Christina pressed her lips together, fighting the laugh that rose unbidden in her chest. It escaped anyway — a soft, startled sound, quickly caught behind her hand. "She has had a great deal of practice."
From the corner, Sophie rose with the serene dignity of a woman who had timed her interruption to perfection and saw no reason to apologize for it. "Tea will do us all good, I think." Her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed amusement as she crossed the room. "You have both been working very diligently. A short rest is surely in order."
The tea was poured. Conversation turned to lighter matters — the upcoming ball at the Belmonts', Sophie's opinions on the latest fashions from Paris, Lord Coventry's dry observation that he had not yet been required to have an opinion on the latest fashions from Paris, and hoped to keep it that way. Sophie laughed at this, and Christina saw, with a quiet gratitude, hownaturally they spoke together — her sister and the man she was trying very hard not to love again so quickly.
But the lightness could not last. The papers on the desk waited, the questions they had raised hanging in the air like smoke after a fire.
Lord Coventry rose to leave as the clock struck the hour. Christina walked with him to the drawing room door while Sophie, with characteristic tact, lingered at the far end of the room.
"We have not yet found our answer," he said, his voice low as he paused at the threshold.
"But we are closer than we were," she replied, holding his gaze.
He studied her for a moment — a long moment, the kind that might mean everything or nothing. "To more than one thing, I think."
The words settled between them, quiet and true. She did not look away, though propriety and caution and the memory of two years of agony all urged her to do so.
"Yes," she said.
He bowed. She curtsied. He left.
Christina stood at the window and watched his figure retreat down the street, his stride long and purposeful. The afternoon light fell across her hands where they rested on the windowsill, and she noted, without surprise, that her composure had cracked again — a warmth in her cheeks, a softness in her expression that had no business being there.
She did not repair it.
Not this time.
10
Isaac frowned, looking down at his paper and trying his hardest to remember all of the other gentlemen who had been present that night. It was so long ago, he was fighting to recall each face – made all the foggier by the fact he had been enjoying very good brandy at the time.
“There was Lord Wickton, I recall him distinctly,” he muttered, one hand going down the list of names. “Baron Hogarth and Lord Kinsley.” Frowning, he tried to bring the memory of that evening back to mind, seeing three faces that remained indistinct. With a growl, he set the quill down sharply, the ink splattering across the paper. That night had never held such importance to him before, but now that he knew there was a chance for reconciliation between himself and Christina, everything had changed. Pushing himself up from his chair, Isaac made to walk from his study with the intention of going out to the fashionable hour, only for someone to knock.
“Yes?” Halting, Isaac lifted an eyebrow as his butler came in. “What is it?”
“Lord Wickton and Lord Kinsley have come to call, my lord.” The butler stepped to one side to allow Lord Wickton to step in,with Lord Kinsley following after. Their broad smiles did little to soothe Isaac’s inward irritation.
“Lord Wickton, Lord Kinsley, good afternoon. I am afraid I am just about to step out.” Pausing at the hard sound of his own voice and seeing that his haste made him appear ill-mannered, Isaac closed his eyes and shook his head. “Forgive me, I did not mean to make you both unwelcome. It is only that something of significance has come to mind, and I am quite caught up with it.”
Lord Wickton shrugged as Lord Kinsley, ignoring this, settled into a chair. “Very well, I will not keep you. It was only to deliver this invitation to you, that was all.”
“I came to call upon you at the very same time.” Lord Kinsley sat back in his chair and smiled. “I have already received my invitation, however.”
“An invitation?” Isaac took it from Lord Wickton, flushing inwardly at the embarrassment he had brought on himself by his sharp manner. “How very kind. What is it for?”
“I am throwing a ball,” Lord Wickton replied, with a grin. “My wife demands it, and I think it a very good notion.”
A chuckle broke from Lord Kinsley as Lord Wickton’s smile faltered. “Might I ask if you only thought it a good notion once Lady Wickton convinced you of it?”
Seeing that a little levity brought a spark of laughter between them all, Isaac let out a breath of relief that his previous rudeness had been so quickly forgotten.
“You know me well indeed, it seems.” With a quiet shrug and a small sigh, Lord Wickton’s mouth fell into a light grimace. “The truth is, I do not much want to throw a ball and would be perfectly contented to attend occasions instead of organizing my own. But my dear wife is insistent and, if I am honest, I do very much want to please her.” His grimace faded into a tender smile, his gaze pulling away from Isaac’s. “Love has turned me into the most ridiculous fool.”
Isaac, the words striking at his soul, nodded slowly. “It does that to us all, my friend.”
The moment he said such a thing, Lord Wickton’s eyebrows shot high, a questioning curiosity burning in his gaze. “You sound as if you know of what I speak,” he said, tilting his head to one side. “We have not been in company together for some time, I know, but we were always good friends. I do not think I have ever heard you speak of any young lady with any sort of interest.”
Hesitating, Isaac looked to Lord Kinsley, who offered him a small shrug. As yet, Isaac had never spoken to Lord Wickton of his previous affection for Christina. Might he do so now? There was no reason to hold back, he considered, given that Christina herself would be speaking of it to her sister. “On this occasion, I do.”
