Chapter 26
Chapter
Twenty-Six
Isabella managed to evade Whitmore for three weeks. Each Sunday came and went, ticking down her time, as the banns were called, and the day drew nearer when she would become the Marchioness of Whitmore.
Her stomach had not stopped churning at the thought of having to move into his home, to live under the same roof as the man who had broken her heart. Even the mere mention of his name made her pulse skip, not from affection, but from the bitter taste of betrayal that clung to her tongue.
How was she to look at him after what he had done?
When she had first thought him sincere—believing his attentions meant friendship and, later, something deeper—he had already been deceiving her. What kind of man tricked a woman into feeling something he himself never intended to offer?
Whitmore was no friend of hers.
He had made her look a fool before society, and she could not forgive him for it.
Over the past three weeks, she had re-entered society with her head held high, the Duke and Duchess of Ravensmere at her side offering strength and protection.
Few dared speak ill in front of her, not with her brother-in-law’s stern gaze cutting through a room, but Isabella saw the laughter in people’s eyes.
The flutter of ladies’ fans, which whispers hid behind, the subtle tilt of a gentleman’s head as he murmured to his companion—she knew they spoke of her.
Pity and near ruin clung to her like a faint, unwanted perfume.
They speculated about what kind of future she could possibly have with one of London’s most notorious rakes—a man forced to marry because of his own folly. It was what everyone said, including herself.
His affections had been untrue. It had all been a lie. But at least he had his thousand pounds…
The thought made her fists curl in her lap, and she very nearly struck the velvet seat of the carriage as it rattled along the cobblestones toward their night’s entertainment. The rhythmic jostle of the wheels and the faint scent of the horses outside only fueled her agitation.
Tonight would be the first time she would see Whitmore since that disastrous morning in Ravensmere’s study. There would be no escaping him in such company. How was she to stand beside him before the ton, pretend that nothing had happened, that she was content?
She was not.
Isabella stared out the carriage window, the city flickering past in lantern-lit blurs.
Thankfully, Rosalind and the duke did not attempt conversation.
They had learned these past weeks that her temper and sorrow were best left alone unless she engaged with them first. Isabella had grown curt in her replies, short-tempered, not from malice but from disappointment in herself—for falling for a man she should never have trusted.
Damn him.
The carriage rolled to a stop before the grand London home, its facade blazing with light. A footman stepped forward, opening the door and setting down the steps.
“Ready, my dear?” Rosalind asked softly.
“As I shall ever be,” Isabella murmured, gathering her skirts.
Inside, the air was warm and scented with beeswax. Thankfully, society did not hush at their arrival as it had at previous events. Instead the orchestra played on, couples glided across the floor, and laughter carried on under the golden glow of chandeliers.
They walked along the edge of the ballroom until Rosalind stopped near Lady Whiteley, one of her friends. Isabella stood at their side, smiling politely though her mind was elsewhere.
The hairs at the back of her neck prickled, the air shifting as if the very room acknowledged his presence. She knew who it was before she even turned to look. Her breath caught.
Whitmore.
He moved through the crowd with unhurried grace, every step measured.
Guests parted for him without hesitation, as though some unspoken command was uttered from his lips, and they obeyed.
The candlelight burnished his dark hair, caught the cut of his jaw, and she despised how her heart stilled at the sight of the handsome cur.
She wanted to strike him. She wanted to rip that beautiful mask from his face, to make him hurt as she was. But she could not. Instead, she had to smile, to pretend happiness where there was none.
“Your Graces,” Whitmore said with an elegant bow before turning to her. He took her gloved hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. She ignored the jump in her pulse, the warmth that rushed through her despite herself. Her heart refused to accept the cruelty he was capable of.
“Bells,” he murmured, stepping close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne. He pressed a kiss to her cheek for a moment, she almost forgot her character. Her body swayed toward him before her mind caught up and screamed no.
His hand tightened slightly on hers, keeping her in place. “We need to talk,” he whispered. “It has been too long, Isabella.”
