* * *
James was halfway down the east corridor when he stopped walking.
He stood there in the dark, with his hand pressed against the wall, and looked down at the floor. He thought about what Isadora had said, what she had delivered with the infuriating composure of a woman who had looked straight at him and seen something he had not given her permission to see.
He pushed off the wall and resumed walking.
He made it to the study door but did not go in. He stood outside it and thought about dinner. He hadn’t been able to keep his hands or his eyes off her. He had even moved her chair without thinking, one hand on the armrest, pulling it slightly closer. He had not been aware of doing it until she told him.
Thatis a problem.
Not because it was wrong. Not because it was inappropriate or dishonest or outside the bounds of what the evening had required. But because it had happened without conscious thought, without his approval.
He thought about their walk and how he did not want to remove his hand from her waist. He thought about the fact that he wasstanding outside his study at half past nine because every inch of him ached to go back to her.
You are a problem.
He opened the door, walked in, sat down, and looked at the papers on his desk.
“Damn,” he muttered.
He sat there for a long time.
CHAPTER 14
“Your Grace.” Briggs appeared in the doorway. “Lady Pembley and Miss Caroline Pembley have called. They ask whether Your Grace is receiving.”
Isadora looked up from her book. Then she looked at Violet asleep in her cradle, which was not a small thing.
Violet had spent the better part of the morning loudly opposing the concept of sleep. But she was asleep now, her small chest rising and falling, and the sitting room was quiet, and the fire was warm, and Isadora had found the chapter she had been attempting to read for three days.
She had read perhaps four pages when the door opened.
Of all the afternoons,she sighed inwardly.
She kept her expression pleasantly neutral, which took slightly more effort than usual.
“Please show them in,” she ordered. “And have tea sent.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
She closed the book and set it on the side table with composure as if she had not been deeply invested in it thirty seconds ago, and turned to check on Violet. The baby had not stirred.
Small mercies.
She smoothed her skirts, folded her hands in her lap, and waited.
Lady Pembley entered first. She was a handsome woman in her late forties, immaculately dressed in dove grey silk. Her eyes scanned the sitting room in a single unhurried sweep across the books, the cradle, and Isadora.
Miss Caroline followed two steps behind. She was as beautiful as always, wearing pale blue. It suited her.
Of course it does.
Isadora rose. “Lady Pembley. Miss Caroline.” She smiled. “What a pleasant surprise. Please, do sit down.”
“Your Grace.” Lady Pembley’s voice was warm, smooth, not a single note out of place. She settled herself into the chair nearestthe fire. “We have been meaning to call for days to see how you’re settling in. I hope we are not intruding.”
“Not at all.” Isadora resumed her own seat and indicated the sofa opposite. “I am glad of the company.”
