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She looked at him strangely now, as if learning his features anew, and Rhys felt uncomfortable under her intent gaze.
“It is late,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should go to bed.”
Without waiting for her answer, he walked into his bedroom. He needed a change of clothes. And perhaps a change of heart as well.
* * *
Isabel could not believe her ears. Her long-ago friend, Thomas, was indeed her husband.
Why hadn’t he said anything before?
She remembered him as a gangly youth who’d followed her around for a couple of summers before disappearing. She hadn’t seen him for over a decade.
He had grown into a gorgeous specimen of a man. She didn’t fault herself for not recognizing him at all.
But he knew all along! He told the story of their meeting at their wedding.
Isabel called for Anthea and changed into her nightgown.
She burrowed under her covers, waiting for her husband to come back. How would she be able to look at him the same way now that she knew?
Every time she saw him, she’d see the smiling, shy youth he’d been.
What had happened to him? What had made him so stern and surly?
The door opened, and Vane—no, Rhys—entered the room.
He doused the candles and settled into bed.
Isabel could not help but follow his every move with her gaze. This tall, broad-shouldered man with a constant frown on his face could not be her good-natured neighbor, could he?
“Goodnight,” he murmured and turned away from her.
Isabel looked at his outlined form, still unable to believe her eyes.
“We parted friends,” Isabel finally said.
“Pardon?” He still didn’t turn to face her.
“As far as I remember, we parted friends,” she repeated. “I am trying to figure out at what point in your life you became a surly old man because I surely remember you as a life-loving youth.”
“Of course, you do.” He finally turned to face her. “I was an infatuated young idiot who could not stop grinning upon seeing your face.”
Isabel blinked. “You were infatuated with me?”
She could feel him frowning.
“I thought you knew.”
“I knew you were attached to me. But I thought it was in a sisterly way”—He scoffed—“You were so very young!”
Rhys let out a weary sigh. “I am only four years younger than you. That is not such a huge difference.”
“Perhaps it’s not now, although I would argue that it is, but I was nineteen when we met! You were just fifteen!”
Rhys shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Isabel took a deep breath. There was no arguing with an obstinate marquess. “Is that why you were so angry with me when we met at the ball? Because I did not return your affection over a decade ago?”
