Days ago, during a tour of Ever’s estate, they’d crossed a field of wildflowers, and Isabella had been instantly charmed. She’d remarked on the harebells, not realizing he was listening.
Heart skipping, she was on her feet, racing to her bedchamber window, with no notion what she expected to find. London’s sky was opaque, the moon bright—no man with deep green eyes and a cautious smile staring up at her from the lawn below. No sweep of Derbyshire hills. No wildflowers bowing in the dusk.
But she had to believe he was out there, working toward a life with her.
She would wait. Until she couldn’t wait any longer.
Two gifts arrived on the third day, one intentional, one not. Isabella exited a store on Bond Street, her family and staff—two footmen, who rarely accompanied them on shopping trips—taking up the entire sidewalk, when she noticed a man across the way who looked like Brick, recognizable even with a flat cap pulled low over his brow. They locked eyes for a stunned second before a passing carriage cut between them. When the street cleared, he was gone.
Later, a silk-covered button from her gown, an item she’d misplaced in Ever’s bedchamber, appeared on her nightstand.
Smiling, she pressed it to her lips, then her heart.
This was their courtship. Unconventional. Intimate. As precise as the man behind it. Society could believe she’d been tossed aside by the April rake—or that she’d tossed him aside; at present, it was undetermined. It only mattered that he was coming for her.
Aside from what he’d done to her heart, she burned for him, the fire he’d lit flaring in the darkness, night after night. In his absence, she learned the rhythm of her own desire,though nothing compared to his touch. She wouldn’t let him leave her bedchamber for days once he crossed its threshold.
His cries would echo off the walls as hers had.
And then Derbyshire arrived—she was sure of it.
A stone she found in her spencer pocket, one she knew hadn’t been there the day before. Pale limestone, worn smooth. Ever had once told her about the quarries cut deep into the hills, how the fragments lined the gravel drives of nearly every estate in the county, crushed and spread beneath carriage wheels, his voice gentling in a way it did only when he spoke of home.
This one was not crushed. It fit perfectly in the hollow of her palm, and later beneath her pillow. The next day brought another token: the length of satin ribbon she’d intentionally left in his bedchamber.
The last came on the day of Baron Harrington’s party: a folded slip tucked inside her glove, written in Ever’s unmistakable hand.
By the second waltz, you’ll want air.
Anticipation tightened her chest, happiness rising too quickly to disguise.
Harrington’s ballroom blazed with light when they arrived, the open doors spilling music and laughter onto the lantern-strung terraces beyond. The mild evening carried the scent of damp grass and roses, softening the press of rosewater and candlewax. Musicians crowded the raised dais, violins in motion beneath the chandeliers, the rhythm brisk enough to keep conversation brief and feet moving. Penny chattered about who might secure this year’s MayRake Reviewtrophy, her voice bright with speculation. The Duchess of Mercer surveyed the room with the calm efficiency of a woman who missed nothing. Isabella stood between them, dipping her chin at intervals that suggested attention.
She could not have repeated a word of it.
Weston stood near the far column, affecting indifference while his gaze drifted toward the terrace doors often enough to betray him. What did he know? Isabella would not have put it past him to have had a hand in Ever’s swift departure from Langley. Men were forever plotting.
Then the second waltz began.
An eager young gentleman, the second son of Lord Weatherby, angled toward her through the thinning space at the edge of the ballroom floor. He’d likely been told she was newly cast aside and therefore more agreeable. She stepped back before he reached her, allowing a trio of matrons to close ranks between them.
She didn’t intend to be anyone’s consolation prize—only one man’s reward. And he hers.
Keeping to the wall, she skirted the press of onlookers and the sweep of turning couples, pausing once as though to admire a floral arrangement, once to incline her head at some passing pleasantry. By the time the dancers completed their first broad turn, she’d reached the narrower garden entrance used chiefly by servants, the opening half-shadowed by climbing ivy.
Isabella glided through, the cool night air striking her skin like a conspiracy.
When the second waltz ended and Isabella didn’t show, something cold worked its way into Ever’s chest. The sounds of a celebration—clinking crystal, laughter, the splash of a fountain—fluttered by him.Bloody hell,he hated society gatherings.
Perhaps he’d wounded Isabella beyond repair.
Perhaps she’d decided he wasn’t worth choosing.
The gifts he’d sent were decidedly personal. A way to tellher, when he wasn’t quite ready toactuallytell her. Little pieces of his heart, given until she held the whole of it in her hands. She wasn’t a woman he’d send flowers to or buy jewelry for, not right off the mark. Those were expected, common offerings in their world.
Instead, he’d given her something infinitely more valuable.
Ever weighed that certainty as he tilted his timepiece into a narrow ribbon of moonlight. He’d tucked himself into a hidden nook on Harrington’s terrace over an hour ago, arriving early in case Isabella came searching. All he’d earned for his trouble was the chance to witness two assignations: one, a rather surprising coupling between a dowager countess and a much younger footman; the other, the typical soulless embrace against cold brick.
