Isabella’s heart leapt into her throat and she cringed. Kingsborough. Turning her head, she saw him stepping out from behind one of the large bookcases, looking as handsome as ever in a dark brown suede jacket, beige breeches and shiny black Hessians. His eyes met hers, and he smiled a cheeky smile that immediately had her reaching out to a nearby table on which to steady herself, except her hand missed its mark and she dropped to the floor instead. Blast his dashing good looks. He would have no choice but to think her a complete nitwit now.
He was beside her in a second. “Are you quite all right?” he asked, his voice filled with concern. He was probably frowning too, though she wouldn’t know, since her eyes were squeezed tightly shut in a hopeless attempt to ignore him. After all, the last time he’d seen her she’d been most indecent and he’d been . . . She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.
“Please go away,” she whispered.
“And leave you alone here, in distress and with no one but Mr. Browning to tend to you? Highly unlikely.”
She felt his firm hand beneath her elbow, urging her upward until she was once again standing on her own two feet. Opening her eyes with a gradual slowness, she found Anthony staring down at her with a bit too much of a twinkle in his eyes. “Whatever makes you think I need tending to? I’m not some feeble female who cannot take care of herself.”
He leaned toward her and whispered for only her to hear, “Come now, Bella, you practically swooned at the sight of me.”
Oh, God!
“Mr. Browning,” he then added before she had a chance to respond, “I shall personally see to it that Miss Chilcott here stays out of mischief and that she doesn’t meddle with your order. This way if you please, Miss Chilcott.”
With a muttered apology directed at Mr. Browning, who stood shaking his head—though he clearly lacked the nerve required to argue with a duke—Isabella allowed Anthony to lead her around the sturdy bookcases until they were shielded from anyone else who might enter the shop.
“Before we go any further,” Anthony said, lacking all indication of his jovial demeanor from a moment earlier, “I would like to express my sincerest apologies. The way I . . .” He dropped his tone to a whisper. “The way I behaved toward you the other day was deplorable. Please know that there was no ill intent on my part, but that I simply got carried away. It was wrong—doubly so because I used it as a means to try and bind you to me. I’m sorry, truly I am, and can only hope that you will forgive me.”
She knew she was probably blushing from head to toe as she stared back at him. It was true that he’d taken her by surprise, but he hadn’t forced her in any way—if anything, she had encouraged him, and while she’d been angry and confused in the wake of it all, she’d had time to consider how both of them had behaved and had concluded that it would be unfair to place the blame on his shoulders alone. “We were both at fault,” she said. “So there is really nothing to forgive.”
He blinked, looking doubtful at first, but then another expression took its place, and Isabella recognized it as relief. Though she hadn’t yet admitted to herself that she loved him, she acknowledged it then, in that brief moment as he silently told her without the use of words just how worried he’d been that he’d lost her.
She was still coming to terms with the notion as he took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a kiss. “Thank you,” he said, his voice a further reflection of his appreciation. He straightened, regarded her for a moment, then said, “Now then, why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for so I can help you find it?”
Deciding that now was as good a time as any to determine where the duke stood on women’s rights and whether or not he would consider her an equal, Isabella primly told him, “Anything really, as long as it is by Mary Wollstonecraft.”
Silence.
Isabella shifted on her feet while Anthony just stood there staring back at her, leading her to deduce that she must have truly shocked him. But, just when she thought he’d tell her not to waste her time on such nonsense, he tilted his head instead and said, “Right. Mary Wollstonecraft it is then, though I don’t believe you’ll find any of her books here. Mr. Browning doesn’t seem like the sort who’d approve.
“However, I do happen to have a copy of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman at home. You’re welcome to borrow it if you like.” He turned and moved to the far corner of the shop, where he ran a finger along one of the shelves, stopping at a slim book bound in dark green leather. Pulling it out, he held it toward her. “How about this in the meantime—The Romance of the Forest, by Mrs. Radcliffe?”
Isabella gave him a dubious look as she reached for the book. “Isn’t she one of those Gothic novelists?”
Anthony shrugged. “I suppose you could say that, though I thoroughly enjoyed reading it myself. I’m sure you will too, for it is full of both intrigue and romance.”
And then he waggled his eyebrows in a manner so suggestive that it was impossible for Isabella not to laugh. “Very well.” She grinned. “I shall give it a try—thank you.”
He bowed slightly in acknowledgement of her thanks and said, “I do hope you’ll allow me to purchase it for you as a token of my appreciation.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Isabella said. “But not in the least bit appropriate, I’m afraid—we’re not even courting, and I couldn’t possibly accept—”
“My dear Bella,” he said in a tone so devilish that it flipped her stomach upside down. “I am well aware that we are not courting and that Mr. Roberts is the man whom you intend to marry. My feelings for you however are genuine, and consequently, I have every intention of doing what it takes to change your mind.”
