Pausing in the doorway, she looked steadily back at him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I’m just curious, considering that it did seem rather expensive and—”
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “My mother bought it a long time ago, from a peddler, if you must know.” She refused to allow him to see just how humiliating she found this admission, for it only served to compound how different her world was from his. Keeping her back rigid, she raised her chin before saying, “If that is all, I have some flowers that I must deliver to my aunt, and if it’s not too much trouble, I should like to ask that you refrain from contacting me again. I hope that you will respect at least that much.” And then she left.
Anthony stood there for a long moment just watching the door through which she’d departed. If he could only hang himself up under the rafters and give himself a good flogging. He’d acted abominably and completely without thought for what she would think or of what the consequences might be.
It hadn’t been his intention for it to turn out the way it had, but he’d stupidly allowed himself to get carried away. What the hell was he going to do now? He’d turned a difficult situation into an unsalvageable one. It was a mess, and he was to blame. He was the one who had taken a moment that should have been precious to both of them and used it as a means by which to prove his superiority over Mr. Roberts—and in the most primitive way possible. He was a cad—a complete and utter cad—and he loathed himself.
Grumbling a string of self-deprecating oaths, he strode across the floor, yanked the door open and stepped out into the sunshine. He didn’t even bother to look for Isabella, knowing well enough that she would be long gone by now. Christ, he needed a drink, and then he would find his mother and confess everything. That was precisely the sort of punishment he deserved after acting so despicably, though on second thought an account of his escapade would surely offend his mother’s sensibilities. Perhaps he’d talk to Winston instead. Yes, Winston would give him the proper lashing he deserved—he was absolutely certain of it.
Chapter 18
Isabella started at the sound of someone knocking on her bedroom door. It had been two days since she’d walked away from Anthony after their tryst in the barn, the thought of which still sent waves of heat rushing through her. Blasted man. She’d arrived home after delivering the daffodils to her aunt and had immediately removed herself to her room, too angry to enjoy the company of even her own family.
“Enter,” she said, expecting to see Marjorie carrying a tray of food or tea or some other substance meant to soothe her.
To her astonishment, the door opened to reveal her father instead, his expression most grave as he glanced around the small space she inhabited before meeting her gaze. “It can’t possibly be good for you to remain cooped up in here,” he said. “I’d like you to come and join us for supper.”
“Thank you, Papa, but I fear I must decline. You see, I’m not feeling at all well and would much rather remain in bed.” However, her voice did not sound weak, as it should have if she’d truly been ailing, but clipped with frustration instead.
“I see,” he muttered. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t suppose this decline in health would have anything to do with a certain duke?”
“Not at all,” Isabella murmured, hoping he’d believe her.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, right on cue.
Isabella sighed. “I never should have gone to that ball,” she said as she pulled a blanket across her shoulders and nodded toward a chair, prompting her father to sit, which he did. “Now I . . .” She shook her head. “Everything’s such a terrible mess, Papa.”
Her father expelled a deep breath. “You really like him, don’t you?” he asked.
Isabella reluctantly nodded. As angry as she still was with Anthony’s seduction, she couldn’t deny what was in her heart.
“And you don’t care much for Mr. Roberts at all, do you?” he pressed.
“Not in the least,” she confessed, not daring to look her father in the eye—afraid of the disappointment she’d see there.
“Then the situation isn’t very complicated at all, my love,” her father said.
“Of course it is,” she said, more confused than ever by his change of stance. “I am forced to marry a man I don’t particularly like because I cannot marry the man I do like. How can you say that’s not a muddle of the worst possible kind?”
Her father nodded. “You’re right. Your mother and I have made your life quite difficult. It wasn’t our intention—I hope you know that.”
“I do,” she said, wishing he’d go away and leave her in peace. She had little desire to talk about Anthony or Mr. Roberts right now. If only she could forget them both.
“If it’s any consolation, I believe the duke cares very deeply for you.”
“How can you possibly think that might console me?” she asked, gaping at him as if he’d been half mad. “Do you think it will make it easier when I marry Mr. Roberts, knowing that the man I care for holds as much affection for me as I do for him, but that Society, my ridiculous sense of honor and my own parents are what kept us from each other?” Her voice had risen to a shrill pitch, but she didn’t care. She was so angry with everyone, including herself, that she found it impossible to contain it a second longer. “A duke wishes to marry me, Papa, but your ridiculous promise to Mr. Roberts and Mama’s asinine dislike of the upper—”
“Careful, Isabella,” her father warned. “I won’t have you insulting your mother when you know nothing of what she’s been through. You have no idea what she’s had to suffer.”
