Sophie Barnes
Page 18
Instead, she would live out the remainder of her days knowing what she might only otherwise have suspected—that her marriage was lacking in a very key element. “This was a mistake,” she said, turning her back on Anthony and walking across to where her basket was lying crooked on the floor.
“How can you say that?” he asked. “Don’t you know how incredible this was? You cannot possibly tell me that you can walk away and forget this ever happened.”
She turned back to face him, the anger she felt coiling around her until she feared she might explode. “No. I cannot forget. That is the problem, you idiot. I will forever know what I am missing now.”
He looked back at her in disbelief. “You’re still going to marry him,” he said as if it was the most absurd thing he could think of.
“Of course I am. My parents won’t let me marry you, and even if they did, I’m not entirely sure I’d be willing to subject my father to the sort of humiliation he’d surely face at the prospect of telling Mr. Roberts that his suit is no longer wanted. And that is without considering that you just tried to force my hand by turning my own body against me.”
He came toward her in one brisk stride, grabbing her by the arms before she had a chance to pull away. Startled, she met his fiery gaze. “Don’t you dare pretend as if you didn’t like it,” he ground out.
“Of course I liked it,” she said as she clenched her jaw and balled her hands into two tight fists. “The problem is that you methodically seduced me in the most calculating way and with no thought of anyone but yourself. You knew I’d be putty in your hands. You knew that I would be unable to turn you away and that I would have allowed you to do as you wished without thought for the consequences. I didn’t, because no one has ever made me feel the way you do—as if nothing else exists but you. Except now the moment is gone and I have to face reality again, only now it’s worse thanks to you. You should have stopped when I still had the will to say no.”
“Perhaps,” he acquiesced. “And I would have if you had repeated the request or even sounded more convincing. But then you started begging for more and I . . . I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
A sad laughter erupted from Isabella’s throat.
Overstepped?
You could say that again.
“Please let me go,” she said, tugging a little at her arms. He released her slowly and with obvious reluctance, and she bent down to pick up her basket.
“I should have compromised you completely,” he muttered, taking what little calm she’d retained and snapping it in two.
Rising to her feet with her basket in hand, she resisted the urge to strike him and glared back at him with pure fury instead. “How dare you!”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No, I don’t believe you are. You were a rake once, so I don’t believe it would be beneath you to take a woman’s innocence if it served your own agenda.” She watched as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, but he didn’t respond, so she turned away instead.
“The gown,” he suddenly said. “The one you wore to the ball. Where did you get it?”
Pausing in the doorway, she looked steadily back at him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I’m just curious, considering that it did seem rather expensive and—”
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “My mother bought it a long time ago, from a peddler, if you must know.” She refused to allow him to see just how humiliating she found this admission, for it only served to compound how different her world was from his. Keeping her back rigid, she raised her chin before saying, “If that is all, I have some flowers that I must deliver to my aunt, and if it’s not too much trouble, I should like to ask that you refrain from contacting me again. I hope that you will respect at least that much.” And then she left.
Anthony stood there for a long moment just watching the door through which she’d departed. If he could only hang himself up under the rafters and give himself a good flogging. He’d acted abominably and completely without thought for what she would think or of what the consequences might be.
It hadn’t been his intention for it to turn out the way it had, but he’d stupidly allowed himself to get carried away. What the hell was he going to do now? He’d turned a difficult situation into an unsalvageable one. It was a mess, and he was to blame. He was the one who had taken a moment that should have been precious to both of them and used it as a means by which to prove his superiority over Mr. Roberts—and in the most primitive way possible. He was a cad—a complete and utter cad—and he loathed himself.
Grumbling a string of self-deprecating oaths, he strode across the floor, yanked the door open and stepped out into the sunshine. He didn’t even bother to look for Isabella, knowing well enough that she would be long gone by now. Christ, he needed a drink, and then he would find his mother and confess everything. That was precisely the sort of punishment he deserved after acting so despicably, though on second thought an account of his escapade would surely offend his mother’s sensibilities. Perhaps he’d talk to Winston instead. Yes, Winston would give him the proper lashing he deserved—he was absolutely certain of it.
Chapter 18
Isabella started at the sound of someone knocking on her bedroom door. It had been two days since she’d walked away from Anthony after their tryst in the barn, the thought of which still sent waves of heat rushing through her. Blasted man. She’d arrived home after delivering the daffodils to her aunt and had immediately removed herself to her room, too angry to enjoy the company of even her own family.
“Enter,” she said, expecting to see Marjorie carrying a tray of food or tea or some other substance meant to soothe her.
To her astonishment, the door opened to reveal her father instead, his expression most grave as he glanced around the small space she inhabited before meeting her gaze. “It can’t possibly be good for you to remain cooped up in here,” he said. “I’d like you to come and join us for supper.”
