Tucking the fabric safely away in the same pocket as the picture, and with more of a spring to his step than he’d managed all day, Anthony continued back to where the footman stood waiting. “Let’s go home,” the duke said, feeling both cheerful and relieved. He had plans to make now—plans involving a proper social call to Mr. Chilcott and flowers to . . . Miss Chilcott? He couldn’t be sure of her real name just yet, though it was fair to assume that she had to be Mr. Chilcott’s daughter. He would have to discuss it with his mother of course. She’d probably swoon at the thought of a lowborn woman becoming his duchess, while the gossip-rags would have a splendid time writing about it all in every detail—a price he was willing to pay nonetheless.
“Do you have a moment, miss?” Marjorie asked shortly after Isabella’s return from the shops.
As usual, Isabella hadn’t bought anything—she never did, she simply liked to browse. And after everything that had happened last night, she’d been in desperate need of some fresh air, as well as something to distract her from all the guilt she felt at betraying her mother, her hasty departure from the ball, lying to everyone and getting her sister into trouble for helping her do all of these things.
And then of course there was Mr. Roberts to consider. He’d be joining her for afternoon tea tomorrow. However would she look him in the eye without feeling like the most wretched woman to have ever walked the earth? She could picture him now, all proper and perfectly starched as he sipped his tea, oblivious to the fact that the woman he meant to marry had snuck out of her house in the middle of the night, traipsed across the countryside, kissed a duke and, most deplorably of all, lost her heart to said duke.
She pushed the thought aside and eyed her maid. “Certainly,” she said, growing curious as she noted Marjorie’s troubled expression. “Right this way.”
They entered the parlor, where Isabella took a seat while Marjorie remained standing. “A gentleman came to call today,” Marjorie said without preamble. It was one of the things Isabella liked best about her—she was always direct.
“Oh? And did he have a name?” Isabella asked, frowning. The only gentleman who ever came to call was Mr. Roberts, but Marjorie knew him, so it had to be someone else. A growing sense of uneasiness began to tickle her skin.
“He didn’t give me one, but he showed me a picture, miss—one that looked an awful lot like you, if you don’t mind my saying so. I might be mistaken of course, given that there was a mask covering part of the face, but I’m familiar enough with your features to be sure.” Her gaze dropped to the floor and she quietly said, “It was a very good drawing.”
Isabella sucked in a breath. Good Lord! She swallowed hard as she tried to collect herself and stop her hands from trembling. “What did you tell him?” She grasped the fabric of her skirt and twirled it between her fingers.
Lifting her gaze, Marjorie looked directly at Isabella. “That I didn’t recognize the woman in the picture.” She paused momentarily before adding, “I think he believed me, for he seemed rather disappointed and left shortly after.”
Isabella nodded. “You did the right thing by not telling him that I live here. Thank you.”
The corners of Marjorie’s mouth tightened into an odd little smile. “There’s something else you ought to know, miss. He said he’d be back tomorrow.”
“What?” This wasn’t happening, it simply was not.
“Forgive me, but he’d already inquired as to when it might be more likely for him to encounter Mr. Chilcott before I realized that he was looking for you. I’m sorry if this puts you in a difficult position.”
“It’s all right, Marjorie.” Isabella’s voice sounded faint to her own ears. She felt light-headed and on the verge of falling into a state of panic. “You didn’t know.”
“Once again, I’m truly sorry,” Marjorie said, bobbing a curtsy as she exited the room, closing the door behind her.
Isabella sat in perplexed silence for a long while after. He’d found her, and all because he’d caught her off guard the previous evening during the fireworks display. She was sure that had to be it, because she’d been careful otherwise.
Blast!
Her mind whirled as she tried to think of how best to address the situation. He might be back tomorrow, but he still didn’t know that he’d found her. Perhaps she could talk to her father—warn him of the duke’s impending visit. And, she decided, she’d have to tell her mother as well. Isabella dropped her head into her hands at the thought of it and groaned. After their argument the previous evening, she’d rather hoped to avoid having to discuss the Kingsborough Ball with her again—had hoped that they could just carry on as if it had never happened. She didn’t want to tell her mother any more lies though.
With a deep sigh of resignation, she pulled herself together, rose to her feet and headed for the kitchen. She’d ask Marjorie to help her prepare a cup of hot cocoa. Cocoa made everything better—especially when it was served with scones topped with cream and strawberry jam.
“Of all the stupid things you could possibly do,” Isabella heard her mother say as they sat across from one another at the dining room table that evening. Her father, seated at the head of the table, was being his usual nonconfrontational self and had said nothing as of yet. “Have you no pride?”
