He hadn’t called on her—not today, not yesterday and not the day before that either. Isabella yanked a potato out of the ground and tossed it into a nearby basket. She’d pushed him too far with her stubbornness, and now he wanted nothing to do with her—and after he’d been so kind as to buy her that book. It was a good book too, with a definite flair for the dramatic.
No, he was probably showering Lady Harriett with attention instead. A fierce pang of jealousy sprang to life in Isabella’s chest, so painful that she actually winced. What right did she have to feel that way? She’d rejected him—repeatedly—and he’d decided to move on. It was for the best really, and it was what she wanted. Wasn’t it?
No, her inner voice screamed. The thought of him marrying someone else—of him touching any other woman the way he’d touched her—Dear God, she couldn’t bear it.
Yanking another potato from the ground, she considered her options. Lady Harriett had told her that she and Anthony were betrothed, but something about her words and the way she’d spoken them had rung false. In fact, Isabella was willing to guess that Lady Harriett had taken an interest in Anthony and was trying to eliminate her competition, which would explain why she’d threatened her.
But before she hurried off to confront him about it, Isabella had to make a decision. Would she be the dutiful daughter everyone expected her to be, condemning herself to live unhappily ever after with Mr. Roberts? Or would she do what she knew would make her happy and marry the duke instead? If there was ever a time in her life when she ought to be selfish, then this was surely it. Her parents would undoubtedly be furious—might never speak to her again—and Mr. Roberts would be . . . well, he wouldn’t be happy, that was for sure. But she and the duke would be, though they would not avoid scandal.
Standing there in the vegetable patch with her hands all covered in dirt, she finally made her decision—she would go to him and ask him about Lady Harriett, and if he denied any connection to the woman, Isabella would accept his offer of marriage. She’d run away with him if that was what it took for them to be together.
A weight was lifted from her heart in that moment. Hopefully her parents would not be too cross with her—especially once they realized how much easier their lives would be with the duke’s protection. He would care for them, she was certain of that.
Finishing her task, she took her basket to the kitchen and gave it to Marjorie, after which she ran to her room, washing her hands and face at the washbasin and changing into a clean gown. Filled with excitement, she wrote a quick note to her mother explaining that she would be back later in the day, then left the cottage at a brisk pace.
It took her half an hour to arrive at the massive front door to Kingsborough Hall, and for a long while she just stood there, staring at it as she tried to calm herself. Taking a deep breath, she eventually stepped forward just as the door swung open, revealing none other than the odious Lady Harriett.
Isabella froze. What on earth was she doing here unless . . . No, it wasn’t possible. Whatever the case, Isabella would not be made to feel inferior by such a vile woman, so, squaring her shoulders, she stood her ground, offered Lady Harriett a curt nod in greeting and then looked beyond her, at the butler. “I’m here to see the duke,” she announced, trying very hard to ignore Lady Harriett’s glare.
The butler peered down his nose at her and said, “The servant’s entrance is at the back, miss, though I don’t believe we’re presently hiring.”
Lady Harriett snickered, and again Isabella ignored her, determined to make her case. “I am not here as a servant but as an acquaintance of the duke.”
The butler looked dubious but at least asked her name, which she gave him. He seemed to consider it for a moment before saying, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard mention of you. Besides, His Grace is no longer in residency.”
Isabella’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“He has left town, Miss Chilcott, and I am not at liberty to say when he will return. Now, if you will please excuse me, I have a job to do.” And without further ado the door closed in Isabella’s face.
“I thought I had made myself clear,” Lady Harriett said. Isabella turned to look at her and was struck by the venom that shone in her eyes. Surely Anthony couldn’t mean to marry such a creature. “He no longer wants you, and with the Season about to begin, I suspect it will be an age before he returns, and once he does . . . well, it shall be with me on his arm. We are to announce our engagement, you see. That is why I was here—to ensure that all will be ready for my arrival as duchess.”
Isabella gaped at her. She glanced at the door, then back at Lady Harriett, who was looking far too pleased with herself. In that moment, Isabella lost hope. She’d pushed him away and he’d left without a single word of warning, to set up his residency in London, no doubt, where Lady Harriett would reconvene with him.
