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“Oh, wait. I asked for this to be brought for you.” Evie walked over to the settee and picked up a beautiful emerald green shawl. “To go with your gown,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, no, it’s not necessary—” Isabel began, but Evie was already cloaking Isabel in the shawl.
“You have a rip in your bodice. This should cover it,” she whispered in her ear.
A rip in my bodice?Was it from the fall or her struggle with Stanhope? Isabel’s cheeks heated in embarrassment. How long had she been walking around with the rip and had not known?
“Thank you,” she whispered back.
They walked out of the library a moment later. A few people lingered in the hall, staring at them and whispering behind their fans. Gentlemen leaned their heads toward their companions to hear what was being said about the Lewis family.
“Maybe we should have used the servants’ exit after all,” Isabel said with a tight smile.
“Hold your head high, sister,” Richard said. “Hold your head high.”
* * *
Rhys entered his home, still bristling in anger. He was not easily irritable. On the contrary. Usually, he could not conjure enough emotion to care. But this girl—this woman—Miss Isabel Lewis seemed to pull at his strings.
He didn’t want to marry her, he reminded himself. So then why did her rejection sting?
Rhys took off his coat and hat and handed them to his butler. Then he slowly made his way up the stairs.
He walked silently toward the farthest door on the right and cracked it open. The light from the crack between the curtains illuminated his peacefully sleeping daughter’s face.
Rhys smiled, studying her innocent features.
No, his daughter deserved far better than a fallen woman for a mother. She’d already had one egotistical wanton for a mother, and that had not ended well at all. The next woman he married would be a perfect lady for his treasure.
Far more suitable than Miss Isabel Lewis.
