He’d gone straight up to this room because afforded him a God-like view over the tops of the trees flanking the rose garden, and the road alongside them.
Any minute he might catch a glimpse of the carriage carrying Fanchette and her parents.
He could feel his pulse in his throat.
A few moments ago, he’d seen nearly a dozen women dressed in spring frocks promenading alongside each other toward the rose garden, trailed by footmen bearing hampers. His sister was at the head of the parade, gesticulating and chatting the way she did when she was excited or happy about something. Despite their earlier conversation, he was pleased she was having a nice time.
Miss Maria Sylvaine was strolling—not galloping—alongside Lady Fennimore’s daughter. But both were craning their heads as though searching for someone. Then she stopped and turned back toward the house, wringing her hands.
Why wasn’t Isolde with them? His heart was beating sickeningly now.
Where was she? Was she coming?
Then a flash of white near the road made his breath snag. Was it her?
It was! He recognized the way she moved the way he’d recognize a bird by the way it flew. Isolde had just slipped through the trees edging the road, heading for the path he’d shown her into the rose garden.
He pressed his fingertips to the windowpane.
Why on earth was she alone? And late?
He lost her for a moment to the shadows thrown by the trees; he found her again her by the gleam of her bonnet ribbons.
At least she emerged fully in the light, on the path at the far end of the garden.
Suddenly she stopped abruptly and stood frozen.
And then dropped her face into her hands.
She remained that way, as still as one of the statues in the garden.
His heart lurched. Something was terribly wrong.
His muscles tensed in preparation to bolt to her.
“Pretty girl.”
He jerked violently.
Christ. He hadn't even heard his father's approach.
“Then again, everyone is pretty at that age,” his father continued jovially. “Bloody hell, son,Iwas pretty at that age. Look at the trees out there, Isaiah.”
Isaiah remained rigid, staring at his father in shock.
“Look,” his father commanded sharply.
Isaiah managed to dutifully turn his head toward the window.
Isolde had disappeared from view.
He was relieved. As if both he and she were safer if she was no longer visible to her father.
God help him, what expression had he been wearing when he was watching her?
Had his father seen it?
How long had his father been watching him?
