Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
The moment Whitmore’s lips left hers, Isabella knew she had to flee.
Her heart thundered wildly beneath her ribs, her breath uneven, her skin still tingling from the press of his mouth.
As she hastily pushed through the throng of guests, she could still feel the warmth of him, the rough whisper of his breath, the firm strength of his hands as they had drawn her near.
It was madness — utter madness — to be thinking of him in such a way, and at a ball no less.
The ballroom around her seemed too bright, too loud — laughter and music blending into a dizzying hum that made her want to bolt.
She turned swiftly, fanning herself, ignoring the curious looks as she slipped past clusters of guests toward the doors.
The palm behind which she had just sinned — scandalously, foolishly — felt as though it still bore witness to her downfall.
“Isabella?” Rosalind’s voice stopped her halfway to the foyer. Her sister’s brow was furrowed, her expression soft with concern. “Are you unwell?”
“I think I have the beginnings of a megrim,” Isabella said quickly, clutching her fan tighter to hide her trembling hands. “The noise and the heat — it has quite overwhelmed me.”
Rosalind’s gaze searched her face, not entirely convinced. “You look flushed.”
“From the heat,” Isabella said, managing a faint smile. “If you do not mind, I should like to go home.”
“Of course,” Rosalind said immediately. “Wait here. I shall have the carriage brought round and let Ravensmere know.”
Within minutes they were inside the ducal carriage, the heavy door closing with a dull thud behind them.
The sound seemed to seal Isabella into her own thoughts.
The vehicle smelled faintly of lavender sachets and leather.
Outside, the cobbled streets gleamed from an earlier rain, lamplight reflected in puddles that flashed by as the wheels turned.
Each passing light seemed to flare across the glass, then fade, just as fleeting as her good sense had been under Whitmore’s touch.
Had anyone seen them? Come morning, would she be the on-dit? Would her reputation be in ruins? Rosalind sat opposite her, studying her far too closely for her liking.
“You are certain you are not ill, my dear?”
Isabella looked out the window, her reflection faint in the glass. “Quite certain. Just a headache, I promise.”
“I can send for a physician if the megrim worsens.”
“That will not be necessary.”
Rosalind hesitated. “Then perhaps you will tell me what has truly happened to put you so out of sorts?”
Isabella’s head snapped around. “Truly? Why would you ask me that?” Was her distress so obvious that her sister sensed more than she was saying? Rosalind was married, had been courted by a man of similar means and nature to Whitmore, perhaps she did sense more than Isabella gave her credit for.
Her sister smiled faintly. “You are not the sort to take flight from a ballroom. And your color when you left… It was not from a megrim, dearest. It was something else. Your eyes were bright, even if your skin was pink, and your lips, well, they looked a little swollen…”
Isabella sighed and pressed her gloved hands together in her lap. The fine stitching of her gown seemed suddenly suffocating. Her stays too tight. She wished she could unlace her thoughts as easily as fabric. “I am being foolish,” she said at last.
“I have known you to be many things,” Rosalind said, “but foolish has never been one of them. Tell me what is afoot.”
Isabella looked down, her voice quiet as she prepared herself to tell her eldest sibling what conflicting thoughts and feelings she was suffering of late. “I think I may like him.”
Saying the words aloud lifted a little of the weight that had settled on her. Could she trust him? Did she want to give him such power over her? What if he was merely teasing like he so liked to do? What if he was merely toying with her before someone else sashayed across his path.
Rosalind blinked. “Him?”
“Whitmore.” The name left her lips like a confession. Beautiful, wicked, could kiss her off her feet and make her feel as though she were floating, Whitmore…
Her sister’s eyes softened, but she said nothing for several long seconds.
“I do not think he likes me in return,” Isabella added quickly, as if saying it aloud might lessen the sting. “Not truly. Not as one ought.”
Rosalind tilted her head. “And what makes you so certain?”
“Because men like him do not marry women like me who want a love match,” she said simply.
“He could have any lady of the ton, any number of beauties who hang on his every word and not care if he never loved them in return.” She sighed.
“I’m certain he’s only spending time with me — not because I am exceptional, but because I am safe.
