Swallowing hard, she tried to think of something else to say that might deter him. She could of course tell him the absolute truth about her identity. She’d surely find herself escorted off the premises without further ado, but at least it would save her from the risk of getting to know the duke further, from becoming more fascinated than she already was and, most importantly, from the prospect of falling in love with a man she could never, ever hope to marry.
It was the wise thing to do, and yet she found herself doing quite the opposite. “I suppose not—not yet, that is.” Oh, how she wished she could give herself a good whack. Was she a complete idiot? And the way it sounded to her own ears . . . good heavens, but Kingsborough would have every right to think she was flirting with him. It was likely her most embarrassing moment to date.
The duke raised an eyebrow as the music faded and they glided to a stop. “Not yet,” he murmured, his smile turning into something of a wolfish grin. Was he laughing at her or pondering the thought of devouring her whole? Neither prospect was in the least bit reassuring.
Dropping a curtsy in response to his bow, Isabella accepted the arm he offered her and allowed him to lead her off to the side. She was desperately wracking her brain for an excuse to escape his company and had just considered telling him she needed to visit the ladies’ retirement room when he leaned a bit closer to her and said, “It’s a lovely evening outside. Would you care to join me for a stroll on the terrace?”
Isabella knew she ought to refuse, make her excuse and leave his company immediately. There was just one massive flaw to her plan—the lack of will to do so as he stood there, gazing into her eyes and waiting for her response as if the stability of the planet hinged on her agreement. If only he knew that her agreement might actually cause it to fall off its axis.
Taking a deep breath, she decided to ignore her better judgment and do what she wanted to do instead—however temporary it might be and however much she might regret it later. This was her chance to experience the fairy-tale magic she’d wanted for so long, and with the Duke of Kingsborough unwittingly playing the part of her own Prince Charming. “Yes,” she said, her stomach working itself into a tight knot in response to the look of pleasure that swept over his handsome face. “I would like that very much.”
And as he guided her out of the ballroom to the drone of music and laughter, Isabella couldn’t help but imagine that it was the sound of the fates mocking her.
Chapter 5
It was warmer than usual for that time of year, and with not even as much as a breeze to speak of, it was downright pleasant being outside—especially when compared to the stifling heat of the ballroom. In fact, Anthony had to admit that his cravat and his jacket didn’t bother him nearly as much now as they had earlier. He eyed his companion, realizing that she might have been finding it chillier than he, what with her flimsy evening gown and no shawl to speak of. “If it’s too cold for you . . . ,” he began, but he stopped when she shook her head.
“Not at all—it’s quite a relief actually.” She nodded toward the ballroom. “As spectacular as it is in there, I’m happy to be able to get a bit of fresh air.”
“All the same, I do hope you’ll let me know as soon as you wish to venture back inside.”
She smiled brightly and Anthony felt his spirits soar. “I shall do so without hesitation,” she promised. “You have my word on it.”
It was Anthony’s turn to smile as he turned toward the far end of the terrace and began leading her forward at a leisurely pace.
Who was this woman he was talking to, and what was it about her exactly that captivated him so? He pondered the question for a moment, but, truth was, he had no idea. What he did know, however, was who she wasn’t. She was not Miss Smith—or at least he didn’t believe her to be—and she did not herald from a town by the name of Flemmington. He could easily drive himself mad speculating about the matter for the remainder of the evening, but he decided to opt for a much easier solution instead.
Anthony stopped in his tracks, bringing her to a standstill as well. He turned his head just enough to gaze down at her. “Tell me, Miss Smith, who are you really?”
He’d never seen anyone pale so quickly before. “It’s quite all right—there’s no need for alarm,” he felt compelled to say for fear that she might actually collapse in a dead faint. “It’s just that there was nobody on the guest list by the name of Smith, and with Flemmington being a fictitious location conjured by my brother’s overactive imagination, the fact that you readily agreed that this was where you were from only suggests that you’ve no desire for anyone to know your true identity. Am I correct?”
She stared back at him for what must surely have been a full minute before her mouth eventually closed. She looked up at him from beneath her long lashes and gave an ever so slight, almost imperceptible nod. “What will you do?” she asked.
“I shan’t have you evicted,” he said, realizing from her heavy sigh of relief that this was what she’d feared most. “After all, with your attire taken into consideration, you must at the very least be gentry—no lowborn person would ever be able to afford such a costly garment.”
“I . . . er . . . ah . . .”
“Oh, I see,” he continued, feeling the urge to tease her a little with the hopeful prospect of easing the tension that had descended upon them. “You are a noblewoman’s stepdaughter, locked away for countless years and forced to tend to your stepsisters’ every demand. But when you heard of the Kingsborough Ball, you stole one of their gowns and snuck away to attend. Am I right?”
“Right enough,” she whispered, smiling just enough to encourage him to continue.
