them, but her memories were persistent tonight. She had learned how to suppress them but seeing Isaac had knocked her defenses to the ground.
She stopped walking, wrapping her arms around herself as a chill passed through the room. It was like the breeze on the edge of a cliff, but without the smell of the sea and pink wildflowers.
Chapter Four
FOUR YEARS BEFORE
Cornwall, Summer 1813
