He arched a brow and looked her up and down. “I shall call for my carriage then. Come along.”
He moved them toward the door where she had just entered. She couldn’t help but toss one last glance over her shoulder as they left, but found no Matthew within. His friends, all those dukes and their wives, were gathered in a cluster, though, talking and frowning. Had he spoken to them? Did they know?
Nausea rose in her stomach, and she turned away and focused on making it to the foyer without casting up her accounts. Her uncle called for his rig and she stared at her slippers as they waited, reliving every moment with Matthew in the chamber.
His anger had been so big, it filled the whole parlor. But the desire was still there, too. Like warring factions trying to lay claim to him. Desire had won for a moment, but she feared the rage, the hatred she had inspired by deceiving him…those would take the war. She deserved it, of course, but it still made her heart sink to think that the conversation they’d just shared would likely be their last.
“Isabel.”
Her uncle’s tone was sharp, and she looked up to find him watching her closely. His expression was unreadable but utterly odd. “Y-yes?”
“The carriage,” he said, motioning to it.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
She followed him to the vehicle and let him help her up. He took a place across from her and off they went into the night, away from the ball. Away from the moments that had truly changed her life.
“What is it?” he asked.
She jerked her face toward him. “I’m sorry?”
“You are very distracted, Isabel,” he said, his tone harsh. “Far more than I would expect from a mere headache.”
She swallowed. If she wanted to survive this mess, she would have to learn to cover her reactions better. She forced a smile. “It was merely a very interesting night, uncle. Nothing more.”
“Interesting. Yes, I agree. It was a very interesting night.” He leaned back against the carriage seat, his arms folded and his gaze still locked on her. “You created a stir, didn’t you? Even bigger than I thought you might.”
She wrinkled her brow and her musings on Matthew faded. Her uncle’s demeanor was so very strange now that her heart began to pound. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing yet,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I must think a bit before we talk about it.”
“Think?” she repeated. “Think about what?”
“About your future,” he said. “I realized tonight that you might have a much bigger one than I’d originally hoped for. It changes my plans, that is all.”
“What do you mean a bigger future?”
“Perhaps a baron or a second son just isn’t lofty enough,” he explained with a shrug.
Her heart sank and she slouched down in her seat a bit. Here she had been so terrified about her connection to Matthew she’d thought Uncle Fenton could see it. But he was instead focused on that marriage he planned for her. That future she had tried to ignore was rushing toward her despite each passing moment in Matthew’s arms.
Now it was almost here. She had to find a way to accept it. And accept that whatever fantasy she had built around Matthew would never be a reality again. Her memories, even the terrifying ones from tonight, would likely be all that kept her warm from this moment forward.
Chapter Twelve
It had been three days since the Callis ball, but to Matthew it felt like a lifetime. The fact that he had hardly slept did not make the moments pass any faster, of course. Nor did the fact that every one of his duke friends in town had come to call on him, to ask him questions. So he’d had to repeat the story of discovering Isabel’s identity over and over, reliving it each time.
But the worst, and best, part of the way he’d passed the days were the intruding thoughts about his encounter with Isabel. Kissing Isabel. Isabel lying to him. And touching him.
“Christ,” he muttered as he pulled his horse up short in front of Mattigan’s Bookshop and slung himself down. He secured the animal to a nearby post and patted the mare’s shoulder before he looked up at the building with a smile.
Mattigan’s was a favorite haunt of his. When he read, he forgot everything around him. Everything that troubled him. He needed that escape now more than ever, which was why Mattigan’s note that a few of his requested books had come in was like a message from the heavens. Matthew was more than ready to forget his troubles.
When he opened the door, the little bell rang and his smile widened. Mr. Mattigan, a portly man of middle age, looked up from his ledger behind the high desk across the room and his face lit up. “Ah, sir, sir, welcome to you.”
Matthew came across to him, hand extended, and the shopkeep shook it none too gently in his enthusiasm. “Mr. Mattigan, I was so very happy to get your message. My books are in?”
“They are at last, and with my apologies in the delay,” Mr. Mattigan said with a contrite incline of his head. “The French are most dastardly when separating us from our entertainment.”
