She flinched under his yell, but the realization ran with greater ferocity through her veins. “I was kissed in the dark by Lord Livingstone once. You laughed and called it the mischief of young gentlemen.”
“Good mercy, the man has manipulated you—”
“Because he is not rich? Because he can no longer afford our pleasures? That makes him less than a gentleman?”
“That makes him dirt beneath our feet.” Father lifted his finger to her face. “You are never to speak with him again, am I understood? He is never to return to this place. He is never to pollute this house again.” He started past her—
“Father, wait.”
Three feet away, he paused without turning.
“I love him.” The words wrenched out of her. “I love him.”
The next day passed in her bedchamber. She told Bridget she was ill, but the only fever was deep inside her soul. A thousand regrets nicked at her. So many things she might have done differently. If she had remained in the harness room and confronted Father then, would it have changed anything? If she had stood up for William against Lord Livingstone, would it have altered the outcome?
But she had been blinded, just as she had been blinded the whole of her life. Father’s coldness toward any beneath him had overshadowed her own vision. She’d been afraid of loving William, afraid of acknowledging her heart, because of the prejudices Father had instilled within her.
Yet it did not matter.
She did not care if gentlemen in the House of Lords or House of Commons whispered over tea about her. She did not care if she was not escalating her wealth in marriage. She did not care if gossipmongers passed her on the street with raised brows and frowns.
Because she loved him. William Kensley. Gentleman or pauper made no difference. She did not love him for what he possessed but for who he was. For who she was when she was with him.
All her life, she had participated in artful conversations, visited proper acquaintances, and made her own aimless circles in society.
William had been real to her. He had listened to her. He had spoken with her. He had taught her how todo sunshineandfeel the ocean.He made life come alive and he madehercome alive.
She was dead without him.
Rolling over on her stomach, she buried her face into the pillow. Was this not what she had always warned herself against? Was this not what she always mocked? But how could she feel this way if it were not love?
She closed her eyes and was back at the staircase. The ache rippled again. All her life, it had been too painful to admit love could be true—all the while knowing her parents had failed.
She did not understand that night. She did not understand Mother’s tears or Father’s coldness—or why the love they so desperately needed in each other could not be fulfilled.
She only knew she loved William Kensley.
And one way or another, she would find a way to see him. She must tell him the truth. He had a right to know.
If he would have her, she would leave everything and run away with him.
Because she had no intention of allowing Father to deprive her of love—as he had Mother.
Father was in his study. She knew because she’d hailed a maid and asked her to report his whereabouts.
All yesterday, he had been knocking on her door and asking to speak with her. He had sent up food trays. Once, he’d even ushered in the doctor from the village, but the older physician must have had no grave diagnosis, for he did not return to her chamber.
Certain she could avoid him at this hour of the morning, Isabella hurried for the foyer. She nodded at the butler when he did not immediately swing open the door, as was his custom.
Instead, he cleared his throat. “Good day, Miss Gresham.”
She nodded, reached for the knob herself.
But he stepped in front of her, face reddening, features perplexed. “Pardon me, Miss Gresham, but do you not think you should remain indoors? Considering your recent illness, I mean.”
“I am not ill. I never was.” She frowned. What was this about? “Now, if you will excuse me, I am in a great hurry—”
“I am afraid I am not permitted to.”