Isabella’s heart knocked against her chest. She could feel her legs trembling beneath her own weight and automatically glanced around in search of a chair. She really ought to sit down before she collapsed to the floor—again. But when she turned back to gauge the distance between herself and Anthony, he was closer than before—so close she could feel his breath against her forehead. Her mouth grew dry and she reflexively licked her lips, only to catch him staring at her with that same hooded expression he’d had in the barn right before he’d kissed her.
She gasped at the thought of it. He couldn’t. No, he wouldn’t—not in the middle of a bookshop in broad daylight and for all the world to see. She squeezed her eyes shut, and the next thing she felt was his lips—not on her mouth as she had expected—but against her ear. “Do you know why I’m so determined?” he asked.
She shook her head, refusing to look at him.
“Because I want you for myself, Bella—in every conceivable way. Mind, body and soul—I want it all.”
Isabella squeaked. It really was a miracle that she was still upright, considering that her legs had long since turned to jelly. Opening her eyes a little, she was surprised to discover him gone, and she immediately hastened around to the other side of the bookcase, where she found him paying Mr. Browning for her book. His ability to distract her was nothing short of impressive, not to mention frightening; she hadn’t even realized he’d taken it.
“Now then, Miss Chilcott,” Anthony said as soon as Mr. Browning had finished wrapping the book for him. “How about a cup of tea?”
Wary of keeping his company for fear of what people might think—or worse, of gossip reaching Mr. Roberts and her parents—Isabella shook her head. “Thank you, but I really ought to be getting home.” She then headed for the door, suddenly quite desperate to get away from him.
Anthony followed her out, his hand stopping her in her path as he took hold of her arm. She spun back toward him, almost colliding with his firm chest, and it was just too much—her shortness of breath, the rapid beat of her heart, the heat that shot through her at the awareness of how she longed for him to pull her into his embrace. His effect on her was overwhelming, and she staggered backward and met his gaze, only to be stunned by the amusement she found in his eyes and the cheeky smile that played upon his lips.
The horrid man was enjoying her discomfort. She felt like pummeling him. And then he said, “I believe Mrs. Wilkes’ Tearoom has strawberry tarts.”
Isabella blinked. “I beg your pardon?” she managed.
“The tea shop over there,” he offered by way of explanation as he nodded across the street. “I saw the tarts on display in the window on my way over here and immediately thought of you. I know how much you like them, though given the time of year, they’ll be made with preserves no doubt, and not with fresh strawberries, as you would prefer.”
She never should have told him about her fondness for strawberries, for he was clearly using it against her now and with his own devious motives in mind. She had to resist, no matter how tempting the man and the tarts might be. “Unfortunately I must decline.” Something shifted behind his eyes at her refusal, but she wouldn’t be swayed and pressed on instead, determined to do what she must. “My parents will be expecting my return. Good-bye, Your Grace.”
He didn’t release his hold on her, however, and she was halted once again. When she turned her head to look back at him, she was met with a most grave expression. “Your book, Miss Chilcott,” he muttered, offering her the small parcel.
With a brief nod, she accepted the gift, his fingers brushing against hers as she did so, sending a pulse of energy straight through her. “I will call on you tomorrow,” he said, his voice deep with promise.
She shuddered, drew a ragged breath and clutched the book to her chest. He released her then, allowing her to escape, which she did, hurrying away from him at a near run just as it began to drizzle. Her heart was still pounding when she reached her house, dashing inside with one singular purpose—to reach her bedroom without having to face Marjorie or her parents. The last thing she wished to discuss at the moment was the unnerved state she was in. Why did their paths have to keep crossing like this? It was torture seeing him and knowing that he wanted her as much as she wanted him when such a thing was impossible. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone and let her forget? No, she would never be able to forget him. He’d ruined her for anyone else, and when she said her vows to Mr. Roberts, she would forever carry the burden and regret of love lost in her heart. She let out a bitter sigh. Why did life have to be so bloody unfair?
Chapter 19
“You have a visitor, miss,” Marjorie announced the following morning as Isabella sat with her mother, each of them working on their embroidery.
Isabella’s heart jumped. Surely it wasn’t Anthony. He’d said he’d call, but would he come so early in the day? She wasn’t prepared. “Who is it?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded calmer than it did to her own ears.
“A lady.”
Isabella sensed the tension in her mother’s posture. “Does she have a name?” she asked.