She stepped back, freeing her hand from his grasp.
She could not let him touch her. Her body might betray her, but her mind would not.
“There is nothing left to say,” she said, smiling brightly as a passing couple drifted near.
“We are betrothed, married in a week. Tonight we must pretend that all is well.”
She lifted her chin, smiling up at him, though her gaze was ice. The flicker of pain that crossed his eyes pleased her more than it should.
“Isabella,” he said softly, “it may have started as a wager, but please know that it soon altered for me. I did not care if I won or lost. All I cared about was you. I would not have persisted after that first kiss had I not wanted more. Had I not thought that for the first time in my life, I had met someone I was falling in love with.”
She forced a smile, though his words struck deep. “Loved, my lord? Are we at past tense already?” Her voice trembled despite her best effort to sound composed. “I will do my duty and marry you to save my reputation and yours. But I do not think we can return to what I once believed we had.”
“We can,” he said quickly. The plea in his voice twisted something inside her. She wanted to shut her heart against him, to lock him out completely. Why was it so hard?
“Isabella.” He took her arm and led her a few steps away, toward the shadow of a column, affording them a sliver of privacy.
“I was in Ravensmere’s office that morning to ask for your hand.
It was only after I had asked permission that the duke informed me of what was afoot about town.
If my feelings for you were insincere, would I have gone to him?
I wanted to marry you before any of this became public.
I love you. I love you so much. Please—”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. She had replayed that morning countless times, imagining how it might have gone differently. His arrival at her home did play in his favor, but she could not shake the thought that it was merely duty that drove him—because they had shared a bed.
Even now, the memory of his touch made her skin warm, and her stomach tighten in shame and longing alike. “Your request for my hand,” she said quietly, “may have been due to the…necessity of the situation, not because of love. You needed to offer for the woman whose virtue you compromised.”
“I did not offer because you gave yourself to me,” he said fiercely. “I want you as my wife, in every sense. I want you in my bed, in my life, at my side. Please, Isabella.”
She could not bear another word. “If you’ll excuse me,” she whispered, her throat tight. “I must get away from you.”
She turned, moving swiftly toward the doors, her pulse hammering. The ballroom’s heat pressed in, the music suddenly too loud, the laughter too sharp against her ears. Her vision swam.
“Isabella, wait,” he called after her.
She ignored him, her skirts brushing against her ankles as she quickened her pace.
Guests turned to look as she passed, murmuring, whispering behind gloved hands.
By the time she reached the front hall, her lungs burned.
A footman sprang forward to open the door, the night air outside cool and damp, a welcome reprieve.
“Have the Ravensmere carriage brought round,” she said breathlessly.
Whitmore caught up to her as the vehicle rolled forward, the lamps glinting against the polished black panels.
“I cannot let you go like this,” he said, his tone rough, desperation bleeding through his carefully schooled mask.
“You already have,” she said, stepping inside before he could offer a hand.
He followed, closing the door behind them. The latch clicked, sealing them in the dim, private space. “Get out.” She pointed to the door, but he did not move.
Instead, the carriage jolted forward. Soon the steady rhythm of hooves struck against the cobblestones. They sat in silence, the space between them thick with all that had been said—and all that hadn’t.
Isabella stared out the small window, refusing to meet his gaze. Her reflection trembled in the glass, her eyes glistening. The faint warmth of his nearness reached her still, stirring feelings she despised herself for having.
Whitmore’s hand flexed on his knee, as though he longed to reach for her. But he did not.
Probably wise. For right at this moment, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t hurt him if he did. Her body thrummed with anger and confusion, her palms pressed tightly together in her lap to stop them from trembling.
“I beg you, Bells, forgive me,” he said, voice low and ragged.
