“It is far easier to ignore five women than it is five thousand women,” agreed the countess.
Callie nodded, her gaze intent upon Isabella. “Yes, it is. And I believe we now have one lady in our midst who will know how to find women to join us in our movement. Women who are seeking their independence through the use of their own wits and skills.”
If Isabella had been a man, and she had been wearing a hat, in that moment, she would have tipped it in deference toward Westmorland’s sister. She saw so much. And Isabella could not shake the notion that for all her boldness and tendency toward flighty behavior, Callie was one of the most intelligent people she had ever known.
“I believe many of my ladies, if not all, would be pleased to join in our efforts,” she said.
“Oh, how excellent!” Lady Bo’s happiness emanated from her in infectious fashion. “I cannot wait to tell my darling husband. He will be so very pleased.”
Everyone in the room was smiling then, for it truly seemed as if they were on the cusp of a great movement. The time had never been better, the need for change never more apparent.
“To women gaining the vote!” Lady Alexandra cheered, leaping from her seat and pumping a fist into the air in victorious fashion.
The other ladies followed suit, as did Isabella. Triumph soared through her, along with excitement at the potential for truly making a difference upon the society in which they lived.
But as she settled back into her seat and began making preparations for the Lady’s Suffrage Society along with all her newfound friends, Isabella found her mind straying to thoughts of Westmorland. Tomorrow, she would once more report for duty. She would be beneath the same roof as him, alone in his massive library.
Wishing he were there with her.
Damn him.
And damn her, too.
Damn her.
She was late.
Irritated, Benedict rose from his chair to pace the confines of his study, rather in the fashion of a lion in a menagerie prowling his cage. Young was to inform him of her arrival at once, although they would occupy separate chambers, as agreed. He had told her to appear at the ordinary time, had he not? Half past eight. It was…
He plucked his pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted it for what had to be the twentieth time that morning. It was a quarter to nine.
Fifteen minutes.
Fifteen, by God. It was an outrage. He ground his jaw as he paced the length of his study thrice over, pocket watch clasped firmly in hand. The cold, hard silver with its stoic engraving, one word, Latin. Pax. Peace.
He hardly felt peace now. Though his forebears may well have been some of the most eminent statesmen of their day, he was a woefully inadequate descendant. Alfred would have made an exemplary duke. He would have made the best damned leader of the Special League. Dynamitards would not have laid bombs on his watch.
But Benedict? He was not his brother. Nor could he hold a candle to Alfred’s legacy. He had been wandering frantically in his brother’s immense shadow ever since his death. And still, he had no answers.
And still, he was so weak and vulnerable that a slip of a girl brought him low. So low he had offered her a small fortune just for the knowledge she would aid him in the reports threatening to swallow him whole. Because he could not trust anyone but her. Because her work was unparalleled. But also, if he were completely honest with himself, because he wanted her beneath his roof.
He wanted her as near as he could have her to himself.
Even if he could not see her. How bloody foolish was that? What manner of twit would pay a woman who had refused his suit two thousand pounds to isolate herself in his library and type reports for a week, just so he knew she was close?
The same man who had believed she would honor her word. The same man who believed she would appear promptly at half past eight and be ushered to the library by Young, as had been arranged.
The same fool.
Him.
He had never felt more the fool than when he had stood in her salon the day before, quibbling with her over the fee he would pay her for a service he did not entirely need. It was true that he could provide reports in his own hand. It was also true that he could find another typewriter aside from her.
But what was most true? He did not want anyone other than her, just as he had said. He wanted more than her fingers moving over the keys of his typing machine. He wanted her fingers on him. He wanted her golden hair spread over his pillow. He wanted her sweet, soft curves on display for him. He wanted to lick every inch of her. To make her spend again and again. He wanted to worship her.
To love her.
He stopped in the midst of his study at that unwanted thought.
What the hell? Of course he did not want to love the troublesome bit of baggage. Miss Isabella Hilgrove had been needling him from the second she had blustered her way into his study. He did not believe in love. His parents’ union had been bloodless and loveless, begun in duty, ended in hatred. Love was an illusion. A fanciful notion dreamed up by idealists and poets.
At the thought of poets, his mind returned to that damned volume he had discovered in Isabella’s salon the day before. He wanted to know more of what Lambert was to her. He wanted to know who she was, how a woman claiming a humble background could have not just crossed paths with a viscount but could have received such a personal gift from him.
The inscription was still emblazoned upon his mind.
Miss Isabella Hilgrove
From her most ardent and affectionate