Isabella hadn’t wanted to believe it, but the butler’s concise dismissal of her made it difficult to deny what Lady Harriett had told her.
With a breaking heart, she straightened her back and addressed the woman before her. “I will stay away from him,” she promised in a low whisper. “You have my word on it.” And before Lady Harriett had a chance to see the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes, Isabella turned on her heel and strode away, hurt and angry. How could he? What kind of man chased after a woman, desperate to make her his wife, only to choose someone else without a moment’s notice? One who clearly didn’t feel for her what she felt for him. “I hate him,” she muttered as she walked the long and tedious road leading back to Moxley.
In the space of one week, he’d made her long for something more than what was her due, he’d made her believe he cared, had given her a taste of passion and had, with his charm, his touch, his words, made her fall desperately in love with him. And then he’d left her—gone to London to prepare for the Season and the arrival of his fiancée. She’d never hated anyone as much as she hated him in that moment. What a fool she’d been to think that a duke would actually want anything more from her than a few laughs, some stolen kisses and . . . thank God she’d managed to preserve her innocence, or she might have been left to bring a child into the world on her own.
It was no wonder that her mother hated his kind. They were arrogant people who toyed with people’s lives, as if doing so was a game to them. She had been a game to him. That much was clear now. She stopped for breath, her heart pounding in her chest as the tears flowed down her cheeks. She wiped them hastily away when she spotted a carriage rolling toward her. As it came closer it slowed, coming to an eventual stop as it drew up beside her. The door opened and Mr. Roberts peered out, tipping his hat in greeting. “Miss Chilcott, I’ve been hoping to speak to you. I trust you have fully recovered from your ailment?”
She nodded, recalling how she’d remained in her room when he’d called on her Sunday for tea. She’d been in no mood to entertain him—her meeting with Anthony in the bookshop earlier in the day had been too troubling to think of. “Yes, thank you,” she said, smiling up at him.
“I’m glad to hear it, though I’m not the least bit pleased to find you trudging about the countryside like this. It really won’t do. The future Mrs. Roberts must ride in a carriage.”
There were so many things wrong with that statement that Isabella didn’t know where to begin. For one thing, she’d received no proposal from him yet, nor had she accepted. Next, there was the fact that now he was prohibiting her from walking, which she might have been able to accept if, like Anthony’s, his reasoning had been based on some concern for her safety. However, it was perfectly clear that the only thing concerning Mr. Roberts was that he keep a high standard for appearance’s sake.
Nevertheless, it wouldn’t do to offend him by saying any of those things, since she would soon be accepting his offer. Or at least she hoped so, for if he too decided to cast her aside, it would leave her family in dire straits indeed. So when he offered her his hand, she obediently accepted it, allowing him to help her up into the landau, where she took the seat across from him. “To Moxley,” he then directed the driver. Turning to Isabella he said, “It’s time we find you something decent to wear.”
“I beg your pardon?” He’d said it as if she’d been a river rat that he’d just fished out of the Thames when in fact she’d worn her best gown, thinking she’d be seeing Anthony. She pushed all thought of him aside—as difficult as that was to do—and focused on Mr. Roberts instead.
“Well,” he said, peering at her. “You can’t expect me to make a proper proposal unless you look the part.”
“The part,” she reiterated, sounding daft to her own ears. Then again, the man whose company she was keeping had just claimed her unfit for a proposal given her present attire. It rankled her beyond imagining, but what choice did she have but to keep quiet?
“Of my future wife, Miss Chilcott.” Good God, could he possibly sound more patronizing? He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes on her as he tilted his head a little and asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No,” she muttered, fearful that if she said what she truly thought, he’d toss her out in the road and never speak to her again. She couldn’t afford that—not with Anthony gone, and with her parents and Jamie relying on her to make a sensible decision.
Mr. Roberts leaned back against his seat. “Good,” he said. “Because the only reason that I am prepared to marry you, Miss Chilcott, is because your father gave the impression that you are capable of being both discreet and compliant. Based on my own assessment of you for the past year, I’ve had no reason to disagree with him. However, if something has happened recently, and you no longer feel yourself capable of being the wife I seek, then by all means, do let me know so that I may place my interests elsewhere.”
