Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
Whitmore woke early the following day, the pale morning light slipping through a crack in the curtains and cutting across his bed.
His head pounded, though unfortunately not from drink.
His body felt leaden, as if sleep had failed to wash the night from him.
He dragged a hand down his face and sat up slowly, the linen sheets tangled around his legs.
The faint scent of rain still clung to the room, or perhaps that was only his imagination.
He closed his eyes and sighed, still tasting her on his lips.
He cursed under his breath, swung his feet to the Aubusson rug, and sat there for a long moment with his elbows on his knees.
The fire had burned low. A tray sat untouched near the hearth, coffee cooling beside his breakfast his valet must have brought.
He moved over to where his breakfast sat and took up the beverage and swallowed, grimacing at the cool bitterness.
The night before replayed in his mind whether he wished it or not.
Isabella Ravensmere, sitting on the billiard table, the lamplight glinting off her hair, her breath quick and shallow as she gave herself to him and then promptly told him to leave.
Her lips—soft, angry, willing. He had kissed her like a man possessed.
Like one determined to prove he felt nothing, that he could indulge with her without consequences, and in doing so had proven he was an idiot.
“You’re in love with her,” he muttered. The words sounded absurd in the stillness. Love was not a thing for men like him. Desire, yes. Infatuation, often. But love required an honesty he had long forgotten how to wield.
He crossed to the window, pushing aside the curtain.
Outside, the street bustled with midday noise—vendors shouting, wheels clattering, the faint clip of hooves over wet cobblestone.
London was awake, indifferent to his turmoil.
Somewhere out there, Isabella would be as well.
Perhaps she sat with her sister over tea, discussing the next ball, or the day at Richmond that was happening today, laughing over something her sisters had done.
He wondered if she laughed easily this morning, or if she too carried the ache that had settled behind his ribs.
He turned away sharply, dragging on his shirt and coat, hoisting his breeches on without care.
He could not sit here stewing in memory like some moonstruck fool.
Movement might dull the thoughts clawing through him.
By the time he descended the stairs, the butler had opened his mouth to ask whether the carriage should be readied.
“No,” Whitmore said quickly, pulling on his gloves. “I’m going for a walk.”
The air outside was sharp enough to clear his head, though it did nothing to ease the restless energy coursing through him.
He cut across Mayfair, boots splashing through shallow puddles.
Where the hell had summer gone? Every street corner reminded him of her—Bond Street, where he had once seen her buying ribbons with her sister.
Hyde Park, where she rode often with her infernally perfect mare he’d like for his own stables.
He should have gone there now, if only to assure himself she was well, that she would still speak to him after hightailing it out of the rout they attended last night without so much as a goodbye.
But what right did he have to do so? She ought to be mad at him, disappointed. He certainly was.
Hartley strode along Curzon Street without direction, the damp air chilling his skin.
He should have gone home, but the restless energy in his chest refused to quiet.
Every step only sharpened the unease gnawing at him—something between guilt, longing, and irritation that she occupied so much of his mind.
By the time he reached his townhouse again, he had walked near two miles and felt no more settled than before. The butler met him in the hall, eyebrows raised.
“My lord, a note has arrived from the Duke of Ravensmere. The servants await your response.”
He tore the seal open, scanning the neat handwriting.
He and the duchess were inquiring if he was attending the outing to Richmond today.
There would be picnicking, a stroll by the brook, polite laughter, and conversation he could not abide.
Yet the thought of Isabella among the company tightened something deep within his chest. He told himself he might attend simply to prove he could behave with sense.
To prove that last night had meant nothing.
That she meant nothing.
He tossed the note onto a table. “Tell them I’ll join the party.”
An hour later his horse was brought round, the glossy bay stamping impatiently on the cobbles. Whitmore swung into the saddle, the familiar leather creak grounding him. He needed the wind in his face, the distance from London’s confining streets.
The party assembled near Hyde Park Gate—carriages gleaming, servants bustling, ladies bright as spring flowers despite the dull sky.
He spotted Ravensmere’s distinctive coach at once.
The duke and duchess stood beside it, exchanging greetings with friends.
Isabella was nowhere to be seen—until she stepped down from another carriage with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat.
She wore a gown of pale yellow trimmed with blue ribbons, the color of sunlight. Annoyance took hold as she came to stand beside Lord Lennox, tall and insufferably polished, offering his arm as though she belonged there.
Whitmore’s fingers tightened around his reins.
He reminded himself she could do as she pleased. She owed him nothing. But as she laughed—softly, politely—at something Lennox said, Whitmore felt an unreasonable surge of dislike for the man’s entire existence.
“Whitmore,” Ravensmere greeted him with a knowing smile. “You look half in the mood for trouble. Good of you to join us. We ride to Richmond at once.”
“Of course. I would not miss it,” he said, forcing civility. He bowed to the duchess, whose perceptive eyes missed little, then turned to find Isabella already stepping into an open-air carriage—Lord Lennox at her side.
The journey began pleasantly enough. The morning mist lifted as they left the city to reveal a stretch of green countryside, dotted with grazing cattle and the occasional cottage roof glinting in the light.
The party was in high spirits. Laughter drifted from the carriages, ribbons fluttered in the breeze.
Whitmore tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous, that her enjoyment was a good thing.
It lasted until the road curved near a slope thick with brambles. A sudden crack split the air—wood, unmistakably—and the lead carriage lurched.
“Hold!” someone shouted. Horses whinnied in alarm.
Whitmore’s stomach heaved with dread and his instincts kicked in before thought. He spurred forward his horse as the wheel splintered, and the carriage listed sharply to the side. A woman screamed. The vehicle pitched into the ditch with a sickening thud.
