Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
The following evening the ducal carriage slowed before the Fairborne townhouse, the outside lamps spilling warm golden light across the cobblestone streets. Music drifted faintly through the open windows, the hum of violins and soft laughter slipping into the night.
Isabella drew a steadying breath. She had nearly refused the invitation.
Lady Mariah Fairborne had been a friend during their first Season—a sweet, eager debutante with a tendency to speak before she thought.
She was now married, and Isabella had not yet attended any of her old friend’s small gatherings—feeling a little out of place with most in attendance who were married and settled.
Still, it was something to do, and staying home with her thoughts was dangerous.
Thoughts that swirled in a constant circle regarding one particular marquess.
She glanced at her maid seated across from her. “Are you certain you do not mind waiting downstairs for me? I’m certain Mariah’s servants will be nice.”
“Yes, my lady,” Mary said, folding her hands primly. “I know Lady Fairborne’s lady’s maid, and it’ll be nice to see her again.”
Isabella smiled, relieved to hear this. “Very well. It should not be a late evening.”
She hoped…
In truth, she had no true idea how long the rout would go for.
The last twenty-four hours since Whitmore had fled her house had been hours of confusion, of words unspoken, and emotions she had no wish to name.
Perhaps the music and good conversation, card games and music would still her thoughts.
Perhaps she would, for a few hours, forget the way Lord Whitmore’s kiss had lingered like a ghost upon her lips.
The footman opened the carriage door, and she stepped down into the night. A soft drizzle had begun to fall, dotting the stones and lending a faint sheen to the street. She adjusted her shawl and ascended the steps, her pulse quickening as she heard the muffled sound of guests within.
Inside, the warmth enveloped her. Mariah’s townhouse was not large, but it had been arranged with care.
The drawing room glittered with candles and gilt mirrors, filled with the rustle of silk gowns and the murmur of polite laughter.
The scent of beeswax and glass-house flowers mingled with the faint powder of perfumes.
“Lady Isabella!” Mariah hurried forward, her blue skirts swaying, her expression one of genuine delight. “I did not think you’d come. You’re always so elusive.”
“Not elusive, merely dull,” Isabella said with a small smile, bussing her friend’s cheeks with a small kiss.
“Nonsense.” Mariah took her hands. “You bring refinement wherever you go. Come—there are a few familiar faces, and I have arranged some entertainment for later. A musical evening, nothing too grand. We are all so weary of dancing, are we not?”
“Indeed.”
She allowed herself to be led farther in.
The company was modest, perhaps thirty guests, seated in conversational groups.
No card tables. No dancing yet—though there was ample room should they decide to do so later.
The atmosphere was easy, comfortable, the kind that lulled one into forgetting the rules of the ton for an hour or two.
Isabella accepted a glass of wine from a footman and found a seat near the edge of the room.
From there, she could watch the guests without being drawn into serious conversation.
Her gaze lingered on the piano forte, her mind dangerously slipping to what happened yesterday.
She shook the wayward thoughts aside, determined not to think of Whitmore tonight.
She took a slow sip of her wine.
It had been a day since she’d seen he whom she should not name. Since the third shockingly good kiss. One that had made her want to wrap her legs about his waist and force him to stay. To have him continue the sweet, delectable seduction.
She had expected to feel relief after he left—anger, perhaps, at him kissing her so shamelessly yet again. Instead, she felt unmoored. Her mind replayed every look, every word, every glide of his tongue, his warm breath, his eyes that burned with fire. A fire that lit the one muffled within her.
The way he had pressed her against the bookshelf as if she were the only woman in the world he desired, then fled as though she were a plague he must escape.
It was for the best, she told herself. He did not wish to marry her. He had said as much in his own way. Better to accept his aversion and move on.
But her body did not quite believe what her mind insisted upon.
Damn the man.
An impromptu performance from Sir Alcott began. A gentleman reciting a sonnet about love’s endurance. His voice was trembling, his delivery far too earnest, and yet the words cut through her more keenly than she wished to admit.
Love that conquers all. Love that survives silence and pride.
She stared into her glass, feeling the room close around her. She had conquered nothing.
