She wanted to believe him. But still, the notion of him making love to the beautiful, seductive countess shook her. Because Lady Entwhistle was everything Isabella herself was not. Indeed, she was everything Isabella could never, ever be.
Even if she became the Duchess of Westmorland, she was still herself. She adored practicality, functionality. She was proud of her typewriting work, her school, everything she had built. She was not ravishingly beautiful. She did not wear French silk gowns. She did not wear her hair in the current styles.
How could she ever compare to such a creature?
“Isabella,” Benedict said, his hands finding her waist, drawing her against him. “Answer me. Will you consent to be my wife?”
She flattened her palms on his chest. “I need more time.”
It was not the answer she had been determined to give him prior to her interview with Lady Entwhistle. But in the wake of his revelations, she did not know what she wanted any longer. She was conflicted. Dreadfully confused.
“You came here today with an answer,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “But after everything that has occurred, I am no longer as sure of my decision. I need more time to think about what I want.”
“Decide today,” he ground out, his storm-tossed gaze unrelenting, burning into hers. “Will you marry me, or will you not?”
“Why would you want to marry me?” She shook her head. “Lady Entwhistle was correct in her assessment of me. I am not the sort of woman who should ever become a duchess. Perhaps you ought to marry her instead.”
“I do not want her. I want you,” he ground out.
“Desire is not enough.”
“What is enough, Isabella?” he demanded.
Love. His love was enough. Indeed, it was all she wanted. But he had not offered it to her, and she was not certain he ever would.
She stopped short of saying all that, revealing far too much of herself. Instead, she remained stern, implacable. Her future depended upon her ability to maintain her composure.
“I do not know, Your Grace.”
She was, once more, clinging to formality, which she knew he hated. However, it helped her to keep her distance. To maintain her composure. She could not afford to be weak, or to allow her heart to rule her head.
“Lady Entwhistle means nothing to me,” he told her. “And you, Isabella, mean everything. I have done my damnedest to make it clear to you just how much I hold you in my utmost esteem. How else can I prove to you what I want?”
She stared at him, bereft. Unsure of what answer, if any, she could give him. She did not want proof. She wanted love. And she was becoming increasingly concerned there was no hope this man could give it to her.
The taunting words of Lady Entwhistle haunted her now.
Be warned—His Grace is difficult to please, and he grows bored quite easily.
“I require more time to find my answer,” she said, ignoring his question. “I cannot give it to you now.”
His expression was as tense as if it had been carved in stone. “Need I remind you of the consequences of what has already passed between us?”
As if she could ever forget. The intimacies she had shared with him would burn in her memory forever, regardless of whether or not she became his wife. And if there should be a child from their folly… No, she did not want to think upon that now.
She wrenched from his grasp. “My freedom is precious to me. I will not surrender my future, my independence, my whole life to a man whom I do not dare trust.”
He stalked after her, following her to the opposite end of the orangery, where the ripe strawberries he had mentioned earlier hung plump and scarlet from their overburdened stems. “You can trust me, Isabella. I have never lied to you, nor will I ever. I am a man of honor, a man of my word. I swear it.”
She faced him. “I need more time, Benedict. I am sorry. I cannot marry you now. Not like this.”
His lips tightened to a firm, grim line. “If more time is what you wish, I cannot stop you from taking it.”
No, he could not.
“You would do better to find a lady who would do you credit,” she said softly, painfully. “Good day, Your Grace.”
Before he could offer another word of protestation, she fled down the path of green vegetation and lush fruit, leaving him behind.
Chapter Eighteen
Two days passed.
Benedict threw himself into his work for the League. Another arrest was made in the Tower of London bombing. But the men responsible for the Westminster explosions remained out there, somewhere, capable of perpetuating more crimes upon London.
A third day passed.
Still, no word from Isabella. By the morning of the fourth day, grim realization hit him as he received his daily reports from the Home Office and Scotland Yard. There would be no word from her. Her answer was her silence.
He had been determined to give her the time and the space she had needed, hoping she would come to her senses concerning Roberta and understand that whatever had existed between them meant nothing now. But it was clear to him that no amount of time would change her mind.
He loved a woman who did not love him back. It was a hell of a situation to find one’s self in, especially as a man who had supposed he would never experience such a tender emotion. Even more so for a man who had never intended to marry. The only woman he wanted did not want him.
A knock at his study door disrupted him.
“Enter,” he called.
Callie bustled over the threshold in her usual burst of bold color. “Benny, you look positively dreadful.”
He stood at her