Isabella trembled. He’d just given her a means of escape, but it was one she couldn’t possibly accept, least of all now. She had to reassure him somehow. “Please don’t misunderstand me, sir. I am exceedingly grateful for everything you’ve done for me and my family, and your offer to see me properly outfitted is very much appreciated.” She forced herself to smile. “Considering your own impeccable taste in clothes, I know that I shall be in good hands, and I assure you that once we marry, you can count on me to be as discreet and compliant as you require. I know how important privacy is to you.”
He didn’t answer immediately, and Isabella found herself holding her breath while she prayed that he wouldn’t see right through her. For the truth of the matter was that she had never in her life resented another person as much as she did this man. She needed him though, as unbearable as that was, and found herself relieved when he eventually said, “I believe I shall order a new jacket and trousers as well—to match your gown.”
And no matter how ridiculous Isabella thought they might look garbed in the same fabric, she kept quiet this time, unwilling to say anything that might cause him to change his mind.
Anthony was in a state of panic. He’d been gone from Moxley for three days, and he’d forgotten to send a letter explaining his absence to Isabella. With a groan he stared out the window at the passing countryside. His mother had fallen asleep shortly after their departure from Chester House, which hadn’t surprised him in the least, since she’d hardly slept at all during their stay there.
Neither had he, for that matter. He’d had plenty to see to, with an aunt paralyzed on her entire right side, an uncle in shock, a mother who hadn’t stopped crying since seeing her sister in such a god-awful state, servants who’d gone adrift from lack of instruction, and a physician who’d seemed more interested in having his bills paid than in caring for his patient.
It had been a tremendous ordeal, and while he’d thought of Isabella a number of times, there had always been something to distract him from getting that letter written and mailed out. Thankfully, his cousins had arrived last evening and Anthony and his mother had been able to depart. They needed rest, if nothing else.
Closing his eyes, he saw Isabella’s smiling face before him. She must have been livid, for he’d told her four days ago that he would call on her the day after. One thing was certain—he’d have to make a good apology, though knowing how attentive she was toward her own aunt, he felt confident that she would understand once he explained the reason for his sudden departure. With that thought lifting his spirits, he leaned his head back against the plush upholstery that the seat offered and allowed the sway of the carriage to lull him to sleep.
“Anthony,” his mother’s voice whispered from somewhere far away. “You must wake up.”
He chose to ignore her, turning his head away from the direction of her voice as he attempted to hold on to his dream—one in which Isabella was walking toward him in a flowing white gown, her hair falling over her shoulders. It was a good dream—a happy dream—one that he wasn’t prepared to part with just yet.
“Anthony,” his mother’s voice was louder—more urgent. “Wake up right now, do you hear me?”
He tried to wave her away, but she grabbed his arm instead and gave it a hard yank. “What the devil did you have to do that for?”
She gave him a tart look—no doubt in response to his profanity—then jutted her chin toward the window. Turning his head, Anthony looked out and discovered that they had returned to Moxley, the carriage at a standstill while a farmer passed with his cart. It took him a moment to figure out why his mother had woken him but once he did, he felt his jaw clench, for there was Miss Chilcott hanging on the arm of Mr. Roberts, gazing up at him and smiling as the two of them entered the modiste’s.
Bloody, bloody hell!
“You have to do something,” his mother said.
Like punch someone, Anthony thought. Mr. Roberts would do nicely. He nodded. “I couldn’t agree more. I take it they didn’t notice us?”
“Not as far as I can tell,” his mother said. She looked away, and Anthony knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. When she met his gaze it was with great hesitation. “It appeared as though Mr. Roberts was too busy telling Miss Chilcott about something, while she in turn was giving him her undivided attention. I doubt either one of them would have noticed if a parade of elephants had wandered by.”
