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There was no reason they could be together; there was no common ground for any conversation they could have; she knew nothing about his life, and he knew even less about hers.
“Can two walk together except they be agreed? Unless they meet together, and appoint time and place, when and where they shall set out, what road they will take, and whither they will go; without such consultation and agreement, it cannot be thought they should walk together,” Louisa whispered a bible verse.
She had nothing in common with Isaac; he lived in the lap of luxury, she had lived in squalor and by the mercy of another. He was educated; she was not; he came from a class of nobility, she used to live among those of notoriety.
Not true, you know pain—her consciousness reminded her.
But even so, Louisa knew that it could never be, she knew, but Isaac had come to her—she had not gone to him. Didn’t that say something? Did it mean that she was not alone? Just as she thought that Isaac did not do things halfway, he did not strike her as a man who did not think things through either. He knew the ramifications of starting a relationship with her, the scandals that would come from it, and how his peers would think about him.
If he had thought it through—as he had told her—shouldn’t she trust his word? The problem was that Louisa knew that she did not trust herself enough to believe him.
Woodenly, she undressed and donned her nightclothes, knowing, by instinct, that she was going to have a long sleepless night before her, but she could not—would not dare leave to get more warm milk. Fate might take it as permission to send the Duke her way again, and Louisa knew that she could not bear that.
Sinking to her bed, she tugged her covers over herself and covered her head with a section, trying to make the world around her disappear. Only, she failed.
