More questions swirled. Who was Lady Entwhistle to Benedict? Why had she been here at Westmorland House?
She thought she dipped into a perfunctory curtsey before seating herself on a settee. Callie’s concern was almost palpable as she watched Isabella, as was Bo’s. Still, she could not look upon Benedict.
Meaningless chatter, polite and stilted, began. Isabella clenched her skirts, unable to speak amidst the tumult churning through her. How could she promise herself to him if she did not trust him? There was so much about him she still did not know. Coming here had been a mistake.
Her decision was a mistake as well, she feared.
Benedict cleared his throat. “I am told there are ripe strawberries in the orangery today, Miss Hilgrove. Perhaps you would care to take a stroll there?”
No, she did not want to stroll about the orangery, or to return to the place where he had kissed her senseless in the moonlight. But three sets of eyes were upon her, expectant.
“Callie and I shall remain and have our tea,” Bo told her. “My feet are positively aching today, as is my back. I hope you do not mind keeping me company, Callie?”
“Not at all,” Callie said with false brightness.
There was no question about it—Bo and Callie were giving Benedict and Isabella the chance to speak. In private.
She did not know if she could bear it.
“Miss Hilgrove?” he prodded.
She gazed upon him at last, his tense jaw confirming her suspicion. He was on edge. So was she.
“Of course,” she said, rising along with him, then taking his arm.
His warmth seemed to radiate through the sleeve of his coat. His deliciously masculine scent hit her. Together, they walked from the salon. She counted their steps: one, two, three, four—
“You are a day early,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Yes.” And more confused than ever.
“Have you decided?” he asked rigidly, politely.
As if they were speaking of the weather rather than the rest of their lives.
“Who is Lady Entwhistle?” she asked instead of answering him.
Beneath her hand, he stiffened. “An acquaintance, nothing more. Why do you ask?”
They moved down the hall, approaching the entrance to the orangery. “She had rather a great deal to say about you when the duchess and I passed her upon our arrival.”
“Oh? And what did she say?”
Though his tone was mild and his strides did not hesitate, she detected the hard edge to his voice.
The door to the orangery was closed. Benedict moved forward, holding it open so she could pass. She moved past him, hating the longing his nearness unfurled within her. It was such a rush of sweet need, her knees almost went weak.
Her body was a devilish traitor. That much was certain.
“Isabella?” he prodded, following her into the orangery, allowing the heavy door to close at his back.
By daylight, the orangery looked less like a fey landscape and more like a lush, verdant summer garden. More attainable, perhaps. Except for the size, which was as cavernous as the rest of Westmorland House. Green leaves, tall trees, small plants, and exotic blossoms extended in seemingly endless fashion.
But the beauty of so many plants, and the warmth of the room in spite of the cold winter beyond the panes of glass, was lost upon her. She turned back to Benedict, who had strode toward her, a troubled expression upon his face.
“She said she is an old, dear friend of yours,” Isabella told him. “She also said you told her about our impending nuptials and that she was surprised you would marry a woman beneath you in social class.”
“Damn her to perdition,” he growled. “She had no right to insult you in such an egregious fashion.”
“Who is she to you?” she asked, knowing she needed to have the answer and yet dreading it, all at once.
“She is no one,” he bit out, rubbing his jaw. “An acquaintance. I am sorry, sweetheart, for anything she may have said.”
“She hardly seemed like no one,” Isabella pressed. “The Duchess of Bainbridge believed she may have had hopes to marry you herself. Why would that be?”
He stared at her, saying nothing, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I certainly never gave her such a hope.”
But neither had he answered her question.
She feared she knew why. “Is she your mistress, Benedict?”
“No.” His eyes slid closed, and he raked his long fingers through his golden mane. “She is not, nor was she ever. However, we had an understanding, of sorts.”
She felt ill. “What manner of understanding? Is she your lover?”
“She was,” he admitted.
Isabella felt as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs. She spun away from him, needing distance. Separation. Tears stung her eyes. Tears of humiliation. Outrage.
“Isabella,” he called. “Allow me to explain, if you please.”
His footfalls followed her.
She stopped before a tree weighed down heavily with lemons and spun to face him. “When?”
He clenched his jaw. “Before I met you, Isabella. From the moment you stormed into my office, calling me everything but a gentleman, you are all I have wanted. Upon my honor.”
“Pray, do not swear anything upon your honor when I find myself hard-pressed to believe you possess any,” she spat.
“Isabella.” He reached for her.
She shrank from his touch, knocking into the lemon tree. A ripe fruit dropped to the floor with a heavy thud and rolled between them, a brilliant yellow symbol of defiance.
“How dare you send me poetry?” she demanded. “How dare you give me a typewriter and a list?”
“You did not like the list?” he asked, reaching for her again.
She had loved the list. Because it had been so very Benedict: laden with practical brevity. Or at least, that had been the Benedict she had thought she knew.
“That hardly signifies when you have had your paramour here just before my arrival,” she said, trying and failing to temper the hurt rising within her. “You told her about me. About us.”
“I did not invite her here, Isabella,” he said. “She paid a call upon Callie, and I ran into her, quite literally, in
