Page 26 of Courting the Wrong Duke

She merely shook her head, though the smile she tried to suppress betrayed her entirely.

Rosalind found herself smiling as well.

Beside her, William followed her gaze. “My apologies,” he said.

She glanced at him in amusement. “For what?”

“Mr. Frost has never believed a stranger should remain one for very long.”

“I rather think Miss Hartwell is proving equal to the challenge.”

“I rather think she is.”

Their eyes met across the short distance between them.

Once, there had been a time when neither of them would have thought anything of standing this close, of speaking this easily. She could not remember precisely when that familiarity had disappeared, only that somewhere between childhood summers and London Seasons it had quietly slipped away.

Strange how easily it threatened to return.

Rosalind looked away first.

The silence that settled between them no longer carried yesterday's strain. They had not found Lord Eastmere, nor had either uncovered more than a single, ordinary piece of evidence. Yet somewhere between an appointment at Tattersall's and a restored invitation, she had found someone who wanted to find her father as she did.

Though Rosalind still wondered if Lord William’s motives were as pure as her own.

***

They returned briefly to Eastmere House, where her mother received the restored invitation with visible relief.

The gowns intended for that evening's exhibition had already been sent to Madame Fournier before the invitation had been withdrawn, requiring only their final fitting and collection.

“There is no sense allowing perfectly good alterations to go to waste,” her mother declared briskly. “You and Isabella must fetch them at once.”

Thus, scarcely half an hour after returning home, the ladies found themselves once again in the carriage.

As Bond Street drew nearer, Isabella waited until Eastmere House had disappeared from view before breaking the comfortable silence.

“You are dreading tonight.”

Rosalind gave a humorless laugh. “Is it truly so obvious?”

“To me.” Isabella tilted her head. “Though I suspect your meeting with Lord William has improved your spirits a little.”

Rosalind looked at her sharply. “It has done no such thing.”

“Has it not?”

“He merely provided another piece of evidence.”

“Of course.”

Rosalind narrowed her eyes. “You are insufferable.”

Isabella's smile only widened.

Rosalind looked away, watching rows of elegant townhouses drift past the carriage window.

“I have no heart for it, Isabella,” she said after a moment. “The exhibition itself would once have been pleasant enough. Now all I can think of are the whispers. Every conversation that stops the moment I enter a room. Every person wondering whether Father abandoned us because he grew tired of us.”