Chapter 6

6

Isabella was sorry for his distress. In fact, she was sorrier than she could have imagined and sorrier than she should have been since the gentleman could mean nothing to her except that he was attractive enough, and had agreed to… what he had agreed to. There was no reason at all why the news of his love for another should feel just for a moment like a blow to the chest. No.

In fact, she should be pleased – she was pleased. Not that he was sad and suffering the pangs of unrequited love, obviously: poor man. But if he loved another, would always love her and nobody else, would go to his grave dreaming of her, et cetera, et cetera, he couldn't possibly become over-attached to Isabella herself, and that could only be a good thing. Clearly. She didn't have a very high opinion of her own charms and hadn't really considered previously that the man of her choice might fall in love with her, which would lead to all sorts of awkwardness, but it occurred to her now that it was at least possible. Ash had, almost at first sight, after all, despite being a duke's son and a major, and one of the handsomest and most dashing men in Yorkshire.

Banishing the thought of Ash and of their courtship firmly from her mind, she said, ‘That must be very awkward.'

He seemed distracted. ‘I'm sorry?'

‘Being in love with your cousin's wife, I mean. You're staying with them, aren't you? It must be torture. Seeing her every day.'

‘It is. Torture. Yes. I am undergoing a form of torment.'

He was terse. Clearly, he did not want to speak more of his deepest feelings, and she could not blame him. ‘I promise you I will not refer to the matter again, just as we will not speak of my husband. We are both in the same case, are we not?'

‘I suppose we are,' he said hollowly. And then, ‘I have stayed too long, I think, for a mere visit of courtesy, and should leave you.'

‘That's true,' she replied with an unconscious little sigh. ‘I will pass on your gift and your message to Lady Blanche. Do you mean to attend the Singletons' party tomorrow night? We do, for Mrs Singleton is a bosom bow of Blanche's.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I believe we shall be going. I understand that Mrs Singleton's sister-in-law, Lady Silverwood, is Cassandra's… Lady Irlam's oldest friend from Yorkshire.'

‘What a curious coincidence that is. The world is very small, is it not?' He agreed that it was. ‘I shall see you there, then, sir.'

‘You will.' He bowed over her hand. ‘I presume you mean to… to advance your list on that occasion. I don't know how you will contrive…'

‘Leave it to me,' she said. ‘I know the house; we have paid morning calls there.'

He smiled faintly. ‘You are very organised and determined.'

‘I mean to be.'

He bowed over her hand and was gone; Isabella sat in silent reflection. The interview had passed off as well as she could have hoped, and, although she felt a little flustered in its aftermath, it was only the natural reaction to a tense encounter. He had been quite right to leave when he did.

Her feline companion awoke as the door closed, yawning hugely and regarding her with large eyes that were, she saw now, a striking shade of green. Lady Irlam's eyes were much the same colour, she remembered, not boring brown like her own.

He loved Lady Irlam, and it was perfectly understandable that he should. She was short in stature, like Isabella, but of a very different build, slight and delicate, with short red curls. Fairy-like. Ethereal. Nobody had ever likened Isabella to a fairy, that was certain, nor would they, not even a Yorkshire fairy. Was that what he liked? They were two women very different in appearance and… endowments. Would that be a problem, as the list progressed?

She chided herself for folly; if she knew anything at all, she knew that he had enjoyed kissing her last night. It was not possible for a man to feign such a reaction. She shivered as she remembered it: his arms tight about her, his mouth on hers, the pleasure-dazed darkness of his eyes, the hot hardness of his body against hers, his gasp when she had bitten his lip. No, he desired her, she was sure of it. A man could be attracted to more than one type of woman, just as a woman, such as she, for instance, could be attracted to more than one type of man. This was undeniable.

Tomorrow she would go apart with him and they would kiss, but more deeply. She replaced the empty Sèvres saucer carefully on the tray and picked up the kitten. He did not seem to take exception to her hold as he had to Captain Winterton's, and did not sink his teeth into her; she did not venture to put him back in the bandbox to which he had so greatly objected, but cradled him against her bosom. A bosom which, she could not help thinking, was considerably more substantial than that of Lady Irlam; again, she had not received the impression that this difference was in any way disagreeable to the Captain. When he had said he would like to see her with her hair about her shoulders, she had thought that he did not truly mean shoulders, but was afraid to say precisely what he did mean. But he would.

She suddenly felt more cheerful and thought she would rather enjoy seeing Hodge's face when he realised the precise nature of the gift the Duchess had bestowed upon the household. ‘Come along, Billy Biter,' she said, tickling him gently under his miniature chin with her free hand as he lay comfortably curled against her warmth. He was purring. ‘I have some introductions to make, lad.'