“Who can it be, to set you so ill at ease?” she asked, though she feared and hoped for the answer in equal measure.
Her scarf, gloves, reticule, and hat came next.
“It is a fine lady,” Betsy said, sotto voce, casting a pointed glance in the direction of the salon. “Lady Callie Manning, or so I think she said.”
Ah, not the Duke of Westmorland at all, but rather his sister.
How she hated the surge of disappointment that news caused within her.
She reached up, settling some stray tendrils of hair back into place, before glancing down at her serviceable dove-gray day gown. There was no hope for it—she was dressed for winter and for the truth of her position. She was the owner of a school, not a fine lady as Betsy had so rightly defined Lady Callie. Their stations in life were worlds apart by intention and necessity as well.
“Thank you, Betsy,” she said. “Is she in the front salon?”
“Aye, Miss Hilgrove, she is.” Betsy nodded, her countenance serious. “I brought her some tea and biscuits while she waited.”
“Thank you, Betsy.” She patted her maid’s arm gently, for Betsy was easily excitable and eager to please. Ladies high in the instep made her fretful. “That will be all. I will ring for you if I need you.”
A sudden rush of trepidation hit her, making her pause. The last time she had seen the duke’s sister, Lady Callie had caught her in Westmorland’s embrace, hair tumbling down her back. She had behaved disgracefully, and she knew it. Her only excuse was that he affected her in a way she had never experienced. He took her by surprise, stole her breath and her wits at once.
But there was no avoiding the inevitable reckoning she must now face. On a deep, fortifying breath, Isabella made her way to the salon, where Lady Callie awaited her. True to form, the duke’s sister was not calmly sitting and sipping tea, however. She was wandering about the small room, which Isabella had taken care in decorating with a combination of antiquities and oddities she had collected over the years.
Lady Callie’s lovely face brightened with genuine pleasure as Isabella crossed the threshold. “Isabella!”
“My lady,” she greeted, dipping into a curtsey as her cheeks warmed.
“None of that ceremony.” Lady Callie made a dismissive gesture and crossed the chamber to her. “I insist you call me Callie, as always. I still count you my newest friend, after all.”
“Forgive me, my lady, but I do not see how you can possibly consider me worthy of your friendship.”
It seemed impossible after Isabella’s own lack of honor back in that library at Westmorland House. Thoughts of her wanton display made her ears burn. Deep inside, she tamped down the knowledge that, save for Callie’s timely interruption, Isabella would likely have allowed the duke greater liberties than those he had taken.
“What is this silliness?” Callie swept her into a light, perfumed embrace before stepping back, her hands clasping Isabella’s. “Your hands are so cold, my dear. Come and have some tea to warm you, closer to the fire. It is I who must beg your forgiveness for calling without sending a note first. But I must confess I feared you would decline to see me if I gave warning.”
Isabella allowed herself to be led to the stuffed chairs and tray-laden table where tea was ready to be poured. She sat opposite the duke’s sister, settling her skirts. Callie was not wrong in her assumption.
“I am sorry,” she managed past the shame choking her. “My conduct was disgraceful. Indeed, you should not know me.”
“My brother’s conduct was disgraceful.” Callie’s lips pinched as she paused. “Not yours. And it is I who must beg forgiveness. I thought to do a spot of matchmaking between the two of you, but I expected better of Benny.”
“Matchmaking?” The word emerged from her as a squeak. “His Grace? And myself? Surely you jest. A duke and a lady typewriter do not walk in the same worlds, my lady. You have but to look around this room to see the evidence of that.”
Lady Callie poured tea, seizing control of the moment. “I dearly long for my brother to make a woman of substance his wife. I thought to perhaps influence him in his choice, but it was wrong of me. I did not anticipate what happened in the library. I do humbly ask for your pardon. Do you take sugar in your tea?”
Isabella blinked, taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. “Yes, please.”
She was still struggling to make sense of the notion that the elegant lady across from her would have been attempting to play matchmaker betwixt herself and the Duke of Westmorland. A more egregious mésalliance could hardly be contemplated.
Lady Callie raised a brow. “Cream?”
“No, thank you.” She accepted the cup and saucer from the duke’s sister. “I confess a bit of confusion on my part, my lady. Is your visit here a social call, or is it rooted in a misplaced sense of guilt? If so, I can assure you, I have not given the unfortunate incident at Westmorland House further thought.”
What a horrid lie that was. She thought of it every other breath, it seemed. Longed for it to repeated with a fervor equal to the self-loathing she inevitably chased it with.
“No more formality, if you please. It is to be Callie only, from this moment forward.” The duke’s sister took a sip of her own tea, pinning Isabella with a searching gaze. “We are already friends, are we not? The reason for my visit to you today is twofold. First, I wanted to apologize, of course, on behalf of Benny. Though he did mention he sent round an apology, along with the notice in the Times.”
She supposed he had, but Isabella had not bothered to read the note accompanying her school’s endorsement from the