He rose and walked toward her, looking angrier than she’d ever seen him before. It was so unlike him, and she instinctively shrank back against her pillow. “Forgive me, Papa, I didn’t mean—”
“You may think your mother harsh and demanding, but she loves you more deeply than you can possibly imagine. She would lay down her life for you in a heartbeat, Isabella. Whatever you may think, she would never try to stand between you and your happiness.”
“Then why won’t she let the duke court me? I know it’s not you preventing him from doing so.”
“Because she’s afraid you’ll get hurt!”
Isabella stared back at her father as if he’d been a complete stranger. He looked so impassioned as he stood there towering over her, defending her mother as if his life depended on it, and it dawned on her then, in the dim light that her bedroom had to offer, that she might not know her parents as well as she thought. “Why would she be afraid of that?” she asked in a low whisper.
Her father straightened himself and stepped back. “That is not for me to say.”
“But I—”
“I will talk to her, Isabella.”
“But that won’t stop Mr. Roberts from turning against us. He’ll never forgive any of us if I deny him now. You could lose your job.”
“Let’s deal with your mother first and with Mr. Roberts later,” her father said as he reached for the doorknob. He paused and added, “Perhaps you’re right—perhaps it would be best if you remained up here for the remainder of the evening. I’ll ask Marjorie to fix a plate for you. Tomorrow, though, you’re leaving the house—you need some fresh air, Isabella, and more importantly, you need to face your problems head-on.”
“I love you, Papa,” she whispered as the door closed behind him. She’d always wondered at her mother’s relentless criticism of the aristocracy, for it had always been clear that it had nothing to do with envy. Considering what her father had said, as well as everything he’d left unsaid, she couldn’t help but wonder if it might have something to do with the gown Isabella had worn to the ball.
Her mother had said that she’d bought it from a peddler, but what if that wasn’t true? The more Isabella contemplated it, the more unlikely she found it. A thought struck her. Oh God! What if her mother had once been somebody’s mistress? What if some earl or marquess had bought it for her—a favor in return for . . . Isabella swallowed hard, not daring herself to think such reprehensible things about her own mother. No, there had to be some other explanation that Isabella wasn’t seeing. She could only hope that her father would somehow be able to convince her mother that it wasn’t reason enough to prevent her daughter’s happiness.
Determined to do as her father had asked, Isabella left her house the following morning and headed toward Main Street. Clouds had begun gathering in the sky, but Isabella felt confident that if it rained, it wouldn’t be until much later in the day. Having spent a great deal of the previous evening thinking about what her life with Mr. Roberts would be like in comparison with what Anthony promised her, she’d decided to venture over to Browning & Co, the local bookshop. If Mr. Roberts meant to put a ban on reading, then she in turn had every intention of enjoying something by the scandalous Mary Wollstonecraft before saying her nuptials.
Stepping inside to the sound of a tinkling bell, she quickly surveyed the space, noting the elegant signs that marked the various categories along the bookshelves. Four large bookcases stood back to back in the center of the room, and Isabella was just about to advance on one of them when a short, gray-haired man stepped in front of her and said, “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I . . . er . . . that is . . .” The man raised an eyebrow in anticipation of her response. Drat. She didn’t wish to tell him what she was looking for, since he’d probably disapprove. Taking courage in the face of his assessing stare, she squared her shoulders and said, “No, thank you—I merely wish to browse.”
He didn’t budge. “I am sure you would, miss.” He gave her a patronizing smile that she didn’t care for in the least. “However, I do have a rather great appreciation for order, and since this is your first visit to my shop, I fear I cannot allow you to roam around unchaperoned.”
Isabella gaped at him. “You think I will make a mess of your cataloging?”
His smile broadened. “Precisely.”
“Why, that’s preposterous!”
“Nonetheless,” the man continued. He gave her a pointed look. “If you would please tell me what you’re looking for, I shall be more than happy to find it for you.”
Isabella clamped her mouth shut in annoyance. It seemed that wherever she turned, a man would be there instructing her on what to do. It was maddening. Well, she wasn’t about to tell this little gnat that she desired to buy a book—any book—by that Wollstonecraft woman, so she shook her head instead and said, “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. In fact, I—”
“You really ought to stop scaring off your customers like that, Mr. Browning. It’s terribly bad for business.”