“Of course I do, Mama. This has nothing to do with that. The duke—”
“I beg to differ,” her mother said, cutting Isabella off and pointing her fork directly at her daughter as if it had been a sword. “You’ve made a mockery of the Kingsboroughs by sneaking about the way you did, acting as if you had a right to be there. I daresay the duke will be incensed when he discovers the truth about you, and then where will we be? Only the Regent holds more power than a duke, Isabella. What if he decides to have you arrested? I’m sure he can find a way if that’s what he wishes, or worse, he might insist on making you his mistress.”
Isabella blanched. “He would never make such a demand,” she muttered. “He was kind toward me even though he knew I’d told him a Banbury tale. He knew me to be an imposter, and yet he allowed me to stay, as did his mother.”
“Hmf!” her mother retorted, taking a sip of her wine. “And that doesn’t worry you? You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Isabella.”
Isabella had been in the middle of cutting a piece of chicken, but she paused at her mother’s words and slowly raised her head to look at her. “What do you mean?”
Her mother took a deep breath. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that he should have tossed you out?” Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Did he make any advances on you?”
Isabella dropped her gaze. Her cheeks were burning as she quietly said, “He kissed me.”
“And you let him?” Her mother’s tone was sharp and accusing.
“I . . .” A sigh of defeat escaped Isabella’s lips. “Yes.”
“Then I am right—as unfortunate as that is. He has designs on you. That’s why he didn’t ask you to leave. His mother’s wishes would have been inconsequential. He’s the duke, and judging from what you’ve just told us, it’s quite clear that he was—”
“That’s enough!” Isabella watched in stunned silence as her mother froze, her mouth dropping open in response to her husband’s outburst. She turned her head toward him. Isabella turned too. “Nobody is going to make a mistress of my daughter,” he said, his voice deep and rough and desperately protective. “I’ll meet with the duke and explain the situation properly to him. I’m sure he’ll understand.” He looked at his wife. “And I would like to caution you, madam, against speaking of such things when there are children present—it’s unbecoming.”
They all turned to look at Jamie, who was seated opposite her father at the other end of the table, eyes wide with interest. She looked vastly entertained by the discussion taking place, but she wisely fixed her attention on her meal, quite possibly hoping that this would make her invisible.
“I only meant to draw attention to the severity of the situation,” Isabella’s mother said, her tone a little softer than before as she turned her gaze away from her youngest daughter and regarded her husband instead. “It’s obvious that she’s caught the duke’s attention, so if he’s out looking for her, it’s also obvious that he wants her.”
“He’s known to be a reasonable man, love. I’m sure he’ll leave Isabella in peace once I’ve had a word with him.”
Isabella doubted it. After all, she’d told him repeatedly that they couldn’t be together. As if to confirm this fear, her mother said with incredulity, “Reasonable? He’s one of the worst rakes this country’s ever seen! Why, he and that friend of his were notorious for leaving a blazing trail of ruined maidens behind them in their youth.”
Isabella saw her father frown. “I believe that’s highly exaggerated, my dear, not to mention that the duke is older now and has proven himself quite responsible these past five years or however long it’s been . . . I forget.”
“All I can say,” Isabella’s mother said, “is once a rake, always a rake, and a duke is a dangerous man to meddle with to begin with. You know as well as I that these sorts expect to have their way.”
There was a look in her mother’s eye that Isabella couldn’t quite place as she stared back at her husband—as if the two of them were sharing a silent exchange.
Jamie’s fork clattered against her plate as she accidentally dropped it, distracting Isabella from her pondering. “What if she’s right, Papa?” she asked in a muted tone. “What if he won’t listen?”
“Then we may have to resort to different measures.”
“Such as?” Isabella’s mother asked, her eyes still riveted upon her husband.
“Such as encouraging Mr. Roberts to propose right away. Once you’re married, the duke will have no choice but to abandon all thought of you.”
It was true, and a simple plan. Yet Isabella felt her shoulders slump as she expelled a deep breath. There was a feeling of emptiness inside her that she feared might never be filled. Pushing back the tears that threatened at the thought of marrying a man she did not love when the man she truly desired had declared himself eager to court her, she stabbed a piece of chicken with her fork. It was a fate she would have to accept. Social standing would make it difficult for the Duke of Kingsborough to show any interest in making her his duchess, and it was unlikely he’d wish to once her father spoke to him. Her mother was right. If he still wanted her after discovering that she was nothing more than the daughter of a carriage driver, he’d want her as his mistress. It was disheartening to consider, but in this instance she had to agree with her mother—being realistic was of far greater importance than being romantic.