He looked down at their connected hands before peering at her once more, his eyes serious and soft. “I hate for my space to be invaded and rearranged. Do you know how many people have been in this room before today?”
“I’m guessing the answer is quite low.”
“Three. Me, my aunt, and Poppins. Now you. And in a short while the Barlows. And all this furniture. And the sunlight. I do not relish feeling… seen. But I have not died yet. And you will not expire from the Barlows’ short notice.” He squeezed her hands. “If you help me withstand all these prying eyes, I’ll help you survive the unknown.” He bent over her. “Yes?”
“Yes.” And already she felt better. The need to shake her hands and pace the boards no longer rocked her. She’d not known the Barlows’ next move, but now she did, and she could prepare. “Yes. You’re right.”
“And you”—his gaze roamed over her, and each new bit it landed on seemed to soften his features until he almost wore a smile, soft and hesitant but certain—“You look b—”
A knock on the door.
They froze. “Hell,” they whispered.
“Mr. Trent.” Mr. Poppins, his voice muffled, said from the hallway. “Your guests have arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Barlow.”
Rowan cursed thoroughly. “We’re done for.”
“No, no. Do not panic,” Isabella whispered. “I do not accept defeat, and I am astonished you might accept it so easily.”
“What then?”
“Trust me.” She clasped both his hands in hers. “All will be well.”
He held his breath for a moment, searching her face, his green eyes as unreadable as a book in another language. She’d never wanted to learn a different language more. “I trust you.”
She bounced up and placed a kiss on his cheek. Practice. That’s all it was. Practice at being wifely so they would soon better convince the Barlows.
“Breathe, Mr. Trent. Breathe, and all will be well.” She smiled for him, a little measure to boost his confidence, and he smiled back. A shy, unused thing that started in his eyes, brightening them into full, sun-drenched springtime before curling his lips and catching her, keeping her…
She spun on her toes, breaking the hold of that surprising, sweet smile, and opened the door with a flourish.
A dour-faced Mr. Poppins stepped to the side, revealing Mr. Barlow and a woman about his age wearing a pink bonnet above brown eyes and rounded cheeks. “Mr. and Mrs. Barlow from Stevenage.” They bustled inside, and Mr. Poppins filled the door frame, straightening his waistcoat. “I shall have tea brought up. Do you need anything else, Mr. Trent?”
“No,” Mr. Trent said. “Thank you, Poppins.”
“Do come in,” Isabella said, moving them toward the sofa and chairs. “I hope you will not mind our humble accommodations. We had planned on hosting you in one of the grander sitting rooms at the Hestia, but we could not bear to ask our guests to evacuate them. Andas we must discuss business, we could not brush privacy to the side so easily.”
“Oh, no. Do not apologize,” Mrs. Barlow said, removing her bonnet as if she felt quite at home and patting her salt and pepper curls. “What alovelyroom. So inviting.”
“The entire hotel is marvelous,” Mr. Barlow said.
“I have a townhouse.” Mr. Trent blurted the statement like an off-key trumpet at the symphony, breaking the easy conversation into shattered glass.
They stared at him, waiting for an explanation.
Mr. Trent cleared his throat. “A townhouse. Where Mrs. Trent and I live. Most of the time. These rooms are for our personal use when we need them. When we are… here. Naturally.”
“Naturally,” Mr. Barlow agreed. “You must keep a woman like Mrs. Trent in a stylish manner.”
Mr. Trent nodded.
More awkward, silent shuffling of feet.
Isabella could not take much more of this. “Sit. Please, do sit.”
They did, Mr. Barlow and his wife taking matching chairs, and Isabella sinking onto one end of the sofa. Mr. Trent, however, remained near the edges of the room, watching them as he stalked its perimeter. What would a wife do to bring her moody husband to her side? No idea. She knew what Isabella would do, though.
Ignore the man. Entirely.
