Isabella dropped her gaze. Her cheeks were burning as she quietly said, “He kissed me.”
“And you let him?” Her mother’s tone was sharp and accusing.
“I ...” A sigh of defeat escaped Isabella’s lips. “Yes.”
“Then I am right—as unfortunate as that is. He has designs on you. That’s why he didn’t ask you to leave. His mother’s wishes would have been inconsequential. He’s the duke, and judging from what you’ve just told us, it’s quite clear that he was—”
“That’s enough!” Isabella watched in stunned silence as her mother froze, her mouth dropping open in response to her husband’s outburst. She turned her head toward him. Isabella turned too. “Nobody is going to make a mistress of my daughter,” he said, his voice deep and rough and desperately protective. “I’ll meet with the duke and explain the situation properly to him. I’m sure he’ll understand.” He looked at his wife. “And I would like to caution you, madam, against speaking of such things when there are children present—it’s unbecoming.”
They all turned to look at Jamie, who was seated opposite her father at the other end of the table, eyes wide with interest. She looked vastly entertained by the discussion taking place, but she wisely fixed her attention on her meal, quite possibly hoping that this would make her invisible.
“I only meant to draw attention to the severity of the situation,” Isabella’s mother said, her tone a little softer than before as she turned her gaze away from her youngest daughter and regarded her husband instead. “It’s obvious that she’s caught the duke’s attention, so if he’s out looking for her, it’s also obvious that hewantsher.”
“He’s known to be a reasonable man, love. I’m sure he’ll leave Isabella in peace once I’ve had a word with him.”
Isabella doubted it. After all, she’d told him repeatedly that they couldn’t be together. As if to confirm this fear, her mother said with incredulity, “Reasonable? He’s one of the worst rakes this country’s ever seen! Why, he and that friend of his were notorious for leaving a blazing trail of ruined maidens behind them in their youth.”
Isabella saw her father frown. “I believe that’s highly exaggerated, my dear, not to mention that the duke is older now and has proven himself quite responsible these past five years or however long it’s been ... I forget.”
“All I can say,” Isabella’s mother said, “is once a rake, always a rake, and a duke is a dangerous man to meddle with to begin with. You know as well as I that these sorts expect to have their way.”
There was a look in her mother’s eye that Isabella couldn’t quite place as she stared back at her husband—as if the two of them were sharing a silent exchange.
Jamie’s fork clattered against her plate as she accidentally dropped it, distracting Isabella from her pondering. “What if she’s right, Papa?” she asked in a muted tone. “What if he won’t listen?”
“Then we may have to resort to different measures.”
“Such as?” Isabella’s mother asked, her eyes still riveted upon her husband.
“Such as encouraging Mr. Roberts to propose right away. Once you’re married, the duke will have no choice but to abandon all thought of you.”
It was true, and a simple plan. Yet Isabella felt her shoulders slump as she expelled a deep breath. There was a feeling of emptiness inside her that she feared might never be filled. Pushing back the tears that threatened at the thought of marrying a man she did not love when the man she truly desired had declared himself eager to court her, she stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork. It was a fate she would have to accept. Social standing would make it difficult for the Duke of Kingsborough to show any interest in making her his duchess, and it was unlikely he’d wish to once her father spoke to him. Her mother was right. If he still wanted her after discovering that she was nothing more than the daughter of a carriage driver, he’d want her as his mistress. It was disheartening to consider, but in this instance she had to agree with her mother—being realistic was of far greater importance than being romantic.
Chapter 12
As was to be expected, Mr. Roberts appeared at precisely three o’clock the following day, dressed in a moss green velvet jacket and a pair of dark brown buckskin breeches with newly buffed Hessians to match. “Miss Chilcott,” he said, bowing toward Isabella as he entered the parlor. “You look lovely today. I see that you took my suggestion of tying a cerulean blue ribbon in your hair to heart.”
He did not smile as he said it but managed to maintain the perfectly bland expression that Isabella had come to expect from him. The ribbon had been her mother’s suggestion, since Isabella had no recollection of him having mentioned any such thing—probably because he’d said it during one of her woolgathering moments. And although she hated having ribbons tied in her hair (they always got in the way or came loose to dangle in one’s eyes), she had submitted herself to her mother’s command. It was vital that she got Mr. Roberts to offer for her as soon as possible, and given his character, this was more likely to be accomplished if Isabella showed herself to be agreeable. “Yes,” she heard herself say as they took their seats on the sofa across from her parents. “I believe it was very sound advice.”
With a nod of approval, Mr. Roberts’s gaze slid sideways. “Ah, the infamous apple pie,” he said. “It looks even better than I remember.”
Isabella stifled a groan while her mother did the honor of serving them all a slice and pouring tea.
“I trust you have all been well since I last saw you,” Mr. Roberts said, following a bite of pie with a sip of tea.
“Very much so,” Isabella’s mother said. Her voice was completely level, and she even managed what looked to be a genuine smile. There was absolutely no trace of the tension that was surely strung as tight as a bow inside her. “And you, Mr. Roberts? Has business been good for you this past week?”
“It has been acceptable—not too busy and not too slow.” He set his cup on its saucer, leaned back against the sofa and folded his hands in his lap, saying nothing further.
Isabella reached for the pie. She’d already had one piece, but she felt the need to occupy herself with something, and eating pie—even though it was apple and she’d grown quite tired of that particular flavor—felt like a useful way to accomplish this. But just as she picked up the knife, Mr. Roberts said, “Not that I mean to pass judgment, Miss Chilcott, but I do wish you would have a care for your figure.”
Her grip on the knife tightened. Would it be so terrible if she stabbed the man to death right there on the sofa?
Feeling her mother’s eyes upon her, Isabella took a calming breath, set the knife aside and turned her head to look at Mr. Roberts directly, saying, “I was actually hoping that you might like to go for a stroll with me after tea.” This had been her parents’ idea, for they had deemed it safer for Isabella to be out of the house in case the duke stopped by. It would also offer her a bit of alone time with Mr. Roberts, which was meant to encourage him in his pursuit of her.
Mr. Roberts nodded thoughtfully as he plucked a piece of lint from his jacket. “Yes, that would be most agreeable—the weather is ideal for a stroll about town. Perhaps we can find a new pair of gloves for you.”
Isabella frowned. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but I already have a perfectly good pair.”
