There were so many things wrong with that statement that Isabella didn’t know where to begin. For one thing, she’d received no proposal from him yet, nor had she accepted. Next, there was the fact that now he was prohibiting her from walking, which she might have been able to accept if, like Anthony’s, his reasoning had been based on some concern for her safety. However, it was perfectly clear that the only thing concerning Mr. Roberts was that he keep a high standard for appearance’s sake.
Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do to offend him by saying any of those things, since she would soon be accepting his offer. Or at least she hoped so, for if he too decided to cast her aside, it would leave her family in dire straits indeed. So when he offered her his hand, she obediently accepted it, allowing him to help her up into the landau, where she took the seat across from him. “To Moxley,” he then directed the driver. Turning to Isabella he said, “It’s time we find you something decent to wear.”
“I beg your pardon?” He’d said it as if she’d been a river rat that he’d just fished out of the Thames when in fact she’d worn her best gown, thinking she’d be seeing Anthony. She pushed all thought of him aside—as difficult as that was to do—and focused on Mr. Roberts instead.
“Well,” he said, peering at her. “You can’t expect me to make a proper proposal unless you look the part.”
“The part,” she reiterated, sounding daft to her own ears. Then again, the man whose company she was keeping had just claimed her unfit for a proposal given her present attire. It rankled her beyond imagining, but what choice did she have but to keep quiet?
“Of my future wife, Miss Chilcott.” Good God, could he possibly sound more patronizing? He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes on her as he tilted his head a little and asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No,” she muttered, fearful that if she said what she truly thought, he’d toss her out in the road and never speak to her again. She couldn’t afford that—not with Anthony gone, and with her parents and Jamie relying on her to make a sensible decision.
Mr. Roberts leaned back against his seat. “Good,” he said. “Because the only reason that I am prepared to marry you, Miss Chilcott, is because your father gave the impression that you are capable of being both discreet and compliant. Based on my own assessment of you for the past year, I’ve had no reason to disagree with him. However, if something has happened recently, and you no longer feel yourself capable of being the wife I seek, then by all means, do let me know so that I may place my interests elsewhere.”
Isabella trembled. He’d just given her a means of escape, but it was one she couldn’t possibly accept, least of all now. She had to reassure him somehow. “Please don’t misunderstand me, sir. I am exceedingly grateful for everything you’ve done for me and my family, and your offer to see me properly outfitted is very much appreciated.” She forced herself to smile. “Considering your own impeccable taste in clothes, I know that I shall be in good hands, and I assure you that once we marry, you can count on me to be as discreet and compliant as you require. I know how important privacy is to you.”
He didn’t answer immediately, and Isabella found herself holding her breath while she prayed that he wouldn’t see right through her. For the truth of the matter was that she had never in her life resented another person as much as she did this man. She needed him though, as unbearable as that was, and found herself relieved when he eventually said, “I believe I shall order a new jacket and trousers as well—to match your gown.”
And no matter how ridiculous Isabella thought they might look garbed in the same fabric, she kept quiet this time, unwilling to say anything that might cause him to change his mind.
Anthony was in a state of panic. He’d been gone from Moxley for three days, and he’d forgotten to send a letter explaining his absence to Isabella. With a groan he stared out the window at the passing countryside. His mother had fallen asleep shortly after their departure from Chester House, which hadn’t surprised him in the least, since she’d hardly slept at all during their stay there.
Neither had he, for that matter. He’d had plenty to see to, with an aunt paralyzed on her entire right side, an uncle in shock, a mother who hadn’t stopped crying since seeing her sister in such a god-awful state, servants who’d gone adrift from lack of instruction, and a physician who’d seemed more interested in having his bills paid than in caring for his patient.
It had been a tremendous ordeal, and while he’d thought of Isabella a number of times, there had always been something to distract him from getting that letter written and mailed out. Thankfully, his cousins had arrived last evening and Anthony and his mother had been able to depart. They needed rest, if nothing else.
Closing his eyes, he saw Isabella’s smiling face before him. She must have been livid, for he’d told her four days ago that he would call on her the day after. One thing was certain—he’d have to make a good apology, though knowing how attentive she was toward her own aunt, he felt confident that she would understand once he explained the reason for his sudden departure. With that thought lifting his spirits, he leaned his head back against the plush upholstery that the seat offered and allowed the sway of the carriage to lull him to sleep.
“Anthony,” his mother’s voice whispered from somewhere far away. “You must wake up.”
He chose to ignore her, turning his head away from the direction of her voice as he attempted to hold on to his dream—one in which Isabella was walking toward him in a flowing white gown, her hair falling over her shoulders. It was a good dream—a happy dream—one that he wasn’t prepared to part with just yet.
“Anthony,” his mother’s voice was louder—more urgent. “Wake up right now, do you hear me?”
He tried to wave her away, but she grabbed his arm instead and gave it a hard yank. “What the devil did you have to do that for?”
She gave him a tart look—no doubt in response to his profanity—then jutted her chin toward the window. Turning his head, Anthony looked out and discovered that they had returned to Moxley, the carriage at a standstill while a farmer passed with his cart. It took him a moment to figure out why his mother had woken him but once he did, he felt his jaw clench, for there was Miss Chilcott hanging on the arm of Mr. Roberts, gazing up at him and smiling as the two of them entered the modiste’s.
Bloody, bloody hell!
“You have to do something,” his mother said.
Like punch someone,Anthony thought.Mr. Roberts would do nicely. He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. I take it they didn’t notice us?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” his mother said. She looked away, and Anthony knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. When she met his gaze it was with great hesitation. “It appeared as though Mr. Roberts was too busy telling Miss Chilcott about something, while she in turn was giving him her undivided attention. I doubt either one of them would have noticed if a parade of elephants had wandered by.”
Not the answer he’d been hoping for. He felt his chest constrict. If he’d lost her to that bore, he’d ... he’d ... hell, he didn’t know what he’d do. “I’ll see you at home, Mama,” he said, scrambling to get out of the carriage so he could hurry to the modiste’s and intervene in Miss Chilcott’s outing with Mr. Roberts. Once on the ground, he gave his mother an awkward smile. “There’s something I must see to first.”
She nodded her understanding and wished him good luck.
As he strode across the street, his heart was pounding, his hands felt sweaty and there was a jitteriness coursing through him that he didn’t much care for. Truth was, he was terrified—terrified that Mr. Roberts had finally gone and proposed to her during his absence, terrified that she had accepted his offer, since Anthony had seemingly vanished, and terrified that she didn’t reciprocate the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him with their power.
“Ho there, Kingsborough!”
Anthony stopped in his tracks and turned his head to find Casper striding toward him.
“I tried calling on you yesterday but was turned away by Phelps—thought you might have removed yourself to London already.”
