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With fingers to the door handle, she paused and gazed back, expecting to find the duke tidying himself or scribbling as was his wont or gazing moodily from the window. But he regarded her with an expression she did not recognise – profound and serious.
“Good night,” she repeated.
He gave a brief bow as though she were a lady. “Until the morrow.”
Isabelle made for the servants’ stairs, palms to her flushed cheeks.
Now that she was alone, no doubt that horrid angel would soon return. To berate and pester but for the time being a sense of peaceful wholeness enshrouded her.
And all that repeated in her mind were the lines from Byrne’s poem.
Love waits for my surrender,
Ever to greet my bared heart…
