Oh, to have a love like that.
But a one-sided love was hardly love at all, was it? No, indeed. It seemed rather more like torture to Isabella. Splendor and agony, all at once.
“That is most accommodating of His Grace,” she forced herself to say, before taking a sip of her own tea.
“Anything to keep Her Grace happy,” said a masculine voice from the threshold of the salon.
How such a large, handsome man moved with so much stealth perplexed Isabella. She had not heard the duke approach.
“Darling!” Bo’s happiness at seeing her husband was undeniable. “What are you doing, hovering about in the doorway? Do come in! Would you care to join us for tea?”
“I am here to whisk you away for a few minutes,” Bainbridge said. “Westmorland is here, and he needs to have a word alone with Miss Hilgrove.”
Isabella’s heart seemed to freeze. Benedict had found her.
Already?
She had been gone but a scant few hours. She had not imagined he would give chase so readily, or that he would locate her with such alarming ease. Had Callie broken her promise? She stood, panic descending. Her expression must have given her away.
“Shall I remain?” Bo asked her quietly, concern lacing her voice.
Yes, she longed to scream.
“Of course not.” She forced another smile, attempting to gather her rapidly fleeing composure. “I shall be fine.”
“Come, my love,” Bainbridge said to the duchess with a look of undisguised adoration.
Isabella scarcely had enough time to rise from her seat and attempt to steel herself against the prospect of seeing Benedict again when he stalked into the room, slamming the salon door at his back. His jaw was hard, his eyes dark and stormy.
He was seething.
It was a stark contrast to the way she had left him that morning. How innocent he had looked in slumber as she had left him by the light of dawn. He had appeared so much younger, as if all the weight holding him down had been removed.
“Your Grace,” she greeted him tonelessly, dipping into a polite curtsey.
His strides ate up the distance between them, and he did not bother to bow. “Damn you, Isabella, do not pretend we are strangers.”
“Why have you come?” she asked, almost flinching at the vehemence in his voice.
“To make you see reason,” he ground out.
“I did see reason, and that is why I left.” She moved away from him, knowing that if he was within reach, she could be far too tempted.
“After what happened last night, how can you possibly believe leaving me is the right decision?” he growled, stalking after her. “Have you forgotten you could be carrying my child?”
The thought of carrying Benedict’s babe filled her with a warmth she had no right to feel. She clung to her pride instead, which reminded her she would not marry a man who only wanted her in his bed and not his heart. Besides, she had worked far too hard on her Ladies’ Typewriting School to give it up so summarily. Too many others depended upon her.
She clutched her skirts to hide her trembling hands. “How did you convince the Duke of Bainbridge to grant you an audience with me alone?”
Not that it mattered. The damage was already done. Benedict was here, infuriatingly handsome, far too enticing, searing her with his angry eyes. Making her want to throw herself into his arms.
Had it been just that morning when she had left his bed? It seemed, somehow, a lifetime ago now.
“Bainbridge is a man of reason,” he told her coolly. “He acts rationally. Makes decisions wisely.”
He was insinuating she did not.
Her spine stiffened. “I, too, act rationally and make decisions wisely. I know there is no hope in a union between a shopkeeper’s daughter and a duke who only asked for her hand out of guilt.”
“Tell me if this feels like guilt to you,” he bit out, and then he yanked her into his chest, taking her lips with his.
Just like that, she was lost. There was no resistance in her. She felt, instead, as if she had come home. The trembling hands she had hidden in her skirts rose to frame his face as she moved her lips against his, opening to the seductive onslaught of his tongue. This was not just a kiss; it was a claiming.
His jaw was warm, prickly with whiskers. He had not shaved that morning, and she wondered if she was the reason. She told herself it did not matter, and that she must stop kissing him. But somehow, she could not stop.
At last, he stopped for her, ending the bruising kiss.
His head lifted, his eyes glittering. “I asked you to marry me because I want you to be my duchess, Isabella. I do not give a damn if your father was a shopkeeper. I obtained a license this morning. We can marry any time you wish. The sooner, the better.”
He could not want to marry her, not truly.
She frowned at him. “You are not thinking clearly. Yesterday was fraught with a great deal of upheaval.”
“On the contrary. I have never thought more clearly than I am now.” He was steadfast. His voice was strident. Confident.
She shook her head as if doing so could clear the fog threatening to take up residence there. “I will not give up my Ladies’ Typewriting School.”
“Nor have I asked you to do so.” He cupped her cheek, rubbing his thumb over her skin in slow, soothing strokes.
He had not.
However, she was not naïve enough to believe a duke would countenance his duchess operating a school.
“If I were to marry you, I would have no choice,” she said, telling herself she should release him.
Instead, she could not seem to stop clinging to him. Why had he not stayed away?
“When you marry me, you can carry on just as you have done,” he told her calmly. “The only difference is that you will not leave me at dawn, and nor will you typewrite my reports. And if I have my way, you will never