“I know it may seem as though what I agreed to with Rolle is unforgivable—a trust broken that cannot be repaired—but I promise you, I have never felt anything like what I feel for you with anyone. You haunt my every thought. For you, and you alone, I plan and hope. I think of a future for us together, traveling, living at our estates, having children, a life that I’ve never allowed myself to believe I could have. ”
She watched him, startled by how raw and unguarded he sounded. She hadn’t thought him capable of such honesty. There was a rough edge to his tone that caught somewhere deep in her chest, an ache she didn’t want to feel.
He slipped from the seat opposite her and knelt before her, clasping her legs in a pleading way that made her breath catch.
They hadn’t been this close in weeks. His warmth reached through the fabric of her skirts, unsettling her.
His scent—sandalwood, and the faintest trace of brandy—filled the air and brought a rush of memories she wished she could forget.
It was dangerous, having him this near. Too testing to her resolve, too tempting to the parts of her heart she was trying to harden.
“I’ve always hidden behind a mask of mischief,” he said, his voice steadier now but still quiet.
“It’s probably why Rolle requested the wager from me and no one else.
He knew I wouldn’t deny it, especially when it involved you.
Perhaps he picked up on my interest in you, even then.
Whether you’ll admit it or not, there’s always been a trigger between us.
When I had the excuse to try to make you kiss me, I couldn’t let it go.
I wanted to kiss you, Isabella. I wanted you to be mine.
I hated the duke attempting the same and was more than pleased when his attentions moved to Miss Wilson, for it left me free to court you—to make you love me as much as I fell in love with you. ”
She tried to ignore his pretty, practiced words, but they slipped past her defenses anyway. Each word settled like a small, treacherous ember in her chest, glowing faintly against the cold weight of her anger.
He leaned closer, his eyes searching hers. The movement was so small, so tender, that she didn’t realize how little space was left between them until she could feel his breath on her lips.
“Please, Bells,” he whispered. “Please forgive me. I cannot live without you.”
Her breath hitched. The sincerity in his gaze twisted something inside her, and for one awful moment, she almost believed him.
But then she remembered.
“You cannot say such things to me and expect that I’ll forget the wager,” she said, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it calm. “You made a fool of me before all of London, Hartley. You broke my trust. That cannot simply be undone by words whispered in a shadowed carriage.”
“I know,” he said softly, his gaze never leaving her. “But I would give anything to make it right. You are the only person who has ever seen the man I could be, not the scoundrel the world believes me to be.”
She wanted to look away, to stop seeing the pain etched on his handsome face. Her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips together, forcing her composure.
“Your remorse changes nothing,” she said quietly. “You lied. You betrayed me. And though you may think yourself in love, you are not. Your disappointment will pass, just as mine will and we shall make the best of this farce of a marriage to come.”
He exhaled harshly, still on his knees before her. His head bowed, and she could see the tremor in his shoulders, hear the unsteady catch of his breath. The sound hollowed her chest, and she hated that it did.
For a long moment neither spoke. The carriage swayed, the sound of the wheels beneath them a soft, rhythmic counterpoint to the tension hanging thick in the air.
“Bells,” he murmured, lifting his head slightly. “I meant every word, but if you will not believe me, I understand and know I can do no more.”
Her hands were cold, and she tucked them into her lap to keep from shaking, to keep from reaching for him. She wanted to scream, to cry, to strike him—but her voice betrayed her, small and tight.
He stayed where he was, looking up at her, until the carriage slowed.
She refused to meet his eyes again, refused to let him see the tears that blurred her vision.
“You should return home,” she said quietly.
“Have the driver upon returning you to Berkley Square to go back and wait for the duke and duchess.”
When the footman opened the door, she rose and gathered her skirts. Whitmore slumped onto the opposite seat but did not say another word.
She stepped out, the air from outside cool against her heated cheeks, and climbed down without his help. Her legs trembled, her throat tight with everything said. She could still feel the ghost of his touch against her gown, the echo of his voice in her ears.
As the carriage door shut behind her, Isabella straightened her spine and walked toward her home. Her chest ached, but she would not falter.
If this was love, it was a cruel and treacherous thing—and she would never let it undo her again.