He was off his horse and at the wreck before the commotion settled. Ravensmere’s coachman joined him, pale and shouting orders for more assistance. Whitmore ignored him, wrenching the carriage door open and reaching inside.
“Isabella!”
Her name tore from him without permission. Inside, confusion reigned—gowns tangled, hat feathers crushed, one footman trying to calm the panicked horses. Lord Lennox coughed, dazed, rubbing his temple.
But Isabella—
She sat half-sprawled on the opposite seat, eyes wide, one glove torn, a faint line of blood along her temple where she must have struck the frame.
Whitmore climbed in, his heart pounding. “Are you hurt?”
She blinked at him, stunned. “I—no, I do not think so.”
He touched her chin lightly, tilting her face toward the light.
The sight of that small wound sent a rush of heat through his chest that had nothing to do with anger.
He wanted to throttle the coachman, the maker of the wheel, the entire blasted countryside for placing a rut on the road. Anything to undo that mark.
“You’ve injured yourself,” he muttered. “Stay still.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing gently at the blood. His hand trembled.
“Whitmore, really,” she said softly, attempting to smile. “It is only a scratch.”
He didn’t answer. The sound of her voice undid him. He’d thought he could bear seeing her with another man, but this—the sight of her pale and shaken, wounded—was intolerable.
The duchess appeared at the door. “Oh, my dearest, is everyone well? Please tell me you’re unhurt?”
“Yes,” Isabella called, steady now. “All is well.”
Whitmore lingered a moment longer, unable to move. Her eyes—clear, green, and still a little unfocused—found his. Something passed between them, silent and heavy as the air after a storm.
“Come,” he said finally, his voice rough. “You should get out. The carriage is at an angle.”
He reached for her hand before he realized what he was doing. Her fingers slipped into his, small and cold. He guided her out, steadying her as she descended the broken step. When her foot wobbled, he caught her around the waist without thinking and slipped her into his arms.
The scent of her hair—roses, always roses—hit him squarely in the chest. He didn’t breathe for a moment, terrified she might see everything he felt written across his face.
That he loved her. That he didn’t know what to do with that realization, but knew it would change him forever whatever his choice was going forward.
Lord Lennox appeared from the vehicle, adjusting his coat as if he’d suffered but a small inconvenience. “Lady Isabella, I do apologize.”
“It was not your fault,” she said, although her voice held a tremor. Whitmore slipped her back onto her feet, already missing the feel of her in his arms.
“Thank heaven,” Lennox said, offering her his arm again. Whitmore wanted to strike him. Where the hell was the man going to take her? Walk her the rest of the way to Richmond? Even so, he forced himself to step aside and wait and see what his plan was.
Ravensmere was giving orders to the servants, directing repairs, his calm competence restoring order. The duchess moved back to her carriage, insisting to those who accompanied the party that Lady Isabella would be well.
Whitmore stood slightly apart, arms crossed, watching Isabella. She reassured the duchess, even laughed softly to dispel the worry in her sister’s eyes, but he saw how her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking.
When the duke turned to him with a query about the horses, Whitmore answered absently. His focus never from her.
He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Ravensmere glanced sharply at him. “What was that?”
“I said,” Whitmore replied, clearing his throat, “the road’s uneven. Best not attempt to move the injured carriage until we’ve procured another wheel from town.”
Ravensmere’s brow furrowed, but before he could comment, Isabella swayed slightly. Whitmore took several quick steps and was beside her in an instant. “Easy,” he said, gripping her elbows. “You’ve lost color.”
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “It was just—sudden, that is all.”
“You’re not fine.” His tone came out sharper than intended, drawing attention from the others.
The duchess joined them. “Isabella?”
“She’s well,” Whitmore said quickly, lowering his voice. “Just shaken, but I believe she ought to return home.”
He meant to step back then, but she wavered again, and instinct overruled propriety. He caught her fully, one arm around her waist steadying her. She gasped, her gloved hand clutching at his lapel.
Every eye was on them. He didn’t care.
“Open the carriage door,” he ordered a nearby footman. “The Ravensmere coach. Quickly, man.”
The servant blinked at his tone but nodded. “Yes, yes, of course, my lord.”
Hartley scooped Isabella up before she could protest, ignoring the startled murmurs that followed. She weighed nothing in his arms, her cheek brushing his shoulder as she whispered his name—soft, disbelieving.
“Put me down, Hartley,” she murmured.
“Not a chance.” His jaw was tight. “You’re pale as death.”
Her fingers curled weakly into his coat. “You’ll start gossip.”
“Let them talk,” he said without hesitation. The words slipped out before he could recall them. He felt her breath hitch against his chest, and something in his heart twisted painfully.
When he reached the ducal coach, he set her gently on the ground, helping her climb in before following, crouching before her. The tiny cut on her temple had already dried, but he reached up again, brushing a loose curl from her face.
“Are you certain you’re unharmed?”
She looked at him, her voice low. “You are making rather a scene.”
“Good,” he said. “Perhaps someone will finally believe I am capable of caring for more than myself.”
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. The duchess’s voice called from behind, brisk and readying the party to return to town, and the moment broke.
Whitmore left the vehicle and adjusted his coat. Ravensmere clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve done us all a service, Whitmore. Thank you.”
He nodded stiffly, turning away before anyone could read his face. His heart still pounded, his hands still tingled from the feel of her.
She was safe. That was all that mattered.
He told himself that as he mounted his horse, as the servants made ready to turn the party homeward. He told himself again when he saw her glance from the carriage window, meeting his eyes for the briefest instant before she looked away.
But even as he rode back to London, rain beginning to threaten once more, he knew the truth—he would never forget that moment. Not her blood on her temple. Not her name breaking from his throat before sense or propriety could stop him.
And certainly not the terrifying, unshakable knowledge he could have lost her, and it would have destroyed him.