Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Isabella was able to sneak home without being caught in the early hours of the morning. Although she heard an under maid in the ducal library setting the fires, she managed to slip upstairs undetected and jump into bed.
She gained an hour or two of sleep before her lady’s maid arrived with the usual hot chocolate and hot water. As she dressed and prepared for the day, memories of the night before swirled in her mind, a mix of disbelief and longing.
After what had happened with Hartley, how might her life change?
Would he attend the Oliver ball this evening? Would there be an opportunity for them to sneak away and be alone?
She longed to see him already, though only a few hours had passed.
Collecting her gloves and bonnet, in the mood for a walk, she exited her room—only to skid to a halt at the top of the stairs when raised voices met her ears.
She froze, listening for several heartbeats, trying to make sense of the commotion. Then recognition struck. Was that Hartley and Ravensmere shouting at each other? The sound of a fist slamming against wood echoed up the stairwell and startled her.
She looked along the corridor to where one of the maids had stopped dusting a sideboard, wide-eyed. Isabella gathered her skirts and hurried downstairs, her heart thudding with every step.
What was Hartley doing here? Why were they arguing?
She paused midstep. Could he be here to ask for her hand? They had not spoken of marriage, but he was a gentleman. Perhaps he thought it right to come this morning, to make a formal request after what had occurred between them.
Would she marry him merely because she had been in his bed?
Her hand flew to her stomach, a wave of cold fear rippling through her. The possibility that she might be carrying his child—though not a thought that had entered her mind the night before—was an outcome that could ruin her and her family.
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Of course, she would marry him if that were the case, even if it were not a love match. But for her, at least, it was absolutely that emotion.
She loved him.
Could not have given herself to a man she did not adore, and she adored Hartley. As much as he had infuriated her at the start of the Season, pressed her buttons in all the wrong way, aggravated and annoyed her, now the thought of being without him felt unbearable.
Her sister’s voice carried into the hall, confirming there were three in the library. Without knocking, Isabella pushed open the door. The duke and duchess stood behind the desk, Whitmore before it. All three were red-faced, the air thick with tension.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, closing the door firmly behind her. “The entire house can hear you shouting. What is going on?”
Hartley’s eyes met hers. His expression softened, but he was clearly in high color, and it was obvious he and Ravensmere had been quarreling.
“Isabella, darling,” Rosalind said, coming around the desk to take her hand. “London is rife this morning with talk.”
Isabella didn’t dare speak. Had someone seen her steal into the marquess’s carriage last night? Was she the latest on-dit? Had she ruined herself—and by extension, her family?
Her knees felt weak, and she sank into a nearby chair.
Still, she could not bring herself to ask.
Whitmore remained silent, glaring at the duke, who glowered right back.
“Isabella,” Rosalind began, visibly shaken.
“News has spread that the Duke of Rolle’s betrothal to Miss Wilson is no more.
She has called it off and created quite the scandal.
Both families are in disarray trying to repair their reputations.
But it is the reason for the broken engagement that has the ton’s tongues wagging. ”
Isabella nodded slowly, still not understanding how that could have led to this morning’s quarrel. “I am very sorry for His Grace and Miss Wilson, but what has that to do with us? Why is everyone so out of sorts here?”
Rosalind returned to her husband’s side and exchanged a grim look with him before continuing.
“It is said that Miss Wilson attended supper with the duke at a ball last evening. He was in his cups—quite foxed, from all accounts—and very loose with his tongue. He let it slip, in conversation with Miss Wilson and several of their friends, that he and the Marquess of Whitmore had entered into a bet at the beginning of the Season, at the Kenworthy Ball to be exact. A thousand-pound wager.”
Her sister hesitated, then forced more words out. “A stake to see which of them could gain favor with you, Isabella. Or rather, which of them could steal your first kiss.”
Isabella gasped and the room spun. Her pulse roared in her ears and she was certain she hadn’t heard right.
No. Whitmore would not be so cruel...
Rosalind’s voice wavered. “The duke went on to boast that Whitmore had won the bet—and he was put out that he owed a thousand pounds for never having the pleasure.”
