Andrew straightened at once. Whatever the message was, it had already claimed him.
He left.
Isobel stood alone in the room, surrounded by the evidence of their passion—the scattered clothes, the rumpled cushions on the settee, the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with her perfume.
And she felt like the greatest fool in all of England.
What did you expect? He told you who he was. Told you the club was his priority. You're the one who convinced yourself that might change.
She'd been counting on him. Counting on the promises he'd made, the tenderness he'd shown, the way he'd held her like she was precious. She'd let herself believe that maybe she could be enough to make him choose her over the Mayfair Fox.
But at the first summons from his club, he'd left without a second thought. Left her alone in a room still warm from their passion, as if none of it had meant anything at all.
"Foolish," she whispered to the empty room. "So incredibly foolish."
She made her way upstairs to her chambers, her legs still unsteady, her body still humming with the memory of his touch. Selene was waiting to help her undress, but Isobel sent her away, unable to bear the thought of anyone seeing her like this—raw and vulnerable and aching with a hurt that had nothing to do with her body.
She climbed into bed alone, pulled the covers up to her chin, and stared at the ceiling.
Sleep didn't come. How could it, when her mind kept replaying the last hour? The way he'd touched her and how she also responded by pleasuring him. The things he'd said. The promises he'd made, not with words, but with actions that spoke louder than any vow.
And then the way he'd left, so easily, so quickly, when his precious club called.
The sky was beginning to lighten with dawn when she finally heard his footsteps in the hall, the soft click of his chamber door closing.
He'd been gone all night.
Morning came too soon and was too bright.
“Mrs. Brendan, the lilies for the east table are insufficient,” Isobel said briskly as she examined the arrangements. “We shall require twice as many.”
“Twice, Your Grace?” Mrs. Brendan blinked. “The room will be a veritable conservatory.”
“Then let it be one,” she replied. “Now, have the footmen bring the menu drafts. The pheasant must be reconsidered.”
“You approved it not an hour past,” Mrs. Brendan said gently.
“Then I am approving it again.” Isobel’s eyes fixed on the papers as a footman hurried to present them for her inspection. “One cannot be too thorough.”
She shuffled the guest cards with unnecessary force. “Lady Pennington must not be seated beside Lord Hawthorne. They would start a war before the soup is served. The ball must be good. There is no room for distraction.”
Isobel lifted her chin quickly. “Make the flowers very symmetrical. Now, please, fetch the lists. There is work to be done.”
Isobel threw herself into preparations for the ball with single-minded determination. There were flowers to arrange, menus to approve, and guest lists to review. She kept herself so busy that she didn't have time to think, didn't have space for the hurt still festering in her chest.
Mrs. Brendan gave her concerned looks but said nothing. She simply carried out Isobel's instructions with her usual efficiency.
"Your Grace," the housekeeper said around midday, "His Grace has finally risen. He's asking for you in the garden."
"I'm rather occupied at the moment." Isobel didn't look up from the seating chart she was revising. "Please tell him I'll find him when I have time."
Mrs. Brendan hesitated. "He seemed quite insistent, Your Grace."
"As am I." Isobel's voice came out sharper than intended. She softened it with effort. "I'm sure whatever it is can wait. We have a ball to prepare for."
Mrs. Brendan curtsied and retreated, leaving Isobel alone with her charts and her wounded pride.
She knew she was being petty. Knew that avoiding him solved nothing. But she couldn't face him yet, couldn't look into those ocean-blue eyes and pretend everything was fine when her heart felt like it was shattering into increasingly smaller pieces.