“Thank you, Papa, but I fear I must decline. You see, I’m not feeling at all well and would much rather remain in bed.” However, her voice did not sound weak, as it should have if she’d truly been ailing, but clipped with frustration instead.
“I see,” he muttered. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t suppose this decline in health would have anything to do with a certain duke?”
“Not at all,” Isabella murmured, hoping he’d believe her.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, right on cue.
Isabella sighed. “I never should have gone to that ball,” she said as she pulled a blanket across her shoulders and nodded toward a chair, prompting her father to sit, which he did. “Now I . . .” She shook her head. “Everything’s such a terrible mess, Papa.”
Her father expelled a deep breath. “You really like him, don’t you?” he asked.
Isabella reluctantly nodded. As angry as she still was with Anthony’s seduction, she couldn’t deny what was in her heart.
“And you don’t care much for Mr. Roberts at all, do you?” he pressed.
“Not in the least,” she confessed, not daring to look her father in the eye—afraid of the disappointment she’d see there.
“Then the situation isn’t very complicated at all, my love,” her father said.
“Of course it is,” she said, more confused than ever by his change of stance. “I am forced to marry a man I don’t particularly like because I cannot marry the man I do like. How can you say that’s not a muddle of the worst possible kind?”
Her father nodded. “You’re right. Your mother and I have made your life quite difficult. It wasn’t our intention—I hope you know that.”
“I do,” she said, wishing he’d go away and leave her in peace. She had little desire to talk about Anthony or Mr. Roberts right now. If only she could forget them both.
“If it’s any consolation, I believe the duke cares very deeply for you.”
“Careful, Isabella,” her father warned. “I won’t have you insulting your mother when you know nothing of what she’s been through. You have no idea what she’s had to suffer.”
He rose and walked toward her, looking angrier than she’d ever seen him before. It was so unlike him, and she instinctively shrank back against her pillow. “Forgive me, Papa, I didn’t mean—”
“You may think your mother harsh and demanding, but she loves you more deeply than you can possibly imagine. She would lay down her life for you in a heartbeat, Isabella. Whatever you may think, she would never try to stand between you and your happiness.”
“Then why won’t she let the duke court me? I know it’s not you preventing him from doing so.”
“Because she’s afraid you’ll get hurt!”
Isabella stared back at her father as if he’d been a complete stranger. He looked so impassioned as he stood there towering over her, defending her mother as if his life depended on it, and it dawned on her then, in the dim light that her bedroom had to offer, that she might not know her parents as well as she thought. “Why would she be afraid of that?” she asked in a low whisper.
Her father straightened himself and stepped back. “That is not for me to say.”
“But I—”
“I will talk to her, Isabella.”
“But that won’t stop Mr. Roberts from turning against us. He’ll never forgive any of us if I deny him now. You could lose your job.”
“Let’s deal with your mother first and with Mr. Roberts later,” her father said as he reached for the doorknob. He paused and added, “Perhaps you’re right—perhaps it would be best if you remained up here for the remainder of the evening. I’ll ask Marjorie to fix a plate for you. Tomorrow, though, you’re leaving the house—you need some fresh air, Isabella, and more importantly, you need to face your problems head-on.”
“I love you, Papa,” she whispered as the door closed behind him. She’d always wondered at her mother’s relentless criticism of the aristocracy, for it had always been clear that it had nothing to do with envy. Considering what her father had said, as well as everything he’d left unsaid, she couldn’t help but wonder if it might have something to do with the gown Isabella had worn to the ball.
Her mother had said that she’d bought it from a peddler, but what if that wasn’t true? The more Isabella contemplated it, the more unlikely she found it. A thought struck her. Oh God! What if her mother had once been somebody’s mistress? What if some earl or marquess had bought it for her—a favor in return for . . . Isabella swallowed hard, not daring herself to think such reprehensible things about her own mother. No, there had to be some other explanation that Isabella wasn’t seeing. She could only hope that her father would somehow be able to convince her mother that it wasn’t reason enough to prevent her daughter’s happiness.
Determined to do as her father had asked, Isabella left her house the following morning and headed toward Main Street. Clouds had begun gathering in the sky, but Isabella felt confident that if it rained, it wouldn’t be until much later in the day. Having spent a great deal of the previous evening thinking about what her life with Mr. Roberts would be like in comparison with what Anthony promised her, she’d decided to venture over to Browning & Co, the local bookshop. If Mr. Roberts meant to put a ban on reading, then she in turn had every intention of enjoying something by the scandalous Mary Wollstonecraft before saying her nuptials.
