Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
Hartley debated whether he should lean down and kiss those very desirable lips. Of course he could not. There were people about. The house was hosting a ball for heaven’s sake, filled with too many eyes. He could not be so bold — not with a woman who was unmarried and very much a maid.
He held out his arm instead, determined to act the gentleman, if only once in his life.
“Shall we return to the ball?”
He could see the confusion flicker in her eyes. She had perhaps expected a different response from him — hoped for one, even. So had he, but there were rules to being a rogue. And kissing a woman who was unmarried and untouched in a glass conservatory where anyone may be watching was not it.
“I thank you. Yes,” she said softly.
They walked back to the ballroom in silence, their footsteps quiet on the marble floor, the distant strains of music growing louder as they neared the room.
The faint scent of beeswax drifted through the corridor, mingling with the warmth of the candlelight.
Isabella’s gloved hand rested lightly on his arm, and though the contact was innocent, it seemed to burn through the fabric of his coat.
Thankfully, they passed no one who would question where they had been.
They re-entered the entertainment and Whitmore sensed the slight shift in the air — a few curious glances, the whisper of fans, a smattering of speculation that always followed him around like a cloak.
He returned her promptly to Ravensmere and the duchess’s side.
“I am to ride in the park tomorrow morning,” he said lightly, standing a few paces away but keeping his gaze on her.
Her eyes met his, a spark of surprise mingling with curiosity. “I’m due to ride in the park tomorrow morning as well, my lord. Perhaps I shall see you there.”
“We could meet,” he suggested, his mouth curving into a smile. “Or perhaps we should make it that we do. I know you are fond of riding, and I shall be trying out my new mare tomorrow. I recently purchased her from Tattersalls.”
“Indeed?” She looked up at him with genuine interest, and he found himself oddly pleased by her attentiveness.
The glow from the chandeliers above glinted against her dark hair, and he marveled at how beautiful she was.
How was it that she was not betrothed or married for years?
Such a prize should not be sitting on the proverbial wallflower shelf.
“Do you have many horses in your stable?” she asked.
“I have four in town,” he replied, “and likely three times that number at the estate in Kent. I’m breeding them, you see — trying to secure strong bloodlines for racing. I hope to win at Ascot one day.”
“That is interesting,” she said. “I did not know you were so well acquainted with the racing industry. You continue to surprise me, Whitmore.”
He grinned, silently pleased by her kind words. It was uncommon for her to speak to him in such a tone — without barbs, without suspicion. The warmth of it settled somewhere deep in his chest, where he was not accustomed to feeling anything at all.
There had been a time, long past, when there were few words exchanged between them — and none of them kind. Not that he hadn’t tried to make her like him, but there was, it seemed, something inherently annoying about him she could not abide.
Perhaps she was thawing toward him at last. And it would certainly help him win that wager. A thousand pounds was no small sum — worthy enough to pursue.
“I always wished to breed horses,” she said, glancing away. “At one time father had a fine collection of bloodlines in the stables, but he sold them.”
It did not surprise Whitmore that the late Duke of Ravensmere had done so. The man had enjoyed nothing more than cards, claret, and scandal. Rumor — and Benedict’s confirmation — held that it was only the current duke who had restored the family’s finances and made his wards heiresses again.
“Perhaps one day you will have your own breeding program, Bells,” he whispered. “Something tells me you would make a most astute businesswoman.”
A small smile touched her lips. “Perhaps,” she said softly. The candlelight caught in her eyes, turning them to liquid amber, and he had to look away before he forgot himself entirely.
The more time he spent in her company, the less he wished his courting had begun as a wager — a lark between friends. He could not shake the feeling that had he courted her in truth, they might have suited rather well. Possibly too well.
“If I do not marry, I could try to persuade Rosalind to convince the duke to allow me to begin a breeding program at Ebonmere Abbey. Although I presume they do not wish for me to live there forever, but if I do not marry, it is something to consider.” She smiled faintly.
“I could always move into one of the unused wings of the house. I would not be in anyone’s way there. ”
Whitmore frowned, the notion irking him more than he cared to admit. The image of her tucked away in some quiet corner of the estate — alone, forgotten — stirred something sharp in his chest.
“I do not think your sister or brother-in-law would ever see you as being in the way,” he said. “Should you not marry, they would welcome you for all of your days.”
She laughed softly, though there was little humor in it. “I only mean that they have their own lives now — their family and plans. I would not wish to intrude.”
“And with the Duke of Rolle no longer interested in courting me,” she added bitterly, “my chances of making my third Season a success are diminishing by the minute.”
“Come now,” he said, his tone gentling. “Let us not be melancholy. It is not in your nature.” He wiggled his brow, and at last she smiled — truly smiled — the expression lighting up her face.
Hell she was beautiful…
“You are right,” she said with a laugh. “And I am riding with Lord Whitmore tomorrow in the park, do you know. That will make me the envy of many young ladies.”
He cleared his throat, sensing her bantering was coming back. “Would it make you envious, were you not the one riding with me tomorrow? If you were one of those young ladies looking on from afar, wishing it was them that I talk to, that my eyes linger upon…”
Her laughter, carefree and bright, washed over him like warm sunlight. The sound sank beneath his skin, earnest and intoxicating. For a man so used to laughter at his expense, hearing hers felt like a victory.
“If I longed for you to be my husband, perhaps,” she teased, “but we are merely friends. Are we not?”
He inclined his head. “We are indeed.” And yet, the words felt hollow as they left his mouth.
As the orchestra struck the opening notes of another dance, he found himself watching her — the graceful curve of her neck as she turned to speak to her sister, the delicate flush on her cheeks that came from enjoyment rather than shame.
Her presence filled the air around him, and he could not quite catch his breath.
If friendship were all they shared, then why did it feel as though something beneath it simmered quietly, waiting for the slightest spark?
She caught his gaze, her smile softening. For a moment, the crowded ballroom faded — the glittering chandeliers, the rustle of satin, the murmuring ton all dissolved into distant sound.
All he could see was her.
And perhaps, he thought fleetingly, if fortune had dealt his life a different hand, he might have been foolish enough to fall.