He'd chosen. Just as she'd always feared he would. And she'd been naive enough to hope otherwise.
An hour later, she was in the ballroom overseeing the placement of floral arrangements when she heard Chance's excited barking from the entrance hall.
"At least someone is happy to see me," Andrew's voice drifted in, colored with amusement and something else, something that sounded almost hurt. "Everyone else in this house seems determined to ignore me."
Isobel's hands stilled on the roses she was arranging.
"There you are, boy. Good to see you too." A pause. "Your mistress, however, appears to have forgotten I exist. Do you think she's angry with me?"
Chance barked again, the sound echoing through the house.
"I thought not. She's far too dignified to show it when she's angry. She simply becomes very, very busy and pretends I'm not there." His voice was getting closer. "Do you know what I did wrong, boy? Because I'm at a complete loss."
Isobel bit the inside of her cheek, fighting the urge to march out there and tell him exactly what he'd done wrong.
"Perhaps you could put in a good word for me?" Andrew continued, clearly addressing the dog. "Tell her I'm sorry for whatever transgression I've committed? That I miss her desperately even though it's only been a few hours?"
Despite herself, despite the hurt still raw in her chest, Isobel felt her lips twitch.
He was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.
And she was dangerously close to forgiving him.
"Nothing?" Andrew sighed dramatically. "You're as cold as your mistress. I'm surrounded by heartless creatures, I tell you."
Footsteps approached the ballroom. Isobel quickly turned back to her flowers, determined not to let him see how his words affected her.
"There you are." Andrew appeared in the doorway, Chance trotting at his heels. "I've been looking for you everywhere."
"I've been here." She kept her voice neutral, her attention on the roses. "Preparing for the ball. As you requested."
"Isobel."
"These centerpieces need to be good. Joan deserves to have a beautiful time." She moved to the next table, refusing to look at him. "I trust your business at the club was resolved satisfactorily?"
Silence. Then: "You're angry with me."
"I'm not angry."
"You're something." He moved closer, and she felt his presence like a furnace at her back. "You've been avoiding me all day. You won't look at me. You're speaking in that terribly polite voice you use when you want to be anywhere but near me."
"I've been busy." She adjusted a rose that didn't need adjusting. "Some of us have responsibilities that can't be set aside the moment something more interesting comes along."
"Ah." His voice went quiet. "So youareangry. About last night."
"I said I'm not."
"Isobel." He caught her wrist gently, stopping her frantic arranging. "Look at me. Please."
She didn't want to. Didn't want to see the confusion in his eyes, the hurt that she was causing by pushing him away. But she also couldn't help herself.
She turned, lifting her chin defiantly, and met his gaze.
He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, his cravat was slightly askew, and his hair looked like he'd been running his hands through it all morning.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I'm sorry I had to leave last night. I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner. I'm sorry for... whatever I did that made you look at me like I'm the enemy."
"You didn't do anything." The lie tasted bitter. "You went to handle an emergency at your club. That's perfectly reasonable."
