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And then she would settle down at one of Gage’s quiet estates.
So lost was Isabel in pleasant thoughts of the future that she hadn’t heard the steps slowly approaching until someone grabbed her by the arms and shoved her into the nearest alcove.
Isabel took a breath to scream, but a hand covered her mouth.
“Shh, it’s just me.” The hand slowly lifted off her face. “Please, do not scream.”
Isabel squinted in the dim alcove only to recognize Stanhope, her former betrothed, as he stood a few inches away from her.
“Oh, Lord, you frightened me out of my wits!” Isabel said in a hushed tone.
“Apologies, but I had to be circumspect. I’ve been meaning to speak to you all evening.”
“Why?” Isabel smoothed her skirts, while inside, her turmoil raged. “Why not just approach me in the ballroom?”
“Because what I am about to say to you is not for anyone else’s ears. I-I needed to speak to you privately.”
Isabel looked around the curtain-shielded alcove and crossed her arms over her chest. She felt vulnerable alone with the man who’d broken her heart and wished to be out of the confined space as soon as she could. “Well, we are certainly alone now. What do you wish to speak to me about?”
“Isabel… I know that we haven’t spoken for a long time, and I know that I am to blame, but I wanted to apologize for the way I behaved when your mother passed on.”
Isabel was taken aback for a moment, but she quickly composed herself and scoffed. “Please, this is unnecessary. It was a long time ago and best left forgotten.”
“But it’s not,” Stanhope said vehemently. “My mother pressured me to get married. With her health issues, she was worried I’d be left without a mistress of the estate, and you know she was all about doing one’s duty.”
Isabel and Stanhope had been betrothed for over a year, and his mother had not been vehement about them marrying. So Isabel doubted she’d suddenly pushed him into marriage in a span of two weeks. Unless, of course, she’d taken the opportunity to get him married to someone more suitable than a viscount’s daughter. She decided not to voice her thoughts, however.
“I wanted to wait for you, but with your mourning, I knew I couldn’t wed you soon. And I couldn’t go against my mother’s insistence… I know it is a poor excuse,” he hastened to continue when he saw Isabel was about to interject, “but I was young and a fool. Please, I do hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
Isabel stood frozen, listening to the overdue apology. How many nights had she cried, wishing for Stanhope to call on her after their family tragedy? How many times had she wished to be enveloped in his comforting embrace? But it had been years ago. Stanhope had ignored her and hadn’t made any attempts to speak to her since. What had changed, and more importantly, why now?
“Very well,” Isabel said slowly. “I forgive you.”
She moved to leave, but Stanhope took her hands in his. A frisson of pleasure passed through her despite her better judgment.
“Truly?” His voice held a note of hope.
This was too much. Isabel’s cheeks burned, and her heart rioted in her chest. She wished to leave. “Lord Stanhope, why are you insisting on it now?”
“Phillip. Please, call me by my first name.”
“I don’t—” Isabel started, but Stanhope cut her off.
“I think we are too familiar to be so formal. Or have you forgotten?”
“No. I have not forgotten, but it seems like you have. It’s been years, Phillip!”
“I know. And I am a fool to have waited for so long. I know that now too. I tried to be a faithful husband, a good husband to my wife, and that is why I have not come to you sooner. But my marriage is not a happy one, Isabel.” He tightened his fingers around hers. “You might even know that. Perhaps that is my fault because I have always been in love with you. That has never changed.”
Isabel’s mouth gaped open. Had she dozed off? Was this one of her flights of fancy? Because a man who had barely looked at her for the past eight or so years seemed to be currently confessing his love to her. Isabel had to blink to make certain she wasn’t dreaming.
“I want us to be together, Isabel, dear.” Stanhope raised his hand and cupped Isabel’s cheek.
The contact jolted Isabel back into reality.
“But… how? You are married!”
“Yes, I am. But it isn’t a happy marriage. You needn’t worry. And I heard that you are not looking to marry either. We can be together. I shall set up a townhouse—”