“Lady Isabella Ravensmere,” Mariah murmured near her side. “May I present Sir Alcott?”
She looked up to find a tanned, tall gentleman bowing before her. He was handsome in the clean, well-ordered way that society admired. Fair hair, clear eyes, not a wrinkle in his cravat. She smiled and inclined her head as he took the seat beside her.
“Lady Fairborne speaks highly of you,” he said. “She told me you were quite the musician when inclined.”
“I used to play, yes.”
“Will you again tonight?”
“I think not.”
He chuckled softly. “I suppose that is fortunate for the rest of us, then. We may enjoy without comparison.”
The comment was kind, and she returned his smile.
He was perfectly polite, perfectly interested, and perfectly uninteresting.
But polite conversation was safer than brooding, quick-witted remarks that sometimes cut.
She let him speak, nodding as he told her of his estate, his sister’s marriage, and his fondness for horses.
She did not expect the sudden hush that swept the room. The soft rustle of fans stilled. Some ladies in her sight turned their heads and without hesitation Isabella followed their gaze toward the doorway.
She felt the blood drain from her face.
Whitmore stood there, freshly arrived, gloves in hand.
Her heart stumbled.
He was not supposed to be here. This was a quiet evening, a small gathering among old friends. Why had he come?
He caught sight of her at once. Of course he did. His gaze swept the room, cool and assessing, until it landed on her—and held.
The air thickened. She felt every breath between them. Then he moved through the room, bowing to Mariah, exchanging a few polite words, before approaching where she sat.
“Lady Isabella,” he said evenly, though she saw the faint curl of mischief in his mouth. “How pleasant to see you here.”
“Lord Whitmore.” Her tone was as composed as she could manage, but she couldn’t help but feel he was up to something, and if not, soon would be. “I did not expect you to be in attendance.”
“Nor I, but Lord Pye over by the mantel is a good friend and wished for me to attend. I was under the impression this was to be an evening of poetry. I came prepared to be bored, but alas, the night has improved.”
“Then you’re easily entertained.”
His eyes glinted. “Is that a challenge?”
Sir Alcott cleared his throat beside her. “I was just telling Lady Isabella about my stables, Whitmore. Perhaps you’ve heard of my new mare—”
“I have,” Whitmore interrupted smoothly. “A fine creature. Though not as fine as the one Lady Isabella rides. I’ve never seen a horse obey so gracefully.”
“Perhaps it is the rider,” Alcott said with an amiable smile.
“Perhaps,” Whitmore replied, a small smile playing on his wicked mouth, his attention solely on her. She stared at his mouth, one she’d not stopped thinking about. She ground her teeth, wishing him anywhere but here.
“You gentlemen will frighten the poor creature with all your praise.”
“Do you speak of the horse or yourself?” Whitmore murmured.
“Whichever you prefer.” She forced a tight smile, wanting the subject to change.
Sir Alcott laughed, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent. How that was so, Isabella could not fathom.
“Ah, Mariah mentioned there may be a duet this evening,” Isabella said, watching a couple of guests seat themselves at the instrument, happy a diversion had presented itself. “This will be most entertaining.”
“If you say so,” Whitmore quipped, moving to stand beside her.
The pianists began, a lilting tune, gentle and romantic. Isabella fought not to be distracted, even though she could feel Whitmore watching her as she concentrated on the pianists.
She attempted to ignore him, to focus on the music, but his presence pressed against her like a physical caress.
The melody rose and fell, tender and aching.
Her chest tightened. It was ridiculous—mere notes, nothing more—and yet the echo of that kiss, the taste of whisky and sin, the heat of his hand against her jaw, his masculine, overwhelming body against her flesh.
Dear Lord she was a wanton.
She turned to Sir Alcott. “Will you excuse me? I need a moment, thank you.”
“Of course,” he said, rising at once and not questioning her absence. “I shall be here when you return.”
“How kind, thank you.”
She did not speak to Whitmore, merely moved toward the door and where she believed the retiring room was located.
She quickened her steps, needing solitude and a moment to breathe.
The house was smaller than most grand townhouses, the corridors narrow, the walls close.
She found a door at the end of the corridor and slipped inside, hoping for solitude.