Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Isabella felt extremely foolish and embarrassed after how she had behaved on the terrace. She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at the thought of what she had hinted to the duke to do with her.
How could she act so foolish? So reckless or fast?
She could only hope he would not go about society and tell people of her atrocious behavior—of her trying to get him to bestow a kiss upon her when such a thing was absolutely inappropriate.
Surely, he would not.
She hadn’t actually asked for him to kiss her. Inferring was one thing, but he would not be so cruel as to spread gossip. To do so would degrade her name, and in the process, make him look immoral as well.
And he was not a cruel person. She was certain of that, even if perhaps his interest in her had waned and he no longer wished to pursue her.
She tried to stop herself from panicking and moved to stroll about the room, sipping her ratafia, and forcing herself to think of something else.
The music swelled around her, the steady hum of conversation rising and falling beneath the waltz’s rhythm.
Candlelight flickered off the mirrors lining the room, throwing soft golden light over everyone.
Whitmore was now at the ball. She had spied him a time or two—even once speaking with Rolle. She wished she knew what they were discussing.
She could only hope it was not her.
She stopped near the ballroom entrance doors that opened into the foyer. Standing alone she watched as couples swept past her in a blur of color and laughter. The air was warm and thick with perfume.
Her stomach wavered uneasily as she watched the dancers, their faces flushed with wine and delight. The sight only reminded her how very reckless she had been.
Finishing her glass of ratafia, she handed the empty crystal to a passing footman and stepped quietly away. She strolled along an empty passageway, remembering that this house had a marvelous conservatory.
But before she could reach it, she heard voices.
She paused, head tilting, trying to gauge which room the exchange came from. A sliver of lamplight spilled across the floor from a door left slightly ajar, and the faint cadence of a man’s voice—low and rich—drifted through.
A warning voice in her head told her to turn back, to return to the ballroom and ignore whatever was unfolding within the house. Balls and parties always hid their share of indiscretions. It was better for one to not involve oneself into situations that were not hers to start with.
Still, she had been rather naughty this evening already. A small part of her—reckless and stung by humiliation—wanted to revel in the knowledge that others might be equally scandalous.
She approached the door and placed her ear against it. She heard a man and a woman within, the low murmur of intimate conversation. She closed her eyes, shame washing through her when she recognised who conversed.
The Duke of Rolle.
And Miss Wilson.
She froze at what the exchange entailed.
“I did not think you were interested in me, Your Grace,” Miss Wilson said, her sweet yet vulnerable words floating to where Isabella stood.
“I cannot be obvious with whom I wish to court, Miss Wilson,” the duke returned. “But it is you I would like to know better—if you are open to such a courtship.”
“I am more than willing, Your Grace,” came the eager reply.
Isabella stepped back from the door as if struck. She would not listen further. She would not intrude.
But what was the meaning of this?
Only yesterday—indeed, only an hour ago—the duke had seemed fully engaged with her.
Was he no better than so many other gentlemen of society, playing with young ladies’ affections merely for amusement until someone more convenient caught their eye?
She could only calculate from what she heard that he indeed was no different.
And here she was but moments ago thinking he was kind. That he was honorable and truthful with his courting of her.
How silly and green she was to have thrown herself at his head. After his conversation with Miss Wilson, it was any wonder he fled. He did not like her, and he certainly didn’t wish to kiss her.
Heat burned across her cheeks, shame crawling down her neck like a rash. The memory of her attempt at flirtation—the words, the look she’d given him—now seemed mortifyingly transparent.
Isabella fled, hurrying toward the conservatory. Her slippers made no sound on the tiled flood, but her breath came unevenly, loud in her ears. She prayed no one saw her flight. She needed air—space to think—to let the degradation ebb before she faced anyone again.
Inside the conservatory, the world was blessedly quiet. The scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the air, mingling with damp earth and the faint metallic tang of glass cooled by the night.
She moved toward the great glass window that overlooked the gardens, staring at her reflection caught in the faint light from the adjoining hall. Her pale face, wide eyes, and trembling hands stared back at her.