Not the answer he’d been hoping for. He felt his chest constrict. If he’d lost her to that bore, he’d . . . he’d . . . hell, he didn’t know what he’d do. “I’ll see you at home, Mama,” he said, scrambling to get out of the carriage so he could hurry to the modiste’s and intervene in Miss Chilcott’s outing with Mr. Roberts. Once on the ground, he gave his mother an awkward smile. “There’s something I must see to first.”
She nodded her understanding and wished him good luck.
As he strode across the street, his heart was pounding, his hands felt sweaty and there was a jitteriness coursing through him that he didn’t much care for. Truth was, he was terrified—terrified that Mr. Roberts had finally gone and proposed to her during his absence, terrified that she had accepted his offer, since Anthony had seemingly vanished, and terrified that she didn’t reciprocate the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him with their power.
“Ho there, Kingsborough!”
Anthony stopped in his tracks and turned his head to find Casper striding toward him.
“I tried calling on you yesterday but was turned away by Phelps—thought you might have removed yourself to London already.”
“No. I was called away on some family business.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?” Casper said, frowning.
Anthony gave his friend a quick account of all that had happened in the last few days while his friend’s frown deepened in response to every word. “I’m so sorry to hear it,” he said once Anthony had finished. “How is your mother taking it?”
“As one would expect—she’s devastated.”
Casper nodded. “Perhaps it will be good for her to get to London and attend some social functions. The ball she hosted livened her spirits.”
“I think you may be right. It’s just . . .”
“Are you still chasing that Chilcott chit?” There was a look of amusement in Casper’s eyes that Anthony didn’t much appreciate. And then his friend said the one thing that Anthony couldn’t dispute. “Good God, Anthony—you’re completely besotted by her.”
“Well . . . I . . .”
Casper barked a laugh. “You, of all people—a notorious rake! Well I’ll be.”
“A reformed rake,” Anthony muttered, crossing his arms and standing his ground.
“I hear they make the best of husbands,” Casper said. He was smiling so broadly that Anthony could see all his teeth. “And you’re a duke, to boot. What an excellent catch for her.”
“Perhaps you’d like to tell her that,” Anthony grumbled. He and Casper had known each other since they were lads, so since they’d already embarked on this subject, Anthony saw no point in holding back.
Casper’s face grew serious once again. He stared back at his friend in disbelief. “She won’t have you?”
“Apparently she has some duty toward Mr. Roberts, and with me having been away for three days without giving her any hint of where I went and why, I’m inclined to assume the worst.” He nodded toward the door to the modiste’s. “They’re in there together right now.”
Understanding dawned on Casper’s face. “You were going to happen upon them accidentally, weren’t you?”
Anthony shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Come on then,” Casper said. “I’ll help you out.”
“You will do no such—” But his friend stepped past him, opened the door and entered the shop before Anthony had a chance to finish his sentence. With a deep breath, he followed him inside, keeping close to the exit while he surveyed the space.
There were bundles of fabric everywhere, in all possible colors and nuances. Anthony had never seen anything like it, for he had all his clothes made in London. The tailor came to him, he’d select the fabric based on swatches and that would be the end of it. This . . . it was overwhelming.
Following Casper, he ventured further inside the shop, his hand deliberately reaching out to touch a shimmery blue silk that slipped between his fingers like water, and an image of Isabella dressed in the fabric, of his hands running over her body and of . . . The sound of her voice coming from the far corner of the room snapped him out of his reverie. “What about the lilac muslin over there?” she asked.
“Too dull,” came Mr. Roberts’s voice. “You need something more vibrant, like that amaranthine velvet, for instance.”
Did he just sigh? Anthony met Casper’s gaze, and, judging by his attempt to restrain his laughter, Anthony knew that yes, Mr. Roberts had just sighed over a fabric. What the hell was wrong with him?
“The purple one?” Miss Chilcott asked, her voice sounding not the least bit convinced. “It’s a bit too bold, don’t you think?”
There was a loud sigh, upon which Mr. Roberts could be heard saying, “It is important to recognize the exact hue, Miss Chilcott. ‘Purple’ is much too broad a descriptive for such a lovely shade, and no, it is not too bold. Imagine it trimmed with black and with a black spencer to match.” His voice had taken on a dreamy note. “You’ll look—”
“Like a plum?” Isabella offered.
