“She is safe,” Callie assured him, her customary poise unshakeable. “You need not fear on that count. I would never allow Isabella to go anywhere that she would be in danger.”
His sister’s reassurance was not enough. He wanted to make certain for himself that Isabella was safe from harm. And the only way for that to happen was for her to marry him and live beneath the very roof she had just fled.
“You cannot be certain she is not in danger,” he told his sister, trying a different tactic. “How would you feel if something happened to her? Just two days ago, she was taken captive by Fenians. Perhaps the same villains who just laid bombs all over London.”
Callie’s mouth flattened into a grim line, but her countenance remained impassive. “She is safe, Benny. I promise you that. Those monsters shall not find her where she has gone.”
She had not returned to her home, then, thank God. But that knowledge did not lead him any closer to discovering where she had gone.
His patience was waning. “I need to know where she is, Calliope.”
“The dreaded given name.” She flashed him a mocking smile. “I shan’t bend on this, my darling brother. I love you, but Isabella is my friend, and I made her a promise that I would not share her situation with you.”
Isabella had known he would chase after her. Of course she would have done. He would follow her to the River Styx if need be. He would swim it shore to shore.
“Has it not occurred to you that keeping her situation from me will only do more harm than good?” he asked coolly.
Damn it, since when had he resorted to begging for clues from his younger sister? Ah, yes. Same answer as before.
Since you fell in love with the most vexing woman in the history of England, you daft prick.
“You compromised her, Benny.” Callie tapped her poached egg, breaking the shell with her spoon.
He could not help but to feel that cracking egg was symbolic.
“My behavior was inexcusable,” he agreed, hoping to hell that when Isabella had confided where she was hiding herself in his equally vexing sister, she had neglected to mention just how thoroughly he had compromised her. “However, I am determined to make amends for my injudicious actions.”
“I gave Isabella my word, Benny.” Callie struck her egg again, with more force than necessary.
Shell and egg went catapulting over the table.
She was not as unperturbed by all this as she pretended.
“I am your brother, Calliope,” he growled, frustrated with her. “Surely blood is stronger than whatever friendship you have newly developed.”
His sister threw down her spoon in a rare show of violence. No matter the sorrows she had known in her life, she had always remained unflappable. She never broke; it was part of what made her Callie, the bold, vivacious creature society loved even as they whispered about her behind their fans.
“You are my brother, yes, and it is only down to my adoration of you that I have not boxed your ears for the way you have treated Isabella,” his sister snapped. “She is a rare woman. Intelligent, strong—”
“Brave,” he interrupted, “and beautiful, too. She is unlike any woman I have ever known, and she is the only woman I want as my duchess. I was reckless with her. In that, you are correct. My only defense is that I lose my head the moment she is within reach. But I love her, Callie. She owns my heart.”
He had made the revelation to his sister in anger.
The words hung in the air between them.
His entire face heated with mortification, for he had never intended to reveal so much. Not to Callie. Not to anyone. But the words had flown from him. He had been carried away. And now, it was too late.
“Oh, Benny.” All the fight drained from his sister. Her shoulders slumped. Her dark eyes, so like their mother’s, pinned him to the spot. “You love her?”
Here was his chance to deny this weakness. To claim he had misspoken. His pride told him to deny it. He had certainly never expected to fall in love. Hell, he had believed it impossible. He was the product of a loveless match. Romantic love was a notion he scoffed at, as better belonging in fiction.
And yet, he could not help himself.
“I love her,” he affirmed grimly. “Desperately.”
But still, his fierce sister remained hesitant. She frowned. “Love does not necessarily suggest good intentions, Benny.”
She was not wrong.
However, his intentions were good. They had not always been good, much to his shame, but he had spent his life believing marriage was an intolerable social institution created as a means of unifying wealth and stature rather than as a means of obtaining happiness. Their parents had been the perfect illustration of a dynastic marriage. Their mother had been the daughter of a duke. Their father the heir to the Duke of Westmorland, an earl in his own right. Their marriage had solidified the union of vast properties, and it had also engendered vast misery. After they had produced three children, they had lived separate lives, Mother living with her various paramours on the Continent, Father living with the mistress he had taken before marrying Mother.
They had hated each other. Had made each other’s lives hell.
He had never wanted that for himself. And so, he had thought to avoid it for as long as possible. Until Isabella had appeared in his life and broken down every one of his walls. Until making her his duchess had supplanted any fears of unhappiness he had once harbored.
“My intentions toward Miss Hilgrove are as honorable as can be,” he told his sister at last. “I intend to marry her and make her my duchess. However, I cannot do so if I cannot find her.”
For an indeterminate
