Isabella took a second glance over her shoulder but relaxed to find the garden’s gravel path empty. Good. She had avoided Lord Livingstone most artfully these last three days, and she certainly could not bear the thought that he would sneak up on her unawares.
She gave a reassuring smile to Bridget. “Nothing, dear. Is it not lovely?” She swept a hand across the garden. Everything from the well-trimmed shrubbery to the endless rows of bright flowers, the stone grotto, and the gothic benches alluded to wealth and magnificence.
Though, of course, it was nothing compared to Sharