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He had yet to release her hand, and now his fingers tightened around hers. “True, but remember, you are not facing any of the things that lie ahead alone.”

“I know. And I’m grateful. It’s just that . . .” She faltered. “The outcome is so important.”

“It is.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “And you shall manage it. We all shall.”

She could barely put one foot in front of the other, and now her fingers were tingling as though she’d received an electric shock, but she nodded.

“Okay?” His teeth gleamed in the darkness, and she knew he was smiling.

“Okay,” she repeated. “And that will have to be the last modern word I use until this madness is over.”

His smile disappeared, and he released her hand to grasp her elbow. “Come,” he said. “I shall walk you to the door.”

“There you are, Isla.” Martha appeared, silhouetted in the faint light coming from inside the house. “Come in out of the cold.” She turned to Simon. “I assume you plan to ride with us to Lord Monteagle’s gathering tomorrow?”

Isla knew a moment of panic. Simon was leaving. She’d known he would be staying at his own lodgings, but she didn’t want him going there now. Something was off, and she didn’t want to part like this. In a matter of seconds, he’d gone from treating her as though he really cared to being all business.

“I think that would be best,” he said, responding to Martha’s question. “When would you like me to be here?”

“Isla and I shall be busy all day,” Martha said. “We have a great deal to do and much to review before the dinner. I imagine six o’clock will suit.”

As much as Isla liked Martha, a day full of lessons on social protocols sounded awful. She touched Simon’s arm. “Please come early,” she whispered.

He gave no indication that he’d heard her, but after offering them both a polite nod, he moved to stand beside his horse. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said, mounting in one graceful movement. “I shall aim to be here by five o’clock.”

Isla’s relief and accompanying smile was instant, but Simon was already wheeling Blaze around and probably didn’t see it.

Thin slivers of sunlight traced lines upon the wooden floor in Simon’s bedchamber. He rolled over, the mattress beneath him rustling noisily. It was a new day, and outside, Londoners were going about their business. The pie man who stood on the nearby corner every morning was in fine fettle, his insistent voice cutting over the sounds of wagon wheels, barking dogs, and the thud of shutters and doors opening and closing.

Simon groaned. He’d been gone from Copfield Hall for less than a day, and already, he missed the tranquil mornings, his invigorating gallops across the countryside, and the anticipation of seeing Isla waiting for him outside the stables. Mostly, he missed Isla. And that was a highly disconcerting realization. Particularly after her poignant reminder last night that she considered her present situation to be madness.

It had taken him under ten minutes to traverse the short distance from Maidstone House to his rented rooms a few streets north of the Strand. Not long by any means but just enough time to reclaim his equilibrium after he’d so manifestly lost his footing. He’d sensed Isla’s distress when she’d exited the carriage. The depth of his desire to relieve her of her discomfort had taken him by surprise. Holding her hand, kissing her hand—they had been instinctive. Token attempts at comforting her. Thankfully, she would never know how tempted he’d been to draw her into his arms and kiss her lips instead.

No matter Martha’s plans for the day, if Belle were stabled with Blaze, he’d be tempted to invite Isla to go out with him this morning. Simply to calm her nerves. Unfortunately, betrothed or not, such an outing would go against every act of decorum Martha was trying to instill in Isla. It was one thing for Isla to join him on a leisurely amble across a pasture; it was quite another to ride side by side through the streets of London. If the stablehands had wished to watch them, he and Isla would have been within their sights all the way to the log and back. Such was not the case on the meandering city streets, however. And if Lady Whitely and her ilk caught sight of them without a chaperone, they would fuel London gossip for weeks.

The easy solution, of course, was the inclusion of a chaperone. But the presence of anyone other than Martha or Maidstone would prevent them from speaking of the true reason they were in London, and any reassurance Simon might have offered Isla ahead of the dinner would be severely diminished. As much as he wished it were different, it would be better for Isla if he kept his distance today and allowed her to focus on her preparation.

Climbing out of bed, Simon walked to the window. He drew back a portion of the curtain and pushed open the shutter. The outside noise instantly increased in volume.

“Pies! All ’ot! Eel, beef, and mutton pies! Penny pies! All ’ot!” The pie man on the corner appeared to be doing a good business already.

Simon dropped the curtain back into place and crossed to the chair where he’d set his breeches and jacket. Following a familiar routine may be the only way to survive the next few hours. His manservant, Anson, had arrived at his lodgings before him and had unloaded his trunk and set the place to rights. Indeed, everything was exactly as it should be. Anson could not be blamed if the sense of peace and homecoming that Simon was accustomed to experiencing upon returning had been replaced by a feeling of loneliness.

He’d send Anson out for a pie, and once Simon had eaten, he would take Blaze for a ride. Lack of fresh air and rolling hills notwithstanding, a long ride was exactly what he needed to take his mind off this evening’s critical events and the young lady at the center of them all.

Chapter 13

There now.” Maggie stepped aside to allow Isla a clear view of herself in the mirror.

Isla gazed at her reflection. She scarcely recognized the person staring back at her. Gone was the smartly-dressed government employee she usually saw there. The casually attired twenty-four-year-old she occasionally saw on a Saturday was also missing. In their place was a young woman who belonged in an oil painting at the National Gallery.

“You have worked wonders, Maggie.”

Maggie smiled. “The gown looks lovely on you, miss.”

The pale-blue skirt and waistcoat were covered with white embroidered flowers. A wheel-shaped farthingale held the skirt in a wide dome and was topped with a ruffle of extra fabric. Narrow sleeves ended a couple of inches above her wrists, and a tall Medici collar encircled the back of her neck. Her neckline in front was lined with lace and white ribbon rosettes, and her hair was piled high over cloth pads that the maid had placed on top of her head. Teased and braided, her hair was studded with tiny pearls that sparkled in the candlelight.

“You are kind to say so, but I think your workmanship would look beautiful on anyone.”