He did, and he let her walk out the door alone with nothing but a gruff “good night.” If he followed her downstairs, he might toss her over his shoulder and cart her back to his rooms. He needed wood and lock between them. Now. Or… or he’d…
He’d kiss her, and he’d not stop there.
He couldn’t do that until she promised herself to him forever, and he couldn’t ask her to do so until he knew who she was.
Chapter Sixteen
Rowan dropped into a chair, feeling unaccountably dour and… lonely. He was giving Isabella everything he was, letting her see bits of him he showed no one else. And she remained, still, a mystery.
But he knew the most important parts of her, didn’t he? He’d kissed her forehead innumerable times in the last several days, kissed the back of her hand even more. He knew the innocent taste of her now, knew the temperature of her skin. He’d never known anything better.
And everywhere he looked—reminders of her. Isabella hung about every inch of his home. Her scent in the air, the copy ofAckermann’smarked to her taste, her gloves on the table—
Her gloves.
He crossed the room and tugged the bell.
Poppins appeared quickly with a sardonic brow raised high. “It’s late.”
“Miss Crewe has left her gloves.” He whipped them off the table and waved them at Poppins. “Please get them to her.” If Rowan went after her, he’d drag her back here, and he wouldn’t let her go this time.
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“No.”
Poppins grumbled, “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” He snatched the gloves and slammed the door on his way out.
Isabella should have remainedhere, gloves or no. She’d been so tired, and he didn’t even know where she lived, how long or how dangerous her journey home would be. He’d been too busy to follow her when she left Hestia, fitting his work into the crumbs of time left after entertaining the Barlows.
At least she’d have her gloves. Her hands would be warm. Not that it was cold…
He retired to his bedchamber, unwound his cravat, shrugged out of his waistcoat, and jumped when a hard knock echoed across his rooms.
Then another, followed by Poppins hissing loudly, “Let me in, damn you.”
Worry prickled across Rowan’s skin, and he opened the sitting-room door, half dressed. “What is it?”
Poppins wasn’t alone in the hallway. He pushed a man into the sitting room at pistol point, and a woman followed, pale and trembling. But not with fear. With rage.
Blonde curls and the slender build of a fairy. Impossibly pretty.
Isabella. Isabella glaring at him with blank, unknowing eyes.
Not Isabella.
“Who are you?” Rowan demanded, though part of him already guessed. He slammed the door shut once they were all in the room.
“I caught your Miss Crewe in the alley behind the Hestia,” Mr. Poppins said, “kissingthis fellow.”
“That’s not Miss Crewe.” Rowan stood right before the woman, and she met him toe-to-toe. Not Isabella, but oh yes, certainly related to her.
“Yes, it is,” Poppins said. “You blind?”
“I assure you, it’s not her.”
Poppins waved at the woman. “Same hair, same face! It’s her, only her lips were connected to his lips”—he stabbed a thumb in the other man’s direction—“and not yours.”
Not Isabella glared at Poppins. “I thank you to take my lips out of your mouth.”
