Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
Two days had passed since the accident on the way to Richmond, and though Isabella’s bruises had faded, and her megrim had finally eased, her thoughts were far less settled.
She had spent the last forty-eight hours tucked away from the ton, refusing callers, sipping broth under Rosalind’s watchful gaze, pretending that rest and quiet would calm her heart. It had not.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the carriage tilt, heard the crack of wood—and then, absurdly vivid, Whitmore’s face as he tore open the door, his voice shouting her name as though she were the only soul alive worth saving.
He had looked terrified. Truly terrified and utterly charming all in one moment.
And then he had lifted her into his arms, heedless of who saw, as if he would fight the world rather than let her fall.
No, she had not forgotten. She doubted she ever could.
Now, as the Ravensmere carriage traveled toward the Theatre Royal, the city about them alive with light and carriages, she forced herself to look out at the crowded pavements instead of dwelling on the memory.
Her sister sat opposite, speaking of the opera to come, while the duke read the bill of play by lamplight.
“It will be a fine evening,” Rosalind said, adjusting her ear bobs. “Everyone of note shall be there, I hear.”
“Everyone,” Isabella murmured, wondering if that might include the man she had tried and failed to forget. She couldn’t help but believe that now that he was imbedded in her skin, she’d never be rid of him.
But then, did she want to be? Increasingly she couldn’t help but think she did not.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the theatre, the air hummed with expectation—the sharp scent of perfume and cigars floating in the breeze. Laughter echoed down the marble steps. Inside, candlelight shimmered on silk and muslin, illuminating both of London’s echelons of society.
An usher guided them to the Ravensmere box, which afforded them a perfect view of the stage. Isabella stepped inside, smoothing her skirts, trying to appear composed. She was, after all, perfectly recovered. Entirely sensible. Utterly untroubled.
If only that were true…
She looked about the theater to the other boxes and the pit below.
Lord Lennox was there, of course—polished, proper, and smiling up at her from his seat in the pit.
He inclined his head with all the decorum of a gentleman.
She returned the gesture, her pulse steady.
Whatever she had thought of him before the accident, she saw now only predictability. A man who would never surprise her.
Never make her heart race or her body desire.
She sighed and continued to take in the theater. Several boxes beyond—and her breath caught.
Whitmore.
He sat alone in his family’s box, his profile lit by the soft glow of a chandelier.
His coat was perfectly cut, his cravat immaculate, but there was a weariness about his eyes that unsettled her.
He wasn’t watching the crowd or even the guests who clambered in to take their seats.
No—he stared at the drawn velvet curtain on the stage as though lost in another world.
For a moment she drank in the sight of him like a woman desperate for water. She took in the slope of his shoulders, the stillness of him, and wondered what thoughts could darken a man who laughed at everything.
Then, as if her gaze had summoned him, he turned.
Their eyes met, held. The change in his face was instant and undeniable. The tension eased, the faint crease at his brow vanished, and a slow, unguarded smile spread over his lovely, wicked mouth.
Something fluttered deep in her stomach, and she knew to her very core everything had changed between them.
Rosalind, ever attuned to the goings on of her sisters cleared her throat. “You could go to him, if you wish,” she murmured. “The marquess’s box is close enough for me to chaperone from here, and we know him well. There would be no scandal in it.”
Isabella hesitated. “Do you truly think so?”
“I think,” her sister said, lips curving faintly, “that you want to.”
Isabella looked again. He was still watching her, still looking at her hopefully as though he’d been holding his breath since Richmond and could finally exhale.
Perhaps she did want to.
She rose, smoothing her gown. “I shall only be a moment,” she said, ignoring Rosalind’s knowing look.
The duke barely noticed as she slipped from the box and descended the narrow corridor, the hum of conversation rising around her.
Her heart beat far too quickly for such a simple errand.
When she reached Whitmore’s box, she paused at the curtained door just long enough to steady herself before stepping inside.
He stood at once, bowing deeply. “Lady Isabella.”
“Lord Whitmore.”
His eyes swept over her, lingering on her face. “You are well?”
“I am,” she said. “Much better, thank you. The bruises are gone, and the only lasting mark is the worry I caused everyone.”
“You frightened the life from me,” he admitted quietly, and the raw honesty of it made her breath catch. “Forgive me. I meant—well, I am relieved to see you looking yourself again.”
She smiled faintly, gloved fingers resting on the carved edge of a nearby chair. “You may keep the first version of your admission, my lord. I prefer truth to politeness.”
His answering grin was brief but genuine. “Then I shall speak plainly. I’ve thought of little else but you since that day.”
The words hung between them, dangerous and tender all at once. She wanted to tell him that she’d thought of nothing but him too, but instead, kept that admittance to herself.
He stepped closer, offering his hand. “Will you sit?”
She placed her hand in his. His fingers brushed the inside of her wrist as he helped her settle beside him, the touch sending an unexpected thrill through her.
“Your sister has forgiven me for the numerous missives I sent this week I hope?” he asked, attempting casualness, but she could see he was on edge. Wary and guarded on what he was saying and how he was acting around her.