“Fool,” she whispered under her breath. She closed her eyes and drew in a steadying breath.
The sound of a boot and movement behind her startled her. She turned only to see the one man she did not wish to face. Not when she was feeling far too vulnerable.
“Whitmore,” she said, her voice devoid of feeling. “What are you doing here?” Her tone sounded bored—she hoped it sounded wearied even if her heart jumped at the sight of him—and she prayed he would take the hint and leave her alone.
“You looked distraught leaving the ball,” he said softly. “I wanted to check on you?”
“I’m well,” she replied. No, that was not true. She was mortified, and his presence only made it worse. “Please leave me alone.” She turned to look back outside.
He ignored her plea and came to stand beside her. In the reflection of the window, she saw him watching her. The lamplight caught in his dark hair, the fine line of his jaw, his expression unreadable but not unkind. His closeness unsettled her far more than she cared to admit.
“You know of the duke and Miss Wilson,” he stated quietly.
Her head snapped up. “You know of them?”
He nodded. “He mentioned it tonight. We are friends after all.”
She turned away, hugging her arms around herself. “I am not injured, if that is what you’re wondering.” Not entirely true. Her pride was, but in truth her heart was untouched. A small mercy she granted.
“Then what are you?” he asked.
She could feel his gaze on her cheek, warm and steady, but she could not look at him. Her throat tightened.
“I threw myself at him earlier this evening,” she said in a rush. “But had I known he liked Miss Wilson, I would never have done so. I do not even know why I did it. I’m not charmed of him in that way in the first place.”
“Good to know.”
She continued, now that she was stating her shame, she could not stop. “The duke is a kind and well-mannered man—or so I thought—but I do not desire him as one should.”
Whitmore was silent, clearly taking in her words.
“You threw yourself at him?” he murmured, almost amused. “But you do not desire him? I think I’m confused.”
“I wished to see,” she admitted. “If he was sincere in his attentions. It seems he has failed abysmally like so many before him. For any man who truly desired a woman would have kissed her, yes?”
“A man would indeed kiss the woman he desired,” he said quietly.
Her breath caught. “Not that I should be speaking to you about this. But considering you and I are practically related—”
“We are not related,” he interrupted. “My brother is married to your sister. That does not make us family.”
“Even so, I am certain my secrets are safe with you. Even if you are a rogue.”
“They are indeed,” he said, his voice rougher than before.
His promise made her feel strangely steadier. “It just does not make sense to me.” She frowned down at a nearby fern. “Why the duke, these past several days, has sought me out—dancing, conversing—only to turn about and court another. What am I to make of that?”
Whitmore reached up and adjusted his cravat. “Perhaps he’s merely had a change of heart, my lady?”
She arched a brow. “A change of heart? How fickle if that is the case.” She paused. “And what is this my lady business, Whitmore? What happened to calling me Bells?”
He grinned, and she hated that warmth spiraled through her.
“I didn’t think you liked me calling you Bells.”
“I don’t,” she lied. And that was the rub—she did like it. It sounded intimate and forbidden. The way his voice softened over the word. It stirred something dangerous in her she’d not known before.
Perhaps her attempt at kissing the duke had been her way of distracting herself from something else entirely. What Whitmore truly made her feel.
But she could not ask him if him being here meant more than trying to console a friend. She could not tempt him as she had the duke. For what if she kissed Whitmore—and it was everything she had ever imagined? Perfect in every sense. What then?
She did not like Whitmore. He was aggravating and pompous and far too handsome for his own good. Still…as she looked up at him she couldn’t help but wonder what it might feel like to be kissed by the marquess.
Truly kissed. A toe curling in your slipper kind of kiss…
The thought lingered in the quiet between them, heavy and unspoken. Outside, a soft rain began to fall, the droplets tapping gently against the conservatory glass. The sound filled the silence like a heartbeat, slow and rhythmic, as her pulse raced to match it.
Kissing the marquess, she couldn’t help but believe, would be wonderful.