Isabel heard her mumble as she left. ‘The little chit cannot carry on a conversation.’
Then Lady Howell walked up to another sea of jewellery. The music ended and words jumped out from within the room. ‘William Balfour’s wife doesn’t know her place in society.’ All the faces turned Isabel’s way.
The musicians even stared at her. How could they know who the woman spoke of? But apparently they did. They’d probably played at many soirées for the same people. This world was no bigger than a teacup and she was being examined as a speck in the bottom of the cup.
William stepped to her elbow and took her hand to pull it to his lips, then tuck it at his arm. ‘Yes, she does know her place, Lady Howell. It is at my side.’ He shot a look at the musicians and the next song began softly, easing the silence. ‘Now we must be leaving, Lady Howell. Duties await us.’
* * *
He stood by his bed, hand on the post. He hadn’t known the right words to say in the carriage and he suspected there weren’t any. At least not that he could think of.
Leaving her alone at the soirée had been a mistake, but he’d been trying to get those horses—which could have waited.
He wanted to make it up to her. Neither of them deserved what had happened. At least she didn’t. Society was not always easy for women who didn’t live in it from birth.
Isabel shouldn’t be belittled, except perhaps for keeping that ridiculously small bed.
Ridiculously small.
Somehow it had become a battlement. A territorial stake of some sort that he didn’t understand. Why, the whole house was hers to command. Everything but his personal effects. And the valet. And the butler. But he wasn’t certain she quite understood about the butler.
He pulled the tail of his shirt from his trousers. His boots were already put away. Reaching for his dressing gown, he placed it over the back of a chair and moved to the hallway.
‘Isabel...’ he opened the door and stuck his head in, inhaling the scent of roses and soaps ‘...it’s too early to sleep.’
‘No it’s not. Not for me. Go away.’ She rolled, putting her back to him. ‘I have a headache that starts at my feet and goes straight to my forehead. The slippers were too tight.’
He left the door open. Moving to a chair, he picked it up and placed it closer to the bed. He sat, clasped his fingers lightly and stretched his legs, one foot moving to her counterpane. His heel rested at a covered mound which hid her leg.
‘I know you’re here for your duty,’ she said.
‘If I must, I must.’
He moved his feet to the floor, scooted his chair closer and pulled the cover from her foot and took it in his hands. Warm and delicate. She slid her foot aside, but he caught it. Covering her foot with his grasp, he kneaded the bottom with both thumbs. Her foot tilted towards him.
He pressed against each muscle, easing away tension, rubbing over the skin, soothing it.
‘That is better than a warm bath,’ she said.
He reached out, caressing the other toes with the same care. ‘Is your headache any better?’
‘I had thought not to wear those slippers again, but I do like the colour and if you could do this afterwards, I might keep them. Would save you the cost of another pair.’
‘But is your headache any better?’
‘I am not sure.’
He continued, sweeping his hands to ankles, kneading and rubbing. ‘I suppose it will take me a while to get there, but I shall.’ He continued sweeping his hands just above her heels. ‘But not in that bed.’
‘So,’ she said. ‘You will not do your duty while I am in this bed.’
He nudged her foot. ‘Duty. That word is hideous.’ He stood. ‘Move over.’
‘I thought you said...’
‘Duty has nothing to do with it. Share the mattress.’
‘There is not room in this bed for two people. It only holds me.’
‘I noticed. Give me some room.’ One knee on the bed, he wedged himself in beside her, tossing the covers away and rolling her to face him. ‘See, it holds two people, except for my feet.’ He moved one leg up and draped it over her thigh and adjusted close. The same delicate scent he’d noticed when he’d walked into the room engulfed him. ‘I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy the soirée. I didn’t either.’
‘I thought Lady Howell’s invitation sincere.’
‘It was—for her. If it makes you feel better, she has called me a tosspot and I believe she called my father a lovestruck chit.’
‘It doesn’t. Now I feel sad for you and your father. Well, for your father.’ She snuggled. ‘Are you a tosspot?’
‘Who knows?’ He shrugged.
Arms tightened around her, embracing her so completely she could feel nothing but maleness and heartbeats. A wall of strength caressing her with the lightest touch. She’d never felt so safe.
Her hand clasped his side, over the cloth of his shirt, and her fingertips brushed back and forth, the friction the cloth created under her hand bringing his skin alive to her touch. ‘Do you think you are a tosspot?’
‘You are intent on that question.’
‘And you do not wish to answer.’
His chest moved with a slow intake of breath, giving her room to get closer and yet, when he breathed out, she remained burrowed against him. ‘I drink more than many, but not as much as I did. Several years ago, I noticed my friends were sotted every night and I was there as often as not.’
The room was silent before he continued, his words pulling her inside his thoughts. ‘I wondered if I could go a fortnight without drink. On the sixth day, I was at the club and the scent of spirits lingered in the air so much I could think of nothing else. I was surrounded by desire for it. I ached for it.’
He stopped speaking. She pressed at his side. ‘Well?’
‘Sylvester put a drink in front of me and I sat with it for hours. But I refused. I went to Sophia’s and slept a few hours until morning and then drank chocolate while I waited for her to wake. I drank possibly three glasses in three hours of waiting for my sister who’d decided to sleep in. Luckily, her cook makes very good chocolate.’
‘I didn’t like it so well as what the cook makes here. Your sister’s burns the mouth.’
‘Ah, yes. It’s very good.’
‘Did you finish the fortnight?’
‘Of course. I didn’t doubt it. I refused to let my want for it overcome what I truly desired and my biggest want was to be in control of the liquid. I didn’t have to drink. Since then I have not felt as if it matters so much whether I have drink or not. On occasion, I even have a child’s drink called milk. I have also discovered that one of my servants can take a jug to a home just outside of town and find water that tastes wondrous and refreshes my thirst better than anything. It is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’ He laughed. ‘I can be as particular about the water I drink as some men are about their brandy. Makes all the difference. Even the tea is better.’
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