Was she making him nervous? She hoped that was the case, for he certainly made her so. “I believe she has,” Isabella said. “She mentioned you sent word several times, inquiring after my health.”
He looked almost sheepish. “I did. Perhaps too many times.”
“It was very kind.” Her words were soft and hushed. “You were the only gentleman who did.”
The murmur of conversation around them quietened as ushers entered the boxes to snuff out the sconces. One by one, the flames winked out until only the faint glow from the stage remained. Shadows cloaked the audience, the hush before the first note of music deepening the sense of intimacy.
Isabella became acutely aware of how close they sat. The rustle of his sleeve against her arm, the faint scent of sandalwood and something exclusively Hartley. Then, as the last lamp dimmed, his hand slid across her lap—seeking hers.
Her pulse leapt.
For a heartbeat she could not move, the dark concealing the tremor that ran through her. He didn’t grip her tightly, only entwined their fingers and rested them on the seat between them, his thumb tracing a slow, comforting pattern along her glove.
She turned and met his gaze, the faint light from the stage catching his eyes.
“I have missed seeing you at events,” he said quietly. “More than I can say.”
Her throat tightened. This was not what she expected from Whitmore.
He was a rake, a gentleman who loved nothing more than a lark, to tease and be teased.
But this… This man wasn’t anyone she recognized.
He was earnest, looked at her with such longing that her body craved to drown in his green gaze.
To listen to his sweet words and revel in them.
“We saw one another only two days ago.” She tried to make light of his admission, but it did not change anything, and certainly seemed to have no bearing on him.
“And it has felt far longer than that,” he murmured. “Too long. I’ve been worried, and I—” He stopped himself, exhaling. “I ache to be alone with you, Isabella. You have bedeviled me, and I cannot stop thinking of you.”
The confession sent warmth flooding through her.
She had told herself his concern at Richmond was mere impulse, the gallantry of a man unaccustomed to seeing a woman hurt.
But here, in the dark, she could hear the sincerity in his voice and while he may have rendered assistance to anyone, the fear she had read in his eyes two days before was wholly because he cared for her, and her alone.
“You should not say such things.” She looked around, glad to see everyone was engrossed in the opera. “The Marquess of Whitmore does not declare such things. Certainly to a woman who is unmarried and of equal status.”
His thumb stilled on her hand. “Perhaps it is time that I do?”
She smiled, though her heart pounded. This could not be real. He could not be declaring himself so freely. The orchestra struck its opening note, along with the soprano, a soft swell that rolled through the theater, but neither of them looked toward the stage.
“Are you saying that London’s most scandalous rake has discovered what it is to…care?”
He tilted his head. “You think me incapable of such an emotion?”
“I think,” she whispered, not wanting to hurt him, or make him believe she did not think he could come to love. But to be vulnerable with him was not an easy step to take. “You are trying.”
He gave a quiet laugh, but it sounded pained. He turned toward her, his hold increasing on her hand. “You know what I was before,” he said. “You’ve heard the stories. Half of them are true.”
“Half.” More like all.
“I cannot imagine any more trysts unless they all involve one particular lady whom I call Bells.”
Her pulse fluttered and she swallowed. “Hartley.” They were so close, leaning toward each other as if they could not bear to be apart. Her gaze dipped to his lips. She wanted his mouth on her. She wanted him to touch her, to make her sing with as much passion as the woman on stage.
The opera continued—voices soaring, music spilling from the stage in waves of sound—but it seemed far away, a dream beyond the little box they shared. Every note was a pulse that matched the rhythm of her heart.
She tried to focus on the performance, on anything, but realization struck her with such force that it left her senseless.
She was falling in love with him. No sooner did she have the thought did she dismiss it. No, she wasn’t falling whatsoever. She’d already fallen and landed with a thump at this man’s feet.
His breath brushed her ear. “You should leave before I steal you away and we become the talk of the ton,” he whispered. “I’d like nothing more than to be alone with you and out of sight from this society.”
“And what would you do if we were to steal away?” She bit her bottom lip, watching the array of emotions flutter over his handsome face.
The determination, the desire, the heat that settled on his handsome features left her adjusting her seat.
She ached, wanted him so much she could feel the telltale dampness between her legs.
“It would mean my reputation would be in tatters and we’d be married within three days.”
“It would,” he said, his voice a deep purr.
The curtain to the box opened and a slither of light illuminated them. “Dearest, we thought we might join you instead of sitting separately.”
Isabella and Hartley both moved to gain space between them. Her sister and brother-in-law settled behind them, a presence that told her that perhaps their intimate discussion had caused whispers she’d not been aware of. It was just like Rosalind to come and ensure her reputation wasn’t ruined.
What would the duchess say if she knew only a moment before Isabella was contemplating stealing away with Whitmore? To be alone with him like they both wished.
The music swelled. She could feel the heat of him beside her, the slow rise and fall of his breath. Her mind whispered warnings—what society would say if she continued to act without thought, what her sister would think should she be careless—but her body betrayed her with its every tremor.
She closed her eyes, her hands tightening in her lap, and she knew in that moment that she could not give a tinkers damn what anyone thought.
Right now, she merely wished to live.