Stepping inside to the sound of a tinkling bell, she quickly surveyed the space, noting the elegant signs that marked the various categories along the bookshelves. Four large bookcases stood back to back in the center of the room, and Isabella was just about to advance on one of them when a short, gray-haired man stepped in front of her and said, “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I . . . er . . . that is . . .” The man raised an eyebrow in anticipation of her response. Drat. She didn’t wish to tell him what she was looking for, since he’d probably disapprove. Taking courage in the face of his assessing stare, she squared her shoulders and said, “No, thank you—I merely wish to browse.”
He didn’t budge. “I am sure you would, miss.” He gave her a patronizing smile that she didn’t care for in the least. “However, I do have a rather great appreciation for order, and since this is your first visit to my shop, I fear I cannot allow you to roam around unchaperoned.”
Isabella gaped at him. “You think I will make a mess of your cataloging?”
His smile broadened. “Precisely.”
“Why, that’s preposterous!”
“Nonetheless,” the man continued. He gave her a pointed look. “If you would please tell me what you’re looking for, I shall be more than happy to find it for you.”
Isabella clamped her mouth shut in annoyance. It seemed that wherever she turned, a man would be there instructing her on what to do. It was maddening. Well, she wasn’t about to tell this little gnat that she desired to buy a book—any book—by that Wollstonecraft woman, so she shook her head instead and said, “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. In fact, I—”
“You really ought to stop scaring off your customers like that, Mr. Browning. It’s terribly bad for business.”
Isabella’s heart leapt into her throat and she cringed. Kingsborough. Turning her head, she saw him stepping out from behind one of the large bookcases, looking as handsome as ever in a dark brown suede jacket, beige breeches and shiny black Hessians. His eyes met hers, and he smiled a cheeky smile that immediately had her reaching out to a nearby table on which to steady herself, except her hand missed its mark and she dropped to the floor instead. Blast his dashing good looks. He would have no choice but to think her a complete nitwit now.
He was beside her in a second. “Are you quite all right?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. He was probably frowning too, though she wouldn’t know, since her eyes were squeezed tightly shut in a hopeless attempt to ignore him. After all, the last time he’d seen her she’d been most indecent and he’d been . . . She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
“Please go away,” she whispered.
“And leave you alone here, in distress and with no one but Mr. Browning to tend to you? Highly unlikely.”
She felt his firm hand beneath her elbow, urging her upward until she was once again standing on her own two feet. Opening her eyes with a gradual slowness, she found Anthony staring down at her with a bit too much of a twinkle in his eyes. “Whatever makes you think I need tending to? I’m not some feeble female who cannot take care of herself.”
He leaned toward her and whispered for only her to hear, “Come now, Bella, you practically swooned at the sight of me.”
Oh, God!
“Mr. Browning,” he then added before she had a chance to respond, “I shall personally see to it that Miss Chilcott here stays out of mischief and that she doesn’t meddle with your order. This way if you please, Miss Chilcott.”
With a muttered apology directed at Mr. Browning, who stood shaking his head—though he clearly lacked the nerve required to argue with a duke—Isabella allowed Anthony to lead her around the sturdy bookcases until they were shielded from anyone else who might enter the shop.
“Before we go any further,” Anthony said, lacking all indication of his jovial demeanor from a moment earlier, “I would like to express my sincerest apologies. The way I . . .” He dropped
his tone to a whisper. “The way I behaved toward you the other day was deplorable. Please know that there was no ill intent on my part, but that I simply got carried away. It was wrong—doubly so because I used it as a means to try and bind you to me. I’m sorry, truly I am, and can only hope that you will forgive me.”
She knew she was probably blushing from head to toe as she stared back at him. It was true that he’d taken her by surprise, but he hadn’t forced her in any way—if anything, she had encouraged him, and while she’d been angry and confused in the wake of it all, she’d had time to consider how both of them had behaved and had concluded that it would be unfair to place the blame on his shoulders alone. “We were both at fault,” she said. “So there is really nothing to forgive.”
He blinked, looking doubtful at first, but then another expression took its place, and Isabella recognized it as relief. Though she hadn’t yet admitted to herself that she loved him, she acknowledged it then, in that brief moment as he silently told her without the use of words just how worried he’d been that he’d lost her.
She was still coming to terms with the notion as he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a kiss. “Thank you,” he said, his voice a further reflection of his appreciation. He straightened, regarded her for a moment, then said, “Now then, why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for so I can help you find it?”
Deciding that now was as good a time as any to determine where the duke stood on women’s rights and whether or not he would consider her an equal, Isabella primly told him, “Anything really, as long as it is by Mary Wollstonecraft.”
Silence.
Isabella shifted on her feet while Anthony just stood there staring back at her, leading her to deduce that she must have truly shocked him. But, just when she thought he’d tell her not to waste her time on such nonsense, he tilted his head instead and said, “Right. Mary Wollstonecraft it is then, though I don’t believe you’ll find any of her books here. Mr. Browning doesn’t seem like the sort who’d approve.