"Isobel," Joan said softly as they stood in the entrance hall. "Come home with me. You shouldn't be alone."
"I'm not leaving." Isobel's voice was flat. "This is my home now."
"Then I'll stay with you."
"No." She softened her tone with effort. "Go home, Joan. Lord Ashford is waiting to escort you. I'll be fine."
Joan looked like she wanted to argue, but Lord Ashford touched her elbow gently. "Come, Miss Leyton. Your sister knows where to find us if she needs us."
After they left, the house felt cavernously empty. Servants moved quietly through the ballroom, cleaning up the detritus of the failed evening. Mrs. Brendan approached, her expression carefully neutral.
"Your Grace, perhaps you should retire. I'll send word the moment His Grace arrives."
"No." Isobel smoothed down her skirts. "I'll wait in the drawing room. Send tea, please."
"As you wish, Your Grace."
Isobel settled into the drawing room, Chance padding after her and curling up by her feet. She poured tea she didn't drink and stared at the dying fire and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The clock struck one. Then two. Then three.
With each passing hour, her anger solidified into something cold and hard in her chest.
She'd been a fool. A complete and utter fool.
She'd let herself have hope. Let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, Andrew was starting to choose her over his precious club. That the past weeks of him being home, of them growing closer, of genuine affection building between them—that it had all meant something real.
But at the first crisis at the Mayfair Fox, he'd abandoned her without a second thought. Left her to face the gossip and pity alone. Left her standing in a ballroom full of people who looked at her like some pathetic creature who was too naive to see what everyone else could see clearly.
She would never be his priority.
The drawing room door opened.
Isobel didn't turn around. She'd heard his footsteps in the hall, heavy and uneven, and she'd forced herself to remain still. To not rush to him like some desperate, lovesick fool.
"Isobel."
His voice was rough, hoarse with smoke and exhaustion.
She turned slowly, and despite her anger, despite her hurt, her breath caught.
He looked like he'd walked through the fires of hell.
His coat was scorched, hanging in burnt tatters from his shoulders. His cravat was gone entirely, his shirt open at the collar and streaked with soot. There was an angry red burn across his left forearm, another on his neck disappearing beneath his collar. His face was smudged with ash, his dark hair disheveled and reeking of smoke. Soot stained his breeches, and she could see his hands were scraped raw.
All her carefully maintained fury wavered.
"Andrew." His name came out as barely more than a whisper.
He swayed slightly in the doorway, gripping the frame for support. "I'm sorry. God, Isobel, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I missed the ball. I'm sorry I wasn't here."
She stood on shaking legs. "What happened? Are you hurt? Should I send for a physician?"
"I'm fine." But even as he said it, he winced and his hand went to his ribs.
