Doing so was impossible, and he knew it. She was not the sort of woman who accepted being a lover or a mistress. And he was not the sort of man who could offer her marriage. The unhappy union of his parents had left him jaded. Besides, the burdens of his duty to the Special League and to Callie left him too preoccupied to fret over matters of the heart.
Or at least, they had. Now, he was not entirely sure.
Yes, he told himself. He was damned sure. As certain as he could be of anything.
Why, then, did the notion of never again seeing Miss Hilgrove, of never marrying, leave him feeling so strangely hollow? He had not been struck by such emptiness, such listlessness, since Alfred’s death.
The hansom stopped.
“Seems to be a lot of carriages up ahead, Your Grace,” the driver announced.
Bloody fucking hell. If Callie was having another goddamn ball, he was going to send her to a convent.
“Stop here,” he gritted. “I will walk the pavements the rest of the way.”
For the second time in less than a fortnight, he descended from a conveyance before the Earl of Pendrake’s house. For the second time in less than a fortnight, he was also certain his sister was the cause of the jam of carriages up ahead.
This time, he circumvented the fashionable crush pouring beneath the portico of Westmorland House. Instead, he entered through the gardens. His mood was poor, the cause of too much unsatisfied desire and too much worry and responsibility. He had no wish to don a false smile and play the host tonight as he had at her last monstrosity of a ball. Moreover, there was every chance that Roberta would be present, and he had no wish to fend off overtures.
It had become painfully apparent to him that Roberta was not the woman he wanted.
He approached a gate in the rear where one of the plainly clothed officers from Scotland Yard was stationed as part of efforts to keep the periphery of Westmorland House secure. After the London Bridge and Gower Street Station bombings, and acting upon credible intelligence from double agents, no one was taking chances. Least of all Benedict. Bombs had been laid at the homes of members of parliament and members of the Home Office in the last few months.
No one was safe.
“Hughes,” he greeted.
“Your Grace.” The officer tugged at his cap in a show of respect. “You were not expected back just yet.”
“Clearly,” he said dryly, unable to keep the irritation from his tone. “Have you any idea what manner of affair Lady Calliope has planned this evening?”
“A conjurer, or some such, sir. I believe the intent is to raise funds for the Spanish earthquake relief.”
Devil take her. It was an excellent cause, the minx. But she damned well could have asked permission before she had invited all London to watch some fellow perform a handful of magic tricks.
“Thank you, Hughes,” he said. “I will be entering through the garden door that leads into the side hall. I will see that it is secured upon my entrance.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” With another nod, Hughes went back to minding the perimeter.
Benedict found his way through the garden and to the side door. He retrieved the key from a loop he had been keeping in his pocket like a damned housekeeper ever since Callie had been in residence. One never knew when one needed to sneak into an alternative portal as if he were a thief.
Once inside, the familiar sounds of revelry reached him from the direction of the drawing room. He sighed. The minx better have collected thousands of pounds from her guests for the Andalusian quake relief. Else, he would be sending her there himself to assist.
He was going to have to locate his butler and let Young know he was in residence once more. After his arduous travels, he longed for a hot soak in a bath and a plate of decent sustenance. Traveling fare, even when one could afford the best cabin by rail, certainly left something to be desired.
Yes, sustenance and a bath were in order. He was weary to his bones. Frustrated and tired and—he rounded a corner in the hall and collided with someone. His hands instantly flew to the curve of a feminine waist, and for a moment, he believed he must have imagined the female with whom he collided smelled of orris root.
But then his wits returned following their brief scramble, and he realized his body’s instant reaction could not be denied. Her golden hair was worn high on her crown, little curling tendrils around her face. Those wide, blue eyes were framed with long, dark lashes. Her small hands clutched his biceps for purchase.
For a beautiful, indeterminate span of time, they stood frozen together, clasping each other. Their gazes locked and held. The heat that slammed into him was as instantaneous as it was scorching. She was not wearing black, but a rich, gold evening gown that looked as if it had been fashioned of the gossamer wings of a fairy.
He wondered how on earth a woman of modest means could afford such a creation.
And then he wondered, with equal haste, how on earth he could remove it from her and lay bare the luscious curves which hid beneath.
“Your Grace,” she said, her tone echoing the disbelief etched in her deliciously interesting features.
No classic beauty, still. But Miss Isabella Hilgrove possessed a beauty all her own, as rare and unique as it was startling. Each time he looked upon her, she stunned him anew, in a different fashion. Perhaps this time, it was worse, given the time and distance which had separated them.
“Miss Hilgrove,” he forced himself to say in return.
But he could not release her. Nor, it seemed, could she let him go.
They stood there, holding each other,
