Allowing her parents to lead the way, Isabella fell in behind them and ascended the front steps. As she passed over the threshold and into the grand foyer, she cast a discreet look at the butler, who stood as stiff as a newly starched cravat. And yet when his eyes met hers for the briefest of moments, Isabella saw the mortification there. He was embarrassed by the way he’d treated her when she’d been there last, and so, when he opened his mouth, Isabella was certain that he was about to apologize.
With no desire to further humiliate the man, Isabella gave him a little nod, smiled reassuringly and said, “We’re here to take tea with Her Grace.”
It was a redundant statement, of course, since the butler would be fully aware of who they were and why they’d come, yet when he responded in the affirmative and asked them all to follow him through to the blue salon, Isabella could have sworn that his features eased a little. She had saved his pride, and he was grateful for it.
They only had to follow him a short distance before they arrived at a room with an open door. With a knock, the butler announced their arrival, then stepped aside and waved them through.
“How kind of you to accept my invitation,” said the duchess as she rose to her feet and came to greet her guests. Anthony, who’d been standing by one of the windows looking out, turned, his eyes brightening as they settled upon Isabella.
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and tried to get herself under control by greeting her hostess. “Thank you for having us, Your Grace,” she heard her mother say as she swept into a deep curtsy. “We are most honored.”
Isabella followed suit while her father bowed. She’d never seen her parents so formal before, yet her mother in particular behaved with unparalleled grace and etiquette.She was born to this,a voice reminded her just as the duke stepped forward to make his own salutation.
Isabella kept her gaze trained on a porcelain lion that sat beside the fireplace.He knows who I am. Something even she hadn’t known until the previous evening. The thought made her jittery in every conceivable way, for this changed everything between them. She was no longer some simple country miss whom he could take for a tumble without consequence. Indeed, the only way he could have her now would be through marriage.
“My lady,” he said, taking her mother’s hand and raising it to his lips for a kiss. “We are the ones who should be honored. I know how difficult it must have been for you to come here today.”
Isabella could feel her brow drawing together in a crease. How much had her parents told him?
“And Mr. Chilcott,” Anthony continued, shaking her father’s hand. “We are only too happy to welcome you into our midst.”
Isabella’s heart pounded as he stepped toward her next. His hair had been impeccably arranged (no doubt by a very patient valet), his cravat was elegantly tied without being ostentatious, and he wore a dark gray velvet jacket with a black waistcoat beneath and charcoal-colored breeches.
He looked impeccable, and as he took her hand in his, sending darts of heat racing up her arm, Isabella met his gaze—hot and smoldering. She could have melted into a puddle right then and there, he was so magnificently tempting. “Miss Chilcott,” he said. “May I say that you look exceptionally lovely today?”
It was a good thing that he took her arm then, for she feared she might have dropped to the floor—her knees were too wobbly to carry her weight a moment longer. What on earth was he doing to her? She tried to focus on what his mother was saying to her mother—something about how she recalled seeing her at a few social functions years back, except Anthony leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I always said you had a sparkle about you.”
The words softly tickled her skin, and she shuddered as it rippled across the nape of her neck. She could think of no response to such a remark, nor did she dare say anything just now for fear that her words would come out a croak. She remained silent instead, seating herself on one of two pale blue silk settees, her mother and the duchess already occupying the other, while her father had seated himself in an armchair. Anthony, in pursuit of her as always, lowered himself onto the vacant spot beside her.Dear God. Was it just her, or did the room seem overwhelmingly hot all of a sudden? If only she’d had a fan.
Matters didn’t improve as she sipped the warm tea that the duchess served, and no matter how much Isabella tried to concentrate on the conversation taking place around her, she could think of little other than the fact that Anthony’s thigh kept brushing against hers whenever he moved to pick up or set down his teacup—which he was doing far too often, in Isabella’s opinion.
At one point, she hazarded a glance in his direction, only to be met with a much too mischievous smile and a pair of eyes that told her he knew precisely what he was up to. She could have throttled him at that moment if it hadn’t been for the fact that they were not alone. He was deliberately trying to unsettle her, and the worst part was that it was working remarkably well.
Stifling a groan, she returned her attention to her father, who was now in the process of telling the duchess that he’d once had the honor of saddling her late husband’s horse during a visit he’d paid to one of the Deerford estates.
Dear God!
Isabella cringed, though the duchess appeared touched by the story, which included a very fine and flattering depiction of Anthony’s father. A lull arose in the conversation as they each considered the man who was no more—a person who’d been so highly regarded that it would be near impossible for anyone else to live up to him.
Isabella eyed Anthony and found in his features a determination etched so deeply that she wondered at how she could have missed it before. Her breath caught, and as he turned his head to face her, she saw him for who he really was—not some pampered aristocrat used to getting his way and willing to do whatever he had to in order to get it, as she’d initially thought.
The Duke of Kingsborough had resolve, but it was born from the love for a man he’d admired more than any other, and a longing to do whatever he could to make that man proud of him, even if he was no longer here to see what his son was capable of. Her heart swelled for him at that moment with a love so deep and pure that it very nearly took her breath away.
“I was wondering if you would permit me to show Miss Chilcott the library,” Anthony said, pulling Isabella out of her reverie. “There’s a particular book that I promised I’d lend to her.”
“How thoughtful of you,” his mother said. “I have no issue with it as long as the Chilcotts don’t—just be sure to leave the door open, that’s all.”
Isabella blushed at the duchess’s implication that something untoward might happen between her and Anthony if they were left alone behind closed doors. Well, it probably would, considering that they hadn’t even required that much when they’d kissed in the middle of the road for all the world to see.
“By all means,” her father said while her mother gave a nod of confirmation, “as long as you abide by your mother’s conditions—I’m in no mood for a duel.” He winked.
If Anthony thought it embarrassing, he hid it remarkably well, helping Isabella up instead and then offering her his arm. Saying something to the effect that they would be back shortly, he guided Isabella out of the room and away from the safety her parents and his mother had offered.
They didn’t have far to go, though with each step they took, Anthony became keenly aware of the heat entering his body at the point where Isabella’s hand rested upon his arm. He’d enjoyed the discomfort that had emanated from every part of her body as he’d sat beside her on the sofa, for it meant that she was far from indifferent to him. He knew this already, of course, but the confirmation bolstered his confidence. He was grateful for that, considering the conversation he would have with Mr. Roberts later in the day.
Arriving at the library, Anthony opened the door and ushered her inside, only to recall their last encounter here. A similar thought must have struck Isabella, for her eyes immediately went to the shelves where his figures were displayed and blushed. But then her eyes caught something, and she moved forward as if drawn by one singular object of interest. “Is that me?” she asked as she came to stand before the tiny model he’d made of her using the fabric from her gown.
It was Anthony’s turn to feel embarrassed, and he masked it by heading for the side table and pouring himself a brandy. For some reason, her opinion mattered more than he ever would have imagined. It was a silly hobby of course, but it was his, and he’d put extra time and effort into perfecting her likeness. It was imperative to him that she approved. “Yes,” he muttered, offering her a glass of sherry, but she waved away his offer as she peered closely at the figure, as if imparting every detail of it to memory.
