Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Whitmore woke to a blade behind his eyes and the miserable certainty that sleep had done nothing to improve his disposition. The clock on the mantel said half past one. Trust him to greet the afternoon like a rake who had earned his reputation, and feel none the better for it.
He dragged himself into his study, sleeves rolled, cravat in one fist, and stared at the untouched pile of invitations and tradesmen’s bills as if they had offended him personally.
They probably had. The room smelled of yesterday’s fire, beeswax, and a faint echo of brandy that turned his stomach.
He poured water, drank, poured another, and told himself he would think of ledgers and tenant repairs and anything sensible.
He thought of her instead.
Lady Isabella Ravensmere. The shape of her name in his head was a problem all its own.
He had kissed her in the park, argued with her at a ball, and then kissed her again behind a palm where anyone with a taste for scandal might have found them.
There was no chance he would take any money from the duke.
What may have started as a wager, was long past that now.
In his sleep, he dreamed of her mouth. When he woke, drenched in sweat and hard as stone, he forced himself to be practical.
Practicality lasted as long as it took his butler to inform him that the Duchess of Ravensmere was hosting an at-home this afternoon, and a number of callers already seen approaching the house on Grosvenor Square were many indeed.
The phrase a number of callers tightened something unpleasant in his chest. “Which callers?” Whitmore asked, striving for indifference and failing to find it.
“I could not say, my lord,” the butler replied. “Only that there were several gentlemen, or so a footman informed me on his way back from errands. It seems quite the place to be.”
Perfect. A parade of well-appointed men with tidy intentions and dull souls. He yanked on his coat, forgot his cravat, remembered it, tied it badly, and strode for the door.
“Your horse, my lord?” the butler called after him.
“Later.” He was already on the steps, hailing the first passing hackney like a man pursued. He was not pursued, unless one counted good sense, which he had successfully outrun since he first saw Isabella smile.
The hackney smelled of damp wool and old tobacco.
Whitmore sat forward, knees braced, while the city streamed by in jolts and clatters.
He told himself he was only going to pay a polite call on Ravensmere.
One ought to visit a friend when one had the time.
He told himself he was curious to see which gentlemen believed themselves worthy of Isabella. He told himself many things.
None of them eased the repugnant jealousy that ran hot in his veins.
The Ravensmere townhouse was already busy. A steady trickle of callers ascended the steps with bouquets and hopeful faces. Whitmore paid the jarvey and took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the look of surprise the footman gave him at his eagerness.
And in all truth he could not blame the fellow. He had lost all common sense.
The at-home was arranged with the duchess’s customary elegance, flowers in tasteful profusion, the air warm with tea and conversation.
Lady visitors clustered near the windows, gentlemen stood at strategic angles of approach, and there, upon a small sofa set slightly apart as if by invisible design, sat Bells.
Rosalind was near enough to chaperone, far enough to allow conversation.
The balance would have made a general proud.
He took in a deep breath and drank in the sight of her. Isabella looked like serenity and perfection. Her gown of pale green softened her eyes and made her skin glow. She laughed at something Lord Lennox said, and Whitmore felt the peculiar sensation of his stomach and his temper flexing.
There were not one or two callers. There were five.
He recognized most of them. Young, well mannered, tidy fortunes.
Good families, few vices, and a terrifying ability to talk earnestly about the weather.
Lord Lennox, the traveler, stood closest to Isabella’s seat, the fellow’s posture relaxed, his smile easy.
A decent man. The sort of decent that got a woman safely married.
The sort of decent Whitmore was certainly not.
He made his bow to the duchess first like a gentleman, received her welcome, perceived the faint tightening at the edges of her smile that suggested she suspected him of something and had not decided what, then turned to Isabella and Lord Lennox.
“Lady Isabella,” he said.
“Lord Whitmore,” she returned. Her voice was calm. Her gaze was not. There was a spark there that met his, clashed with it, and set the ground between them alight.
“Whitmore.” Lord Lennox offered his hand. “A pleasure.”
“Likewise,” Whitmore said. He took the man’s measure in the shake. Firm. Honest. Blast him.
“You were not at White’s last evening?” Lord Lennox stated, conversationally. “I heard your steward kept you until ungodly hours.”
