“I did.”
“I don’t believe so.” Her mother frowned.
“Simply because I think fidelity is a sign of respect, does not mean I attach it to love, or the hope for love.” Isabel moved back toward her escritoire, where she had been working on menus and a guest list for her upcoming dinner.
“Bella, my sweet.” Her mother sighed, and returned to the chaise where she poured a cup of tea. “It is not in a husband’s nature to be faithful, especially handsome and charming husbands.”
“I wish they would not lie about it,” Isabel said crossly, shooting a glance at the portrait on the wall. “I asked Pelham if he loved me, if he would be true to me. He said,
“Even if they have the best of intentions, it is impossible for them to resist all the light-skirts who fall into their beds. Wishing for beautiful men to act against their nature will only lead to heartbreak.”
“Obviously I have no desire for Gray to act against his nature, or I would not be actively working toward procuring him a mistress.”
Isabel watched her mother drop three lumps of sugar and a ridiculous amount of cream into her tea. She shook her head when her mother lifted the pot in silent query.
“I fail to see why you do not enjoy his attentions while he is willing to give them to you. Good heavens, the way Lady Pershing-Moore persisted about his appearance, I think I would take him myself if he were interested.”
Closing her eyes, Isabel released a long-suffering sigh.
“You should take lessons from your brother, Bella. He is far more practical about such matters.”
“Most men are. Rhys would be no exception.”
“He has made a list of marriageable females and-”
“
“It’s perfect. Your father and I did the same, and look how happy we are.”
Isabel held her tongue.
“Is it tenderness for Hargreaves that holds you back?” her mother asked softly.
“I wish it were. This would be so much simpler.” Then she could disregard Gray’s sudden preoccupation with her, and deal with him the way she dealt with any overzealous swain-with a smile and a dash of humor. She found it very hard to smile and be humorous when her nipples ached and she was damp between the thighs.
“We rub along well, Gray and I. I like him, he’s great fun. I could live with great fun, Mother. For a lifetime. I could not live with a man who had wounded me in some fashion. I am softer than you, and bear scars from Pelham.”
“And you think finding Grayson a mistress will make him less appealing? No, don’t answer that, darling. I know you find attached men unattractive. An admirable scruple.” Her Grace rose, and came to her, setting her slender arm around her daughter’s waist and perusing the notes. “No, no. Not Lady Cartland.” She gave a delicate shudder. “I would wish a pox on a man before I’d wish her on him.”
Isabel laughed. “Very well.” She dipped the quill and drew a slash across the name. “Who then?”
“Was he not with someone when he left? Besides Emily Sinclair?”
“Yes…” Isabel thought for a moment. “Ah, I remember. Anne Bonner, an actress.”
“Invite her. He left for reasons other than boredom, so perhaps there is still something there.”
A sharp pang of loneliness took Isabel off guard, and her hand paused above the parchment long enough to create an ink drop. “Thank you, Mother,” she said softly, grateful, for once, to have her parent with her.
“Of course, Bella.” The duchess leaned over, and pressed their cheeks together. “What are mothers for, if not to help their daughters find mistresses for their husbands?”
Isabel lay on her bed and attempted to read, but nothing could hold her attention. It was just after ten, and she had remained at home as Gray had asked. The fact that he had not redeemed his requested boon was his error, and if he thought he could collect later, he was sorely mistaken. She would not be affording him the option again. Canceling her plans for one evening was enough of an imposition, especially when he didn’t have the courtesy to show up.
This was, of course, what she had hoped for, that he would find his pleasures elsewhere. This was exactly what she wanted. Everything was going well. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to hold a homecoming dinner after all. What a relief. She could set aside the planning, and direct her attentions to living her life as she had before her husband returned.
She released her breath, and considered retiring when she heard a sound from the boudoir. Surely it wasn’t excitement she felt, as she tossed aside the book. She was simply investigating. Anyone would if they heard strange noises in their suite.
Isabel ran into the next room, and threw open the hallway door. Then gaped.
“Hello, Pel,” Gray said, standing in the gallery in only his rolled-up shirtsleeves and trousers. Bare feet, bare throat, and bare forearms. With his thick, dark hair damp from a recent bath.
Dastardly.
“What do you want?” she grumbled, upset that he would come to her dressed, or undressed as the case may be, in that fashion.
He arched a brow, and lifted his arm, bringing a small basket up to her eye level. “Supper. You promised. You cannot withdraw now.”
She stepped back to allow him entry, and attempted to hide her blush. Failing to see the obvious basket because she was ogling him was mortifying. “You missed dinner.”
“I didn’t believe you would want me.” The double entendre was clear. He stepped into her room, and she could not help but breathe in his scent as he walked by. The size of her satin-draped boudoir shrank to embrace him, and enclosed them together. “Supper, however, was guaranteed.”
“Are your only pursuits those that are guaranteed?”
“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be here.” Gray sat on the floor by the low table, and opened the basket. “You shan’t chase me away with your ill-humor, Isabel. I waited all day for this meal, and I intend to enjoy it. If you’ve nothing charming to say to me, put one of these pheasant sandwiches in your mouth, and just let me look at you.”
She stared at him, and then he lifted his gaze and winked one of those blue eyes at her. Her descent to the floor was only partially due to courtesy. The rest was due to suddenly weak knees.
He pulled out two glasses and a bottle of wine. “You look lovely in pink satin.”
“I thought you reconsidered.” She lifted her chin. “So I changed.”
“No need to worry,” he said dryly. “I had no illusions that you dressed to entice me.”
“Rogue. Where have you been?”
“You never used to ask me that.”
Isabel had never cared before, but she would not say that aloud. “You used to volunteer information, now you share nothing.”
“Remington’s,” he said around a bite.
“All evening?”
He nodded, and reached for his glass.
“Oh.” She knew of the courtesans there. Remington’s was a bastion of male iniquity. “D-did you enjoy yourself?”
“You aren’t hungry?” he asked, ignoring the question.
Lifting her wine, she took a large swallow.
Gray laughed, the sound pouring over her like warm liquid. “That’s not food.”
She shrugged. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked again.
His look was pure exasperation. “I would not have stayed as long as I did if I were miserable.”
“Yes, of course.” He’d bathed, and changed his clothes. Isabel supposed she should be grateful that he did not come to her reeking of sex and perfume, as Pelham had done on several occasions. Her stomach roiled at the thought, though the image in her mind was of Grayson and not Pelham, and she moved up to the chaise, lying on her back to stare at the tented ceiling. “No. I am not hungry.”
A moment later she was inundated with the smell of Gray-that of starched linen and sandalwood soap. He sat on the floor beside her, and caught up her hand in his own.