Because he knows I would never expect him to offer for me.
Because I’m a little diversion to make his Season more enjoyable. ”
Her mind flashed back to the moment behind the palm — his hand at her waist, his mouth claiming hers as if the very air between them might burn.
The press of his lips, the taste of brandy and heat made her thirst for more.
For that instant, she had almost believed their friendship or whatever it was happening between them meant something.
But men like Whitmore did not kiss women like her for love.
They did it for sport. For curiosity. To get one into their bed.
Rosalind smiled gently. “You do not give yourself enough credit, Isabella. Whitmore is a complicated man, but that does not mean he is incapable of affection. Mayhap up until now, he’s merely not found anyone who has challenged him.
Has not found a woman who has told him to do as they please instead of himself. ”
Isabella let out a quiet laugh, unsure if any of what Rosalind said was the case. “He is incapable of sincerity, I think. Everything he says is wrapped up in charm and jest. I do not know when to believe him — or if I ever should.”
Rosalind regarded her with that older-sister patience Isabella had always half-admired, half-resented.
“Men,” Rosalind said after a pause, “often take time to understand what is before them. Especially those accustomed to getting what they want with little effort. Sometimes it takes losing something — or nearly mislaying it — for them to realize it’s worth fighting for. ”
Isabella’s throat tightened. Did that mean she ought to wait?
To give him a chance to see her differently?
To see if he admitted to feeling more for her than anyone else who came before?
She frowned. What if he never did any of those things?
What if she wasted her heart on a man who would only laugh at her na?veté?
The gentle sway of the carriage and the steady rhythm of hooves filled the quiet.
Isabella stared down at her hands, twisting the edge of her glove between her fingers.
She wanted to believe Rosalind, but the memory of Whitmore’s startled expression after she had asked if he meant to marry her when they were at the park replayed in her mind again and again.
He had looked stricken, panicked — as though she had pulled the ground from under his feet. That, more than anything, had hurt. Because it told her all she needed to know. He had wanted the kiss, nothing else.
He kissed you again this evening, Isabella. What if you’re wrong…
“I think you give him too much credit,” she said softly. “He is not a man in search of worth — only amusement.”
Rosalind leaned back, clasping the seat as the carriage jostled around a corner. “And yet he kissed you, I believe, even if you have not admitted as much to me yet. But I know a kissed mouth when I see one, and your lips are certainly that.”
“The kiss was not affection,” Isabella said bitterly. “That was…impulse. We had argued and Whitmore thought to chastise me.”
“Perhaps is it as you say, or he was so jealous he couldn’t control himself, even in a ballroom surrounded by the ton.” Rosalind met her gaze. “Often impulsive actions reveal what we are trying hardest to hide.”
Isabella looked up. “You sound as though you’re defending him.”
“I wish for my sister to be happy.” Rosalind smiling faintly. “If Whitmore has the power to do that, then I cannot condemn him too quickly.”
Happy. The word felt foreign in Isabella’s chest. She had not been truly content in years — not since before her first disastrous Season, when she had still believed that love came to those who waited.
Now she only believed in caution. In disappointment.
And yet the thought of Whitmore — his grin, his teasing eyes, the weight of his hand at her back — stirred something perilously close to hope.
“I do not wish to be a fool, Rosalind,” she whispered. “To pine after a man who thinks of me as nothing more than a diversion.”
“You are not a fool,” Rosalind said. “You are human. We do not choose where affection settles — we decide what we do with it.”
Isabella swallowed hard, her gaze dropping once more to her gloves.
What was she to do with it? With this ache that made her heart throb whenever she thought of him?
She wanted to banish it, to bury it deep and never let it see light again.
But beneath the pain was a strange, fluttering warmth — a longing that refused to die.
“Then I shall try to do nothing with it at all,” she said finally.
Rosalind clucked her tongue. “Ah, that would be wise indeed — if it were possible, but I fear you’ll sadly disappoint yourself, my dear.”
They rode in silence for a time, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones filling the air. Isabella tried to think of anything else — the upcoming garden party, the endless fittings for gowns, the tedious gossip of the ton. But every thought circled back to him.