It was Anthony’s turn to press his lips together to keep from laughing.
“No, Miss Chilcott. Plum is an entirely different color.”
“Why, hello, Miss Chilcott,” Casper said as he rounded the display shelves that stood in the middle of the room, blocking Miss Chilcott and Mr. Roberts from Anthony’s view. “And Mr. Roberts is here too, I see. What a coincidence, since I was just on my way over to call on you—thought I’d stop in here first to see if I might be able to find something appropriate for my . . . er . . . friend.”
Anthony groaned. Was it really necessary for Casper to refer to one of his mistresses in front of Isabella? On the other hand, what other reason would he possibly have for visiting a modiste? He considered stepping forward and announcing his own presence, but he stopped himself when Casper continued. “I couldn’t help but overhear your recommendation to Miss Chilcott—seems you’re quite the expert with regard to fashion. Perhaps you’d be willing to help me out? There’s a fine selection of laces over here.”
“Yes . . . yes, of course, Mr. Goodard,” Mr. Roberts said, taking the bait without the least bit of hesitation and sounding most flattered. “I would be happy to help.”
Anthony heard them move and was about to do so himself when it must have occurred to Mr. Roberts that he was meant to be escorting Miss Chilcott. “That is, of course, if you do not mind,” he said, addressing her as if she’d now become a nuisance.
“By all means,” she said. “Take your time. I shall continue to admire the amanthine until you return.”
“Amaranthine,” Mr. Roberts corrected, his voice tinged with exasperation.
Another shuffle of feet sounded, followed by footsteps as Casper and Mr. Roberts moved to the other side of the shop. Anthony made his move, rounding the shelves.
There before him stood Isabella, her back slightly toward him as she looked down at the piece of fabric that lay spread out on a counter. Did Mr. Roberts really intend for her to wear that? It would never suit someone as gentle and kind as her—it was much too gaudy for a woman with such soft blonde hair and pale complexion. She needed something milder, like the silk he’d seen at the front of the shop.
Stepping forward, he moved closer until he was standing at her right shoulder, but she was so lost in thought—serious thought, if the crease between her eyebrows was any indication—that she didn’t register him at all. How he longed to smooth away her worries and distract her from all her concerns. “If it’s any consolation, I would have said it was purple too,” he whispered.
She spun toward him, eyes wide, and in one fraction of a second he saw the contents of her heart. Then she must have remembered his absence—that he hadn’t called on her like he’d said he would and that he hadn’t even sent her a note—for her expression became shuttered, and when she spoke, her voice was as cool as rime on a winter’s morning. “I have nothing to say to you. Please leave.”
“I’m sorry about the way I—”
He was cut off by her laugh—quite possibly the most sarcastic laugh he’d ever heard. “Sorry? Whatever for? You owe me nothing, Your Grace, least of all an apology.” The struggle that raged within her was so painful to watch that Anthony was tempted to look away. He forced himself not to, took a deep breath and placed his gloved hand upon the one she was resting on the counter. It did not have the effect he’d been hoping for. Instead she snatched her hand away and glared up at him. “How dare you?” she seethed.
He felt himself stiffen as anger rose in him as well. He might not have acted very gentlemanly toward her, but he had his reason—a very good reason, in fact—yet here she was in Mr. Roberts’s company, treating him with disdain when she’d not even listened to what he had to say. He opened his mouth to speak, when the tinkling of a bell announced the arrival of yet another customer and he heard both Casper and Mr. Roberts say in unison, “Lady Harriett, how do you do?”
What followed happened with such speed that Anthony wasn’t entirely sure of what to make of it. One moment, Isabella was standing before him, the next she was dashing past him, only to trip over a bolt of fabric that had fallen to the floor and land in a heap with the grace of a sack of potatoes and a loud “umph.”
Anthony stepped forward to help her up, taking her by the arm as he asked about her welfare.
“Please don’t touch me,” she whispered, attempting to shake him off as her eyes darted about with the fear one might expect from a rabbit chased by a hound. What the devil?
