Page 93 of Courting the Wrong Duke

One arm lifted weakly into the air.

“If you've come to bury me,” Gabriel announced to the night sky, “I ask only that you choose a pleasant corner of the garden.”

William laughed despite himself. “That sounds rather dramatic.”

“You say that because your evening ended considerably better than mine.”

Crossing the lawn, William folded his arms. “This has something to do with Miss Hartwell.”

Gabriel let out a sigh worthy of a tragic actor. “I found the gathering.”

“You actually went?”

“I ignored every sensible word you spoke.”

“I suspected as much.”

Gabriel dragged both hands through his hair. “It was magnificent. Poets, painters, philosophers... and Isabella looked happier than I've ever seen her.”

William smiled faintly. “What happened?”

“I panicked.”

“That never bodes well.”

“One of the gentlemen asked how I knew about the gathering.” Gabriel looked positively miserable. “I said Miss Hartwell had invited me.”

William's smile disappeared. “She hadn't introduced herself as Miss Hartwell.”

“She'd introduced herself as Miss Bell.”

William closed his eyes. “Oh, Gabriel.”

“They had no idea she was Baron Hartwell’s daughter.” Gabriel's shoulders slumped. “She goes there to escape all of this, and I ruined it.”

For a moment William simply looked at him. “You made a mistake,” he said quietly. “A foolish one, certainly, but not a cruel one.”

Gabriel gave a humorless laugh. “I rather doubt she will see the distinction.”

“Perhaps not tonight.” William looked toward the house before offering his friend a hand. “But tomorrow I will speak with Rosalind. She understands Miss Hartwell better than either of us, and if anyone knows how to mend this, it will be her.”

Gabriel accepted the offered hand. “I hope you are right.”

“So do I.”

Together they climbed the front steps.

Gabriel retired to the guest chamber with the slow, defeated gait of a man convinced the world had ended.

William watched him disappear up the staircase, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite everything that had transpired that evening. He wished his friend goodnight, waited until the bedroom door clicked quietly shut, then remained standing alone in the entrance hall.

The house had settled into the deep stillness that belonged only to the hours after midnight.

Somewhere in the distance, an old clock marked the quarter hour with a single muted chime. The servants had long since retired, the fires had burned low, and the polished marble beneath William's boots reflected little more than the soft glow of the lamps left burning through the night.

He ought to have been exhausted.

Instead, the quiet seemed to give his thoughts more room to move.