Chapter 17 #2
To his voice. To his laugh. To the way he had looked at her as if no one else in the world existed. And to that moment when he had pulled away, breathless, his eyes dark with something she could not name. Desire? Confusion? Regret? It haunted her now, a question with no answer.
“I danced with Lord Lennox this evening,” she said at last, breaking the silence and changing the subject.
Rosalind nodded. “And what did you think of him?”
“He is…kind,” Isabella said, choosing her words carefully. “Attentive. And very proper. The sort of man every mother hopes her daughter will marry.”
“Which means he bored you,” Rosalind said with a light laugh.
“Not bored,” Isabella said quickly. “Simply…uninspired.”
Her sister grinned. “Inspiration rarely sustains a marriage, my dear. Kindness does. Stability. A man who will not bring you pain or scandal, but I recommend love and desire above all else. Everything else is merely filler.”
Isabella nodded. After tonight with Whitemore, she certainly could see the sense in desiring as well as loving one’s husband. “Lord Lennox seems incapable to inspire either in me at present, but I suppose that may change.”
“Then I would encourage you to learn more of him if you’re set against Whitmore,” Rosalind said gently. “You might find that your heart has room for someone less reckless. It is not always the storm that brings happiness, Isabella — sometimes it is the calm.”
The calm. Isabella let the words settle in her mind.
Perhaps tranquility was what she needed — to steady herself, to remind her heart that not every thrilling thing was meant to be chased.
Still, the memory of Whitmore’s mouth, the heat of his breath, made that resolution waver.
Could one truly crave calm when one had tasted chaos and liked it?
Isabella turned her gaze out onto Mayfair. The carriage lanterns threw shifting reflections on the glass, and for a fleeting moment she imagined she could still see Whitmore’s dark eyes staring back at her, filled with that maddening mix of arrogance and something else she dared not name.
“Perhaps,” she said softly. “But I am not certain calm would suit me either.”
Rosalind laughed. “Oh, I know it would not. Still, you might try it to be sure, just the same.”
Isabella smiled despite herself. “I shall try.”
“Good.” Rosalind sat back, satisfied. “You will see him again, I imagine — Lord Lennox.”
“Yes. He said as much.”
“And Whitmore?”
Isabella hesitated. “He will no doubt be everywhere I am, as always. But it matters little now.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, though the word trembled faintly at the edges. In truth, she did not feel certain of anything. Only that she could not endure this ache much longer — the waiting, the wondering, the foolish hoping that he might look at her differently, love her as she’d want.
Love?
“I have made up my mind. Whatever I thought might be between Whitmore and me was foolishness. He has no intention of anything real, and I shall not mistake a kiss for affection or hopes for a happy future.”
Rosalind reached across and touched her hand. “You are strong, Isabella. But do not close yourself off so tightly that you miss what presents itself to you. I do not wish to see you married, unsatisfied and unhappy.”
“I shall try to keep my heart intact first,” she said with a determination she did not feel. “Then perhaps I shall consider opening it again.”
Rosalind squeezed her fingers gently. “A fair bargain I suppose.”
The carriage turned down Grosvenor Square, the familiar sight of Ravensmere House coming into view. The iron gates glistened with rain, and lamplight gleamed across the windows. Inside, a fire would be waiting, warm and steady — so unlike the turmoil she carried within her chest.
As the carriage slowed, Isabella glanced once more out into the misty dark, where the lamps burned in the distance. Somewhere in that city, Whitmore would be drinking, laughing, pretending as though nothing had changed.
But for her, everything had.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She would not pine. She would not be the lovesick fool in some whispered story among the ton. She would go forward, as she always had — with grace, with purpose, and perhaps with someone who might truly value her.
“I shall give myself time and choose wisely, I promise, but should Lord Lennox call at our at home, please have him received.”
Rosalind smiled approvingly. “Or course, whatever you wish.”
The carriage rolled to a halt and a footman opened the door, cool night air rushing in.
As Isabella stepped down, she looked up at the sky. The clouds were parting, revealing the faint glimmer of starlight. For a moment she let herself believe that perhaps the kiss — that dangerous, unforgettable kiss — could be the beginning of something, not the end.
The memory of his mouth ghosted over hers, and she knew the truth. No amount of time would make her forget the taste of Whitmore’s kiss. Not even if she pretended it were so.