Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“You don’t have to agree with me all the time.” There. He had to be blunt.
Another smile.
“What do you like to do in your spare time?”
Her eyebrow twitched. “I like playing the piano. Would you like me to play the piano for you?”
So Helen lied sometimes, too.
“Later, perhaps.”
“Of course.”
Isabella hooked her arm through Patrick’s, and they improvised a gallop in the middle of the path. She smiled so brightly her whole face transformed. Patrick laughed, too. Grandmama, sitting on a bench with Lady Montrose, frowned. All normal.
“That’s what I mean, Anthony,” Helen whispered. “Mother asked Isabella to behave, but she didn’t listen.”
“They aren’t doing anything inappropriate, and Patrick is as boisterous as Isabella.”
Her cheeks reddened. “Naturally. You’re right. There’s nothing wrong. I actually admire her spontaneity.”
Bloody hell. Did Helen have an opinion that was her own? Although the last statement seemed her first genuine one.
There was a quick exchange of glances between Isabella and her mother, and the moment after, Isabella stopped dancing. Her merriment vanished, and her cheeks paled as she talked in hushed tones with Patrick.
Anger flared up in his chest. Anything she did was criticised and doused by her family. She already doubted herself without the added worry of being perfect all the time.
The more he thought about her, the more he believed she would be his perfect duchess. And the more he thought of her as his duchess, the more a fluttery feeling in his chest started. He liked her. He liked himself when he was with her. Her light and happiness were becoming an addiction for him.
The only question was if he had the right to take her into a family where her light and fire would be challenged further.
* * *
The crushingfeeling on Anthony’s chest was utterly unjustified as he bade farewell to Isabella the next day. The speed with which her infectious personality had affected him was ridiculous, but he was going to see her soon.
Her family’s luggage was gathered in the courtyard, taken care of by the footmen. Lord and Lady Montrose were talking with Grandmama. Helen was exchanging a few polite words with Patrick, which left Isabella only for him.
“Thank you for your company,” he said, fighting the urge to take her hand.
“I’m sorry to have attacked you,” she whispered. “And thank you for not mentioning the incident to anyone.”
“I would never, but I doubt anyone would believe me.”
Once the carriages were ready, he helped her get in. He wished he could pull her close and ask her to stay with him. When she sat down, he reluctantly left her hand.
“Have a pleasant journey back.”
The others talked and bade farewell, but he kept his attention on Isabella’s bright face. The moment the footman shut the carriage door, darkness claimed his thoughts. Now that he’d experienced her joy, he was afraid of returning to his solitude.
“Why are you so forlorn?” Grandmama asked. “You’re going to see her soon.”
By ‘her’ she meant Helen, but he didn’t correct her assumption. He didn’t want to tell her Helen was never going to be his wife.
He wanted to keep his secret for a little longer and cherish Isabella’s presence in his heart.