Anthony felt his heart quicken. He wasn’t sure why, but her willingness to play along with this game sparked his interest in her even more. Of course he wondered who she really was—it was impossible for him not to—but for some curious reason, it didn’t seem like the most important thing at the moment. Especially not if she had her own personal reasons for keeping her identity secret. After all, she had mentioned an almost fiancé. What if she simply didn’t want the man to discover she’d come to the ball? It was a possibility.
They started down the steps. After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Why am I still here? You know that I’m an imposter, so why have you not decided to have me escorted off the property? Why, even your brother and mother know the truth, and yet none of you have acted as I would have expected.”
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Anthony turned to look at her. It was difficult for him to discern her expression with the mask she was wearing, but he could see her eyes, and there was something so honest, yet desperate, hidden there that he found it impossible to look away. She was mesmerizing, and whatever reason she had for being there, he knew that it was vitally important to her, that attending the ball was not without risk. “You intrigue me,” he said, for it was the truth.
“And yet I’ve just told you that I have a fiancé.”
“An almost fiancé, I believe you said.”
The spark in her eyes dwindled. “Nevertheless—I will marry him. This . . .” She swept her arm in a wide circle to indicate their extravagant surroundings. “It cannot possibly last.”
Her voice held such a degree of sadness that Anthony felt his heart break for this lovely woman before him. Instinct told him to put his arms around her and hug her against him. He wanted to keep her safe, to prevent her from marrying someone she so obviously had no desire to marry. It must have been something her parents had arranged—a match that would serve all parties most favorably, except of course for Miss Smith. “Have you told your parents that the prospect of marrying this man makes you unhappy?”
She looked at him, wide-eyed. “How did you—”
With a gentle tug, he began leading her toward the pumpkin carriage, the gravel from the walkway crunching ever so softly beneath their feet as they approached the grass. “You may not have said, but it is clear in both your voice and the expression upon your face—your eyes especially.”
She shook her head a little. “It’s a very fortuitous match actually—one that will benefit my family greatly.” She gave him an awkward smile and a shrug before adding, “We do what we must.”
The idea of it made him sick to his stomach. Nobody deserved to marry out of obligation. A thought struck him. What if he courted her? He was a duke, so her parents should have no qualms about approving the match, and besides, he was looking for a bride. Of course, there was no way of knowing if Miss Smith would not just be going from one undesirable fiancé to another. They’d only just met, and there was no way of knowing that he stood a chance of making her any happier than the man she was currently attached to.
And of course there was the slight detail of not knowing who she was. If she was prepared to sacrifice herself on the marriage altar, then perhaps there was something severely wrong with her—something this other gentleman was prepared to overlook, or worse, something he was not yet aware of.
Anthony cast a sideways glance in Miss Smith’s direction. Surely a woman with such delicate features, such clear blue eyes and such a delectable figure had to be perfect in every other regard. It was damn near impossible to imagine otherwise.
Sensing Miss Smith’s desire to avoid any further discussion of the matter, Anthony suggested they have their portraits drawn by the sketch artist instead, and with an eager nod of approval from the lady, he helped her up into the pumpkin carriage after Lord Shelby and a woman who was not his wife had vacated it. Anthony wasn’t usually one to judge (especially given his own history of rakish tendencies), but as it happened, he rather liked Lady Shelby and was therefore unable to keep himself from saying, “Ah, there you are, Shelby.” He eyed the woman Shelby was with—a widow who was notorious for sleeping her way into gentlemen’s pockets. “I say, is your wife aware of the company you keep, old chap?”
“No . . . er . . . I . . . that is . . . ,” Lord Shelby sputtered.
Anthony served him a strict frown. “I suggest you part ways with one another here, and none shall be the wiser—I’ve no desire for a scandal to ruin an otherwise pleasant evening.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Your Grace,” Shelby replied, abandoning the widow posthaste and hurrying off toward the house.
The widow gave Anthony a spiteful glare. “Was that really necessary?”
“I apologize for ruining your fun, Lady Trapleigh, but I suggest you keep your talons away from the married gentlemen this evening, or I shall have you removed from the property.”
She gave him a condescending smirk—her eyes darting toward Miss Smith in a predatory fashion as she took a step toward him, reached out and ran a long finger down his chest. Miss Smith gasped and Lady Trapleigh chuckled. “Perhaps I should offer my services to you instead?”
Years ago he would probably have accepted her proposal with a wicked smile to boot, but things were different now—he was different—and he wanted to do whatever he could to honor the memory of his father. Additionally, he did not want Miss Smith to think poorly of him. Lowering his voice to a near whisper he said, “That you would even imagine I might be interested in whatever it is you have to offer is only a testament to your own poor judgment.” Leaning toward her he added, “We both know that the only reason you were even invited here this evening is entirely out of respect to the friendship your late husband shared with my father.”