Was it hot in here? Hotter than it had been a moment ago? She was burning up. Her thigh fairly sizzled. And the juncture of her legs, too, tingling and aching. Her breasts felt rather tight in her bodice, which was terribly odd because the bodice was a perfect fit.
Brushing his hand aside, she stood and sought the cool air of the window, but the glass was hot. Not as hot as her, however.
“Please do not worry yourselves with us,” Mr. Barlow said. “Go about your daily lives as if we are not here. We are eager to enjoy the sights of London. Vauxhall, the theaters, Hyde Park. And clearly you two are quite busy running this establishment.”
Yes. But running the establishment required her presence. Here. And she had not lied when she’d said she had obligations. Her sisters hid her absence well, and she always managed to be home at times her brother expected them all to be present—dinners, their weekly Hyde Park walk. She had more free hours than the usual eligibletonlady. Still, she must return home shortly even now to prepare for a ball. She’d be up all night after cleaning and rearranging furniture all day.
Still, the Barlows did not seem to require her presence entirely. She’d spend no more hours at the Hestia than she usually did. All would be well.
Would it? The hours she usually spent here were occupied with searching for her mother’s letter, with being Mr. Haws’s shadow in casehe mentioned anything useful. When would she do that if she was pretending to be Mrs. Trent?
She wanted to stamp her foot, but she wrapped her arms tight around her torso, the better to keep her irritation corseted tightly inside her ribs. She tapped her foot instead.
“Are your obligations truly unbreakable, Isabella?” Mr. Trent’s voice rolled through the air on a dark wave of confidence. Deep as the ocean that voice, and his intentions even deeper.
What was he up to? She regarded him over her shoulder. “Quite unbreakable.”
“You must have forgotten you are needed here as hostess this week for several functions.” He turned to the Barlows. “There are a few weekly events we do at the hotel, presiding as host and hostess to cultivate that feeling of being a guest in someone’s home. A dinner, a musical evening, tea. Mrs. Trent and I would be delighted if you would attend them. As our guests of honor.”
Gigantic. Flaming. Lies. All of it. The Hestia had never held any such events, and he certainly never made himself so readily available to the guests. He clung to shadows! But now he spoke as if such events were a matter of course, a fact as true as the blue of the sky. She had just orchestrated an escape from this prolonged farce, and the daft man was ruining it.
Not if she could help it. “I thought the calendar of events was rather empty this week.”
“You’ve clearly forgotten a few things, my dear.” Rowan lifted her hand to kiss the back of it. And heaven above, she would never get used to the feel of his lips on her skin, never understand how he could kiss her so easily, as if the rules and restrictions of polite behavior didn't apply to him, didn't apply tothem.
But they did. Of course they did. No matter the pretending. No matter how well they hid themselves from prying eyes and wagging tongues.
And hadn’t she started it? Kissing him on the cheek at the Blue Sheep. And he did not know the woman he kissed was a duke’s sister. Perhaps if she were the type of woman Rowan Trent would marry, those rules that bound her round would not apply so strictly. Shewould have more freedom. But she was a duke’s sister, so they did. And what freedoms she possessed existed because she took them secretly, risking what most considered her only items of value—her reputation and virtue.
“Come.” Rowan steered her toward the door. “Let us show you to your rooms.”
Us? She could have slipped away, returned home. She'd already been gone all morning. Her sisters knew where she was and what she was about. Mostly. She’d kept her agreement with Rowan a secret. Annie and Lottie and Prudence and the others need not know about him. But they would worry if she did not show up in time to prepare for that night’s ball.
No escaping now, though, not with his arm like a chain around her waist and the Barlows like powder kegs walking through the hallways behind them.
When they had the Barlows comfortably situated in the best available room, Rowan steered her back upstairs to his private sitting room.
Once the door closed behind them, Isabella finally wrenched herself from his hold. “It is time I leave. It’s much too late. I’ve somewhere to be tonight.”
“Where?”
She forced a smile as she searched the room for any belongings she should not leave behind. But she’d brought nothing except for herself this morning. And was leaving without the letter. Again. “Good evening, Mr. Trent.”
“Rowan. Remember to call me Rowan. As a wife might.”
She reached for the door, then changed her mind, and spun to face him. “I shall not be able to attend all these… events you’ve created out of thin air. What were you thinking? As if this farce wasn’t already difficult enough.”
He passed her to lean a shoulder against the door, blocking her exit. “That while the Barlows are in London, we must put on a show. Weren’t you the one to tell me this morning that I must be vigilant during their visit, ever ready to be the husband they want me to be?”
Yes, she had, and he’d shown her how dangerous that charade could be.
She wished she could read his expression, wished he gave anything away in that marble-cut face of his. “That was before I knew they intended an extended stay. We cannot pretend to be married for so long a period of time. And with the Barlowsin residence, too. It’s impossible. They will speak to the staff. They will discover you are a bachelor, and I am a pretender.”
“The staff will say what I tell them to. Or I’ll tell the staff we were married in secret because your family disapproved. Or mine. Matters not. Not that it is their business.”
“Absurd.”
“Perhaps, but it is the surest solution.”