“Kingsborough!” a sweet voice chimed just then, and Anthony turned his head to find the detestable Lady Harriett smiling up at him with stars in her eyes. “I had no idea that you were back in town—what a lovely surprise. After our last conversation I hadn’t thought I’d see you before the Darwich Ball, but since you’re here . . .” Her words trailed off, and Anthony could have sworn that the look she served Isabella held some hidden meaning.
If only he could figure out what the bloody hell was going on. He wasn’t afforded much time to consider it though before the lady continued by saying, “Perhaps you could help me find a suitable fabric for the gown I plan to wear that evening. You could have a waistcoat made to match—now wouldn’t that be splendid!”
Anthony sensed Isabella stiffen by his side and realized what game Lady Harriett was playing at. She knew he had designs on Isabella because, like an idiot, he’d blurted out his plans without thinking what a woman like her might do when she discovered her adversary to be of such inferior rank.
He pulled himself up to his full height and opened his mouth to give the abominable creature the proper set down she deserved when Mr. Roberts came up beside Lady Harriett with Casper right on his heels. Casper gave Anthony a look of apology while Mr. Roberts stared at him in surprise. “Your Grace,” he said. His gaze drifted to where Anthony’s hand still gripped Isabella’s arm before returning to Anthony’s face with a frown of disapproval. “I didn’t realize you were here as well.” His features softened, but when he spoke, there was no mistaking the menace of his question. “I hope you’re not planning to abscond with my fiancée.”
Fiancée?
Had he proposed, then? More importantly, had Isabella accepted? She must have if Mr. Roberts was claiming her to be his fiancée. A pang of jealous rage poured through him at the thought of it, but he forced himself to remain still and in control of his features. There was no way he would allow any of the people present to know the weight of the blow that Mr. Roberts had just dealt him. Releasing Isabella, since this seemed the prudent thing to do, he said, “Miss Chilcott took a tumble—I was merely helping her up when Lady Harriett arrived. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Mr. Roberts said, his assessing gaze still fixed on Anthony. “It is only too fortunate that you were here to assist. Thank you.”
Anthony glanced at Isabella, hoping that something in her eyes—some truth she dared not speak—would answer the one question that he dared not, could not, ask. Are you engaged to this man? But he found nothing there to appease the uproar that had taken hold of him, and when Mr. Roberts announced that he had placed the order for the amaranthine velvet and that he and Miss Chilcott also had plans to visit the milliner’s in pursuit of a new bonnet for Miss Chilcott, Anthony was left with no choice but to watch her walk away.
Nothing had ever depressed him more, but at least he’d handled the situation with the same degree of restraint his father would have shown. It was a small comfort.
“So, Miss Chilcott is to marry Mr. Roberts, then?” a vexing voice asked as soon as the couple had left.
“Lady Harriett . . .” There was no mistaking the warning in Casper’s voice as he tried to silence the nefarious woman, but she stupidly added, “How disappointing that must be for you, Your Grace.”
His name coming from her lips grated, and Anthony stared at her, his eyes trapping her with menace, all thought of the civility he’d shown a moment earlier forgotten. She gasped a little and took a retreating step backward, but he was too angry to care. “What did you do?” he asked, his voice filled with ducal command.
“I . . . I . . . I don’t know—”
“That is not the answer I am seeking, my lady.” He leaned toward her, taking perverse pleasure in watching her tremble as she leaned back until she hit the shelving unit. “Miss Chilcott was terrified of you, and you took the opportunity to imply that you and I have formed an attachment, so don’t feign ignorance with me. I know a snake when I see one.”
She gasped at the insult. “It was merely a bit of fun, really,” she said, her gaze shifting imploringly to Casper, but she would find no help from him.
“Fun?” Anthony’s words dripped with incredulity, and then the dam broke and he found himself yelling, “FUN?”
