“What is it?” Her mother echoed before laughing. “These are invitations! Can you believe it? The ton! The ton knows us. They want us. How wonderful is this? Oh, someone must know about your engagement. Perhaps it isn’t so secret! This will open the doors, I tell you, Isla. It’s just what we need. Our names won’tdo what they did back home, but this… this is a miracle,” the woman insisted with a teary-eyed expression.
The sight twisted Isla’s stomach. “Oh. I… I see. That is very, ehm, lovely.”
She was going to toss up the partial bread crust she had eaten and the fish soup they’d eaten last night. She was certain of it. Her stomach was churning madly and there was a thumping in the back of her skull that suggested she might even be dying. The thumping was so loud, so obnoxious. She squeezed her eyes shut in the hopes it might go away.
“Oh! Who could be at the door?” Her mother cried. “Is it finally visiting hours?”
Opening her eyes, Isla realized the thumping was real. “What? No, it can’t be. It must be a bill collector, Mother, don’t open it––”
Too late.
It was not a bill collector as far as she could tell. The strange didn’t hold a folder or bag or files. All he carried was a cane, black and silver that glinted in the lighting.
Nor was it a visitor whom one might expect during typical visiting hours. Those were always fresh-faced young ladies, intelligent cat-eyed elderly ladies, or fat men with wanderingfingers. There had never been a fourth type of fellow in Isla’s experience, but this one stood out.
She drew closer, unable to help herself.
“Oh. Goodness,” she heard her mother mutter. The accent was coming out thicker than usual. “Good day, sir.”
“Your Grace,” he corrected her curtly.
Isla clutched the wall, suddenly feeling faint. A dreadful feeling washed over her.
No. No, it can’t be. It couldn’t.
“Won’t you invite me in?” The stranger demanded. His hat shielded his gaze in the lighting, but his eyes were on Isla. She could feel them staring right into her soul. The mud was drying and crusting over her skin and she wished she could bury herself in it for good.
“I, oh, yes, of course. Do excuse me. Come in, Your Grace. And…” Her mother was anxious. She kept looking around the man and then back into the house. Even to Isla, who couldn’t help. “And might you… That is… Might we know your name?”
He was tall, so very tall. He would be a head or so taller than Isla who was on the smaller side along with her mother. Broad shouldered but slim, the man carried himself with ease in fine clothing she could see from there.
This was bound to happen, wasn’t it? I invited trouble. I invited him.
He crossed the threshold in a smooth motion. Still out of reach and yet Isla swore she could feel him. Smell him. Touch him. She tried to swallow and move away, but was frozen in place. How could she be afraid? Had she not practically willed him here? Whether a curse or a blessing…
While Isla was not the sort to be afraid, to live in fear, she couldn’t bring herself to move when he finally spoke his name.
“Ronan Ward, the Duke of Westvale, of course.” He removed his hat and now she could see the intensity of his gaze that was set on her. “I wished to speak to the woman I am meant to marry.”
CHAPTER 3
“Och, nay! I mean aye! I mean, yes!”
Ronan forced his gaze to drop to the louder party member.
The woman before him was panicking. She fluttered her hands and danced about him as she shut the door, her wide eyes filled with alarm. As she stumbled over her words to welcome him in, she tried to smile. Gray-streaked brown hair with long cheekbones and small eyes, she had seen better days but seemed mostly sturdy.
Although a servant normally would open a door, Ronan had a small inkling she was no such person. Not when she had the same stature and nose on the more distracting party member ahead of them.
Leaning against the wall almost casually, the young woman stared back at him. Almost like she was daring him to be here. To talk. To acknowledge her.
What did she expect to happen when she used my name?
It was difficult to consider what else she might be like as she was partially covered in mud. Those big eyes of hers blinked, staring at him, but she didn’t say a word.
“Isla!” Finally she flinched at the sound of the woman’s frantic tone. “Can’t you see who has come to visit? At last!” Hastening away from him with a fearful look, the older woman went to the young one. “You must clean up at once. Make yourself presentable. Go, go!”
So it was her. He had guessed. Assumed. There was something of challenge in that gaze of hers that reassured him of who she must be, a stranger daring to entangle herself with him.
