“Yes?”
“Are you certain this shall … well, that …”
“Am I certain of what?”
“That this is what you want. That such a match could make you happy.” Bridget’s cheeks dappled with color. “How very much you would be forced to sacrifice.”
Her home. Her father. Her standing. All for a love that, only a few days ago, she did not believe existed. Swallowing hard, she guided Bridget to the door and kissed her again. “Godspeed, my dear.”
Alone in her room, she swept to the open window and kept her eyes on the stables, watching for the moment Bridget and Isaac stole away. Was she doing the right thing?
William waited until the maid was gone before he undid the folds of the letter. He read over it once, then twice, every stroke of her writing clear and delicate:
You must return to Sharottewood. Come the night of the ball, in six days, as there shall be so much mayhem and merrymaking that no one shall detect my absence. Wait for me in the garden at midnight. Please, William. I must speak with you once more. If you love me, come.
Love her? He balled the letter in his fist. He strode to the other side of the inn chamber, tossed the letter into the ash pile at the hearth, and then returned to bed.
He would not go. He had already made plans to depart in the morning for Lord Manigan’s, where he would resume his position as a footman if the earl would have him.
But he could not go back to Sharottewood. He could never go back.
Not because he feared Lord Gresham. Because he feared himself. If he returned once more, if he touched her again, if he kissed her in the darkness of some quiet garden, the temptation to steal her away would be too great. He would forget he had nothing to offer. He would forget he had no future. He would forget his poverty could destroy the beautiful spirit he loved in her.
What could he offer her? In marriage, what could he possibly give her except a servant’s chamber and a life of service?
Mrs. Shaw sprang to his mind. He was back in the dank room, where he still smelled her urine and watched her children hunker like skeletons in the corner of the room. Like a twisted nightmare, a different face replaced Mrs. Shaw’s.
Isabella wore no glistening silk gown now. Her eyes ceased to glow. No longer was her face full, her cheeks rosy, her hair clean and curled.
Instead, she wore rags that clung to a rawboned frame. The life in her eyes was gone. The hair he loved so much was knotted and limp and filthy, and her only laugh was one of brittle hysteria and hunger.
William gritted his teeth against such horror. He had no means to support himself, let alone a wife and family. He would not chance doing to her what Mr. Shaw had done to Mrs. Shaw.
Or what his own father, whoever he was, had done to William’s mother.
No, he would not go to Sharottewood.
He would not see Isabella again.
CHAPTER 16
Have they all arrived?” Isabella pulled Bridget back into her bedchamber.
“Yes, Miss Gresham. I asked the servant who was collecting invitations. Each and every one has been seen into the ballroom.”
“I see.” She had waited as long as she could. If she did not come down soon, Father would likely arrive to accompany her downstairs himself.
Which she did not wish him to do.
She was not yet prepared to speak with him. Ever since the incident at the stables, a strange and forceful disgust had been forming against the father she had always adored.
But it was more than that.
It was Christmas at nine years old and hiding at the staircase. It was his obsessions. His need to preserve his wealth, his Sharottewood, at any terrible cost in the world. Was he so selfish? Was he so mercenary? If he could not comprehend the sentiments of her heart, could he not at least listen to them?
“Here, let me fix this.” Bridget stepped around Isabella and tucked an errant curl back into her coral-beaded comb. The one William had given her at the seashore. “You are lovely tonight.”
A small laugh escaped. “Dear Bridget, do not flatter me. Lord Livingstone shall do that quite enough.”
