“Rowan,” Isabella breathed. It was Rowan, dressed in ill-fitted, dirty clothes and pushing through the crowd of dancers, his head swinging wildly about, searching. Those around him moved away, and a rumble began about the ballroom comprised of whispers and laughs. “Gertrude, I think you should retire for the evening.”
There must have been something like stone in her voice because her sister did not argue. “Would you like to escort me, Lord Lazy?” she asked Alex. “Cook has made the best treats for us upstairs in the nursery.”
“Nursery,” the young man scoffed. “Are there… lemon tarts?”
“Of course.”
Alex followed Gertrude away from the ballroom, and Isabella made her way downstairs, pushing a path through the standing crowd around the dance floor toward Rowan.
Samuel reached him first, every ounce of arrogance he possessed written into the lines of his face. “This event is invitation only.”
Isabella grabbed his arm. “He has one. Brother, this is Mr. Rowan Trent, Admiral Garrison’s son.”
“Garrison.” Samuel’s gaze raked down Rowan’s mud-splattered body. “Truly? I didn’t quite think you existed.”
“If you don’t believe me,” Rowan growled, “I’ll take what’s in my pocket elsewhere.”
Isabella leapt across the space between her brother and her lover. “What do you have?” But she knew.
“What you need. But not here.” Rowan looked over her head at Samuel. “We must speak someplace private.”
“Samuel.” She grasped his arm. “Listen to him. Please.”
The other sisters were floating across the ballroom toward them now, Lottie dragging Quinton and Tristan tall at Andromeda’s side. Prudence and Ben reached them first.
“What’s going on?” Ben asked, his face clean-shaven, and his arm lightly around Prudence’s waist.
“You’re all making a scene,” Lottie said between clenched teeth before Isabella could answer.
“This is Rowan. Mr. Trent. Mrs. Garrison’s son. He needs to speak with Samuel. He has something with him of great importance to us all.”
Lottie nodded. “Everyone back to dancing. Except Samuel. And Mr. Trent.”
“And me,” Isabella said.
Lottie nodded again, and everyone dispersed, Samuel cutting a hard line toward the double doors at the back of the ballroom beneath the balcony. They led to a series of rooms, and when they reached the far one at the back of the house, Samuel ushered them inside and slammed the doors shut.
“You had better explain, Mr. Trent, why you’ve shown up to my sister’s ball looking like that. The admiral’s son should know better. And while you’re at it, explain why you appear to know Lady Isabella. When I’m only just meeting you.”
Rowan strode toward him, pulling something out of his pocket. “This belongs to you, I’m told.” In the candlelight, his face was hard. Bruised.
“Rowan.” Two steps brought Isabella closer to him. “Your eye.” His cheek, too. Red and raw and swelling.
He brushed her hand away. “I’m fine. Mr. Haws fought back. Once he realized I wouldn’t shoot.”
Isabella gasped. Shoot? Fought back. “What did you do?” And why hadn’t she known? Why hadn’t he told her? They werepartners. Supposed to be.
Samuel seemed mesmerized by the paper in his hand. He groped about for something to lean against, and when he found the back of a chair, he rounded it, dropped into it. “This is… how did you get this?”
“By getting muddy,” Rowan drawled. “I apologize for appearing as Ido. I meant to change after I’d acquired the letter. Haws gave chase, and I had no time. You’re saved, nonetheless. You’re quite welcome.” He strode for the door.
“Wait.” Isabella raced after him. Forget that he had not told her his plans. She needed to know what he was thinking now, where he was going with such angry strides. “Wait.” She was breathless by the time she reached him just outside the ballroom doors. “Why are your legs so long?” She lunged and grabbed his wrist, pulled him to a stop only because he’d wanted to be stopped. He could have snapped his arm away from her hold as easily as breaking a bit of straw.
“Isabella.” Why did a low storm rumble through his voice?
“Thank you.” She cupped his cheek. “You are—”
“Leaving.”
