“I wouldn’t mind a sherry,” his mother replied. He could hear her moving about as he poured a glass for each of them, selecting a cognac for himself. “You really think she’s the one, don’t you?”
Anthony stiffened for a moment and then turned. “I do.” Stepping toward his mother, he offered her her glass.
Taking it, she stared down at it, her brow knit in a serious frown as she said, “Then you must stop at nothing to win her.” She looked up at Anthony, and there was such encouragement in her eyes that Anthony knew without doubt that she was just as determined as he in turning Miss Chilcott into the Duchess of Kingsborough. In case he had any doubt however, she raised her glass toward his and said, “You have my full support.”
They clinked their glasses together, and Anthony silently reflected on how important a moment it was. His mother might not have had the strength of character required to give women like Lady Crooning a proper set down, but she was kind and loving to a fault, and the fact that she trusted him so completely with something that he barely understood himself meant the world to him. Now, if he could only convince Miss Chilcott and her parents, everything might just work out the way he hoped after all.
Chapter 17
Five days had passed since the Kingsborough Ball, and Isabella’s mind was more muddled than it had ever been before. She was being courted by Mr. Roberts, whostillhadn’t proposed,andshe was being pursued by a duke.
She let out a sigh of despair. She didn’t care for Mr. Roberts in the least—especially not now that he had revealed what her marriage to him would entail. But she knew that her father had done all in his power to encourage his suit and consequently feared that denying Mr. Roberts at this point would not only incur his wrath but also make a mockery of her father.
On the other hand, the man she felt drawn toward was so far above her on the social ladder that she felt such hopelessness at even considering the possibility of that working out. Besides, her mother hated his kind and everything they stood for, which would not lead to very joyous family reunions.
The duke seemed not to mind her station in life, which only endeared him to her further. He might have been a man of power, but he was good and kind, or he would have started by trying to make her his mistress instead. He had not, however, and while he seemed terribly convinced that a union between them would work, Isabella still worried.
She didn’t know him very well after all, and he didn’t know her. What if this ...thing... they felt for each other wasn’t enough? What if it faded? He hadn’t called it love, much to her relief, since she would have thought him presumptuous if he had, but rather thepromiseof love. And yet ... what if all it was, was a need? She’d heard of such unquenchable desire before, and judging from the way he’d kissed her at the ball, not to mention their interlude on the road three days ago ... She felt herself grow unbearably hot at the reminder and went to open the window.
Lust.
She allowed the word to form in the privacy of her mind and took a moment to consider it. Was that what it was? A breeze swept past her face, toying with her hair, and she sighed as she looked at the piece of paper she held in her hand. Marjorie had brought it up to her in secrecy, and she’d waited for the maid to depart before tearing open the seal to read its contents—an invitation from the duke to meet him later that afternoon by the Kingsborough barn, located quite conveniently on the same road that she would have to take to go to her aunt’s house.
Isabella felt her heart flutter at the very thought of accepting such a liaison. It spelled trouble, and yet the note said that he only wished to talk to her. Instinct warned her that he would want to do a whole lot more, but the sound of her heart beating was drowning out her voice of reason.
She wanted to see him again, if only to say good-bye. The very idea of having to do so was terrifying, but unless she ran away with him, she had no choice. She didn’t want to disappoint her parents, to humiliate her father or, for that matter, to tell Mr. Roberts that he’d wasted so much time on her. It just wasn’t in her.
But just because she’d determined to sacrifice herself for the sake of others did not mean she should be denied one last afternoon of happiness with the man she ... She decided not to finish that thought, for not only was it ridiculously romantic, even for her, but it would also lead to further heartbreak if she allowed herself to believe it to be true.
Donning a plain white cotton gown, Isabella picked a bouquet of daffodils in the garden, then announced to her mother that she would be taking them over to her aunt. Fortunately, her mother was in the middle of her correspondence and barely batted an eyelid, waving Isabella off instead as she wished her a pleasant walk.
“Can I come with you?” Jamie asked just before Isabella reached the garden gate.
“No,” Isabella said, turning to meet her sister’s inquisitive gaze with a pointed look.
Jamie smiled cheekily and whispered, “You’re going to meet him, aren’t you?”
Isabella had of course shared with her sister every detail about the Kingsborough Ball—except for the kiss—and, like the duke, Jamie was of the opinion that the two should marry, claiming that all of Isabella’s reasons against doing so were ridiculous.
“I’m going to end whatever is between us,” Isabella said, trying to sound convincing.
Her sister looked dubious, then shook her head. “It’s one thing for you to lie to everyone else, but to lie to yourself, Izzie ...” She scrunched her mouth as if thinking how best to continue. “I never thought you such a coward.”
Filled with the kind of indignation one could feel only at receiving such a blunt appraisal from a younger sibling, Isabella opened her mouth to protest, except that her sister was already marching back toward the house. “Give my love to Aunt Rosalyn and Uncle Herbert, will you?” she called over her shoulder, stopping Isabella from saying whatever it was she’d meant to say a moment earlier.
Isabella stared after her.
Was Jamie right? Was she a coward? She wouldn’t have thought so, considering everything she was giving up for the sake of those she loved. But emotionally ... It wasn’t a thought she wished to entertain at present, so with a brisk step, Isabella quickly left Moxley behind her and headed toward the rendezvous point, her heartbeat quickening when she spotted the brown building in the distance.
“You can do this,” she told herself, squaring her shoulders and clenching her teeth as if she’d been on the verge of facing an army in battle rather than a simple man, though she had to admit that there was nothing simple about him. In fact, nobody had ever complicated her life more.
As she came closer, she looked over her shoulder to ensure that there was nobody else on the road who might see her. Not even a stray dog could be seen, and Isabella wasn’t entirely sure if she felt worried or relieved by this, for there was no longer any excuse not to turn off the road, walk into the field and around to the back of the barn, where one of the doors stood slightly ajar.
Pushing it open just enough to squeeze through, Isabella stopped and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. It was warm inside—the sort of dry warmth one feels on a bright sunny day—and it smelled richly of hay. A fluttering sound reached her ears, and she looked up to see a bird preening its feathers up under the rafters, where narrow gaps in the wood roofing allowed beams of sunshine to pour through, bathing the hay in a golden glow.
She was just about to step further inside when a strong arm snaked its way around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest. She would have screamed in startled surprise, but a large hand covered her mouth instead. “It’s just me,” a deep, familiar voice whispered against her ear.
She relaxed, and he removed his hand. “Was that really necessary?” she asked, moving to escape his grasp. He spun her around instead so they were facing each other, and she reluctantly sucked in a breath. How was it possible for him to be handsomer than when she’d last seen him? Logic told her it wasn’t so, yet she couldn’t deny that her recollection of his appearance had been unjust—a clear sign of her own denial.