“He has a talent for it,” Whitmore said. “He keeps a list of matters to vex me and checks them off one by one.” He turned to Isabella. “I trust you are well after the ball.”
“Well enough,” she said.
He waited for her to color. She did not. She only looked at him as if daring him to try something ill advised. He had never needed so little encouragement.
Lord Lennox resumed his talking points, affable as a summer breeze. “Her Grace’s at-home is quite the scene this afternoon. I had not planned to add to your crowded parlor, Your Grace,” he called toward the duchess with a smile, “but it seems half the beau monde took the same notion.”
“It is kind of you to come,” the duchess answered. “Isabella enjoys good conversation.”
“Conversation,” Whitmore said, “is a fine art.”
“Indeed,” Lord Lennox agreed. “I was telling Lady Isabella about Florence. The galleries are beyond compare.”
“The galleries,” Whitmore said. “Yes. Crowded, are they not?”
“Inspiring,” Lord Lennox corrected. “There is a chapel where the light itself seems to sing.”
“Does it, by God, how extraordinary,” Whitmore said, and received a look from the duchess that reminded him he was in a drawing room, not his club.
Isabella’s mouth quirked, before she quickly hid it behind her teacup. She did not, however, send him away. That felt like a victory in itself, however petty he may be acting right at this moment.
Lord Lennox continued, undisturbed and too stupid to know that Whitmore had been mocking him. “I had hoped to return this autumn, yet London has its charms.”
“So it does,” Whitmore replied, allowing himself the smallest glance at Isabella that said quite clearly which charm he meant. She ignored him. Or pretended to. Her fingers tightened on her saucer.
“Tell us, Whitmore,” Lord Lennox said, “have you any plans for travel this Season?”
“None,” Whitmore said. “I find my interests are, at present, closer to home.”
The duchess coughed behind her glove. Isabella set down her cup with a gentle click that felt like a warning bell.
Lord Lennox smiled. “Then perhaps you will join a party to Richmond tomorrow next. Lady Isabella mentioned she enjoys the outdoors and there is a sweet brook that runs through the grounds. A day out riding in such a picturesque landscape sounds just the thing, does it not?”
“It does indeed.” Whitmore would have left it at that if his better sense had not fled his person entirely. “Particularly when the company suits.”
“Company tells for much,” Lord Lennox agreed. “Lady Isabella has such grace that any company is improved by her presence.”
Whitmore almost liked him less for being sincere.
He took a chair he had not been offered and applied himself to getting in the way.
It was a talent. He inquired after Lord Lennox’s opinion of horseflesh, then dismissed it kindly, which made the man laugh, even if it were at his own expense.
He steered the topic to books, then disagreed on three authors in succession, all while smiling as if he were enjoying himself.
He complimented Isabella’s gown, then complimented the duchess’s taste, then turned back to Lord Lennox to ask if Italy had taught him anything useful, since the gentleman seemed quite oblivious to the fact that he seemed to gloat over his travels.
“Patience,” Lord Lennox said, amused. “Enough to know when to yield a conversation and when not to.”
“A useful skill,” Whitmore said. “I have not learned it.”
“So I see…”
Isabella set down her cup again. “Then perhaps you might practice on someone less inclined to notice.”
“And miss the pleasure of your notice? Never,” Whitmore said.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I have heard.”
Lord Lennox cleared his throat, and Isabella met his lordship’s gaze. “Lord Lennox,” Isabella said sweetly, turning away from Whitmore, “you were telling me about the chapel. The light that sings.”
“I was,” Lord Lennox said. He described it with the simple pleasure of a man who loved what he had seen.
Isabella listened with real attention, asking small questions.
Whitmore watched their exchange with something sharp in his throat.
It was not only jealousy. It was the recognition that Lord Lennox did not perform.
He simply spoke. He made Isabella comfortable.
He did not crowd her or bait her or try to read her thoughts like a page he was certain he owned.
Whitmore changed tack. Humor had always been his shield. He used it now and hated himself for it. “Did Florence improve your dancing as well?” he asked. “I understand the Italians move with notable elegance.”
“I could not say.” Lord Lennox smiled. “Lady Isabella might judge. She suffered my waltz and was too kind to fault it.”