“Let’s find Rogers,” Patrick said. “So you can drink your coffee even though Grandmama detests it, too.”
After the drinks were served, Anthony sat between Helen and Isabella at a table far from Lady and Lord Montrose and Grandmama.
Helen scrunched up her nose as she drank the claret with whisky. She suppressed a gag and swallowed. Her eyes welled up.
No, he didn’t find the situation funny in the least.
He dipped his head to meet her gaze. “If you don’t like it, you should leave it.”
She blinked teary eyes. “It’s delicious.”
Bloody hell.
Isabella, instead, drank her coffee with her eyes closed, savouring every sip. She’d added a generous dose of cream, milk, tonnes of sugar, and a few spices. He seriously doubted the drink still tasted like coffee, but he couldn’t help enjoying her enthusiasm and appreciation. She gulped down the drink, emptying the cup with one final tilt of her head, and when she finished, a white puff of cream sat on the tip of her nose.
Patrick burst out laughing. Helen flushed crimson.
Anthony smiled, pointing at her nose. “You have a dollop of cream.”
She laughed, wiping the cream. “Apologies. The coffee was so good.”
“What coffee?” Patrick asked. “There was barely any speck of it.”
“That’s how I like it. Sweet but strong, rich but gentle.”
“Like men?” Patrick arched his brow. “Because, you know, that description fits?—”
“Patrick.” Anthony gave him a pointed look, but he didn’t need to worry.
Isabella didn’t seem embarrassed or annoyed. “I like men who make me laugh.”
Helen gave up drinking the claret and kept her gaze down, embarrassed by he had no idea what.
When Anthony said his goodnight to the ladies, he lingered in front of Isabella.
“Thank you,” he said before he could think, not sure what he was thanking her for.
Her honesty, perhaps, or her contagious laughter.
He was grateful for the ray of sunlight she so easily brought into his life, but that was a concept difficult to explain in one sentence.
“You’re welcome, Your Grace. What for?” Her large black eyes regarded him with curiosity and trust.
He was about to say more when Grandmama called him.
“Anthony. A word?”
“Good night, Isabella.” He bowed to her, her mother, and Helen, who replied with an icy and stiff nod of the head.
He had no idea whether he’d offended Helen or if her mood change depended on something else. Isabella gave him a little wave of her hand before starting up the stairs. A wave only for him. It was a tiny, innocent gesture, but it showed their secret understanding of each other and that she wasn’t intimidated by his status. For some reason, the gesture meant so much to him, more than the entire conversation he’d shared with Helen.
“Anthony.” Grandmama waited for him.
He shut the door behind him when he entered the drawing room.
“Well? What do you think about Helen?” She was as enthusiastic as a débutante.
“Helen is very pretty.”
