What was wrong with her?
Oh, yes. She loved him.
And love was a cruel, callous beast. It made her want that which she should not, could not, have.
Or could she? Did she dare?
She kissed him furiously, punishing him with all the tumult roiling within her. And still, he held her tightly and kissed her back, as if he needed her every bit as much as she needed him.
He broke the kiss, his ragged breaths falling upon her swollen mouth in a tantalizing tease. “One day.”
“Three,” she countered instantly.
“Two,” he relented.
Their gazes locked.
“Two,” she agreed.
What in heaven’s name was she thinking, to contemplate nuptials with this man? And yet, another part of her wondered how she could not.
He kissed her swiftly. “Two days, my darling.”
Chapter Seventeen
The hours passed at a torpid pace. One day turned into the next. Isabella’s time to decide whether or not she would accept Benedict’s proposal waned, and still she remained undecided. Hopelessly torn.
She sat in the library at the Bainbridge townhouse, miserable in a window seat, forehead pressed to the icy, leaden pane as she clutched the volume of poetry he had sent her in her lap. She had not seen him since the day before when he had rendered all her defenses nothing more than crumpled piles of dust at his beautiful feet.
His absence should have made her decision easier, but instead, he had sent her small reminders. Flowers. Notes. The first had been a list of reasons why she should marry him. Some of them had made her flush, others had made her chuckle, and all of them had made her heart ache.
The day beyond the window was not aiding her mood. It was dull, foggy, and gray, with the barest glimmers of sun occasionally bursting through, as indecisive as she felt. How could she tell him yes? But how could she tell him no?
She glanced back down at the book of poetry, flipping it open to the first page and his inscription.
My Love, my own—
Perhaps you may be inclined to replace the volume currently in your possession with this one?
Yours,
B
She smiled in spite of herself as she traced her forefinger over his bold, slashing scrawl. Not only had he remembered the exact volume of poetry Lambert had gifted her, finding this replacement, but he had also used words from an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem. Which told her the man who did not care for poetry had been reading poems.
For her.
How could she not love him a little more for that?
“Here you are, my dear,” said Bo, breezing into the library. “I have been looking everywhere for you. Another delivery has come.”
The swell of her friend’s belly was scarcely visible beneath her fashionable blue silk gown, but her radiance was undeniable. She fairly glowed with happiness. Another prick of envy sliced through her.
You could have that happiness, whispered a voice inside her.
But could she? Would she be as happy with Benedict as Bo was with Bainbridge? After all, Bainbridge and Bo were madly in love. Isabella loved Benedict, but of all the reasons why she should marry him, the one she would have found most convincing had been glaringly absent.
Love.
“Another delivery?” she asked, shaking herself from her troubled ruminations.
What could he have sent this time?
“A typewriter,” Bo answered her unspoken question for her, crossing the room and settling into the seat beside Isabella.
A typewriter? Oh, Benedict. Knowing him, it would be the most expensive, finest model available.
“Westmorland is not making my decision easy,” she said grimly.
“He is a man determined,” Bo agreed. “And yet, you hesitate. What gives you pause? Many ladies would be only too happy to accept an offer of marriage from the Duke of Westmorland, I should think.”
In the wake of Benedict’s visit, Isabella had confided in her friend about his proposal. Bo was wise. Understanding. She had taken great care not to influence Isabella in either direction, but to calmly listen and offer her support instead.
“I love him,” she admitted at last.
Saying it aloud—sharing it with someone else—felt freeing, as if a great burden had been lifted from her chest.
“Of course you do,” said Bo. “You have loved him for some time, I expect.”
Misery washed over her. “Am I so very transparent, then?”
She hated to think her feelings for him had been so obvious. Worse, that he suspected she loved him.
“Not transparent,” her friend reassured her. “However, the signs were there. You are both horribly besotted with each other, which begs the question. Why are you not deliriously overjoyed with the prospect of marrying?”
“Because he does not return my love.” This revelation, unlike the one which had come before it, only enhanced her wretchedness.
“How do you know?” Bo frowned at her.
“He has not shared his feelings with me, other than his desire to wed.” And that desire, she was sure, remained firmly rooted in guilt. Or perhaps the need to have her in his bed once more. “And if he did love me, which he does not, I am not certain it would be enough. I am not fit to be a duchess. My father was a shopkeeper, my mother a gentlewoman who was disowned by much of her family for marrying so humbly.”
And even Benedict himself had originally offered for her to be his mistress. That inescapable fact still nettled.
“My dear, I am quite sure Westmorland does indeed love you,” Bo said then. “No man would chase after a lady with this much ardent fervor if he did not. And as for your perceived difference in stations, it is hardly an insurmountable obstacle. You are a respectable lady, and the proprietress of your own school. Your reputation is quite spotless.”
Perhaps her reputation was, but her conscience was not. She had been wicked with Benedict. Reckless. She had gone beyond the bounds of what was right and proper. And still, she could not regret her actions.
“I