The shopkeeper came running to ask if everything was all right, but she took one look at Anthony and chose to retreat to a safe distance. Anthony forced himself to take a deep breath. He had to get himself back under control—dukes yelling at people in shops simply wasn’t done—and to think how well he’d handled the situation with Mr. Roberts, only to lose his temper a second later. Closing his eyes to avoid having to look at the woman before him, he reined in his emotions. He couldn’t be sure of what she’d told Isabella, but he had an inkling, and when he spoke again his voice was a deep rumble—the sort that demanded obedience in the most rebellious sorts. “Please stay away from her, Lady Harriett. Do not speak to her or approach her, for if you do, I cannot answer to the consequences.”
There was a beat of silence, and then she asked, her voice snippy and completely lacking the respect that was his due, “Is that a threat?”
“You can bet your bonnet it is, my lady.” Anthony turned on his heels and stormed out. Good Lord, he’d never considered resorting to murder before, yet there were suddenly two people whom he was now very keen to dispose of.
“I say, Anthony,” Casper said from somewhere behind him. “That was very well done, indeed. Bravo!”
“That woman has overstepped,” Anthony said as he marched along, his anger still coursing through his veins, putting his nerves on edge and tightening his muscles.
“I couldn’t agree more!” Anthony could hear Casper’s footsteps quickening as he tried to keep pace. He said nothing more for a while, but when Anthony turned sharply onto Church Lane, he asked, “Where are we heading?”
“To Miss Chilcott’s house.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Casper asked, hurrying after him.
Anthony spun around to face his friend, stopping so abruptly that the two almost collided. “I need to know if Mr. Roberts spoke the truth when he referred to her as his fiancée, I have to tell her that whatever Lady Harriett has said to her is a lie, and I have to explain the reason for my absence.”
There was sympathy in Casper’s eyes as he regarded Anthony. “I don’t mean to point out the obvious, but Miss Chilcott does seem quite determined to thwart your advances. Are you sure it wouldn’t be best for you to direct your attentions elsewhere? If we go to London—”
“You don’t understand,” Anthony said, knowing how impossible it was for his friend the rake to comprehend the sort of power love could hold over a man. It was crippling, really. “It is either her or no one. I will not go to London to waste my time on women I don’t give a flip about when the one woman who fills my every thought is right here. I need to make this right—this tangled mess that threatens to drive me insane.”
“Well, you certainly don’t lack determination,” Casper offered with the barest hint of a smile.
Anthony held his gaze. “I’ll do whatever it takes to secure her hand.”
“Providing it’s legal of course,” Casper said, his eyes starting to sparkle.
Anthony deliberately hesitated just long enough to make his friend wonder before he responded, “Of course.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
They’d started walking again, though at a more casual pace. Anthony pondered the question a moment before saying, “Yes, I believe there is. The Season is starting, and since I have no intention of leaving Moxley before I’ve settled this matter with Miss Chilcott, I’d be most obliged if you would see to escorting my mother to London for me. Louise and Winston will be better company for her right now than I, and as you mentioned earlier, attending a few social functions will do her good.”
“I will be happy to help if she agrees. Just let me know when she will be ready for departure.”
Anthony nodded. “She wished to invite Miss Chilcott for tea in order to further her acquaintance with her. If they meet tomorrow, then I see no reason why you cannot depart the day after that, but I will send a note around so you are made aware of the proceedings.”
They came to a halt in front of Miss Chilcott’s home. “You’re quite optimistic,” Casper remarked, “to think that you can pacify Miss Chilcott to the point where she will be willing to appear at Kingsborough Hall tomorrow. I suggest you pray for a miracle.”
“No need,” Anthony said, sensing that whatever miracle he needed had already occurred in the form of his mother’s request. “I shall not be the one issuing the invitation, Casper—my mother shall, and I doubt very much that Miss Chilcott would turn down the Duchess of Kingsborough for any reason.”
“My dear man,” Casper chuckled as he dipped his head in admiration, “I fear your quarry may have underestimated her pursuer, but wouldn’t it be better, then, to give her time to cool a little? Surely you can wait until tomorrow with your questioning.”
Anthony shook his head. “No, for I wish to give her something to consider before we meet again, and besides, I doubt I’ll get a moment’s rest tonight unless I discover whether or not she has promised herself to Mr. Roberts.”