The pleasure.
Her pleasure.
The words tore through her like a knife.
Had the whole of London been laughing behind her back? Had Whitmore thought her a lark, so desperate that she would succumb to his false charms? Heat rushed to her cheeks, knowing that was exactly what had occurred. She had fallen for his pretty words, and wicked mouth.
Fool.
“Miss Wilson left the supper room at once, quite distressed from all accounts,” Rosalind explained.
“Her father sent word that the engagement was off. Stated that the duke’s cruel words toward you, dearest had shamed not only his betrothed but every young lady in society.
” She paused. “They have since fled back to Bath, while the duke himself has retreated to Wesley Hall, where he will no doubt lick his wounds.”
Isabella turned to Whitmore.
He looked at her, shame etched into every line of his handsome, brutal face. “It was all a lie?” she asked quietly, though her voice trembled. “Everything you said—everything you made me believe—was a falsehood?”
“Isabella, no,” he said, reaching for her.
She flinched, and he stopped his attempt to touch her.
“Yes, there was a bet,” he admitted, his voice thick with regret.
“But it was not long before I realized I teased and tempted you of my own free will. What I began to feel for you was not because I wanted to win a thousand pounds, in fact I instructed the duke that I would not accept the funds. I swear to you, Isabella. It wasn’t long before the idea of the duke or anyone anywhere near you made me crazed.
No bet could make me care for you, only you were capable of that, and you won me. I love you, so very much.”
She stared at him, the ringing in her ears deafening.
If she stood, she was certain she would faint.
“How many people knew of this stake between you and the duke?” she whispered.
“How many laughed at me while you both courted me? And here I was thinking that for once, my Season might finally be a success, and all the while, I was a joke.”
She covered her mouth with her hand, bile rising in her throat. “And now everyone knows it. All our friends and family, everyone. My reputation is ruined.” Her voice cracked at the words and she gasped, unable to hold the realization at bay.
Rosalind reached for her, but Isabella shook her head. “I am ruined,” she said hoarsely. “I will never marry now.”
“My dearest, please do not cry,” Rosalind murmured, casting Whitmore a furious look.
Ravensmere’s face hardened to stone. “You will marry her, Whitmore,” her brother-in-law’s voice was like ice.
Isabella flinched. “I will not marry him. I’d rather be ruined than marry him.”
“There is no choice,” Rosalind said gently. “You must marry him, darling. We must salvage what we can of your reputation. Everyone knows Whitmore has kissed you—you know how such things are viewed.”
Isabella’s jaw clenched. She would not confess that she had done far worse than kiss his lordship. She had given him her body, her heart, her trust—believing he loved her.
She turned to him, her voice shaking. “How dare you.”
“Isabella,” he said, anguish in his eyes. “I came here this morning to ask for your hand before any of this became known. That should tell you the wager had nothing to do with my proposal. I love you. I want you to be the next Marchioness of Whitmore. Please, let me explain.”
She shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “I do not want to hear any of your excuses.” She blinked rapidly, but the tears slipped free, heavy and hot against her cheeks. She swiped them away angrily, though more followed.
Rosalind’s eyes shone with pity. “You must marry Whitmore, darling. And let us hope that, in time, he will do everything in his power to make amends for this cruelty.”
Whitmore faced the duke and duchess. “Your Graces, I never meant to hurt Lady Isabella. No matter what has been said today, I came here to ask for her hand, as you well know, before any of this was made aware to me. I love Isabella, and I will spend my life trying to make her happy.”
“I do not want you to make me happy,” Isabella snapped. “And while I may be forced to marry you, you will be fortunate if I can look upon you again without loathing.”
“Bells, please—”
“I have heard enough.” She stood, her voice devoid of warmth. “I am going to my room. Do not call on me again until the day of our marriage. I will not see you before then.”
She left, her skirts whispering across the floor, leaving her sister and brother-in-law to finalize whatever arrangements were to be made with Whitmore’s family.
She wanted no part of it.
No part of him.
And none of the man who had stolen her heart—and shattered it in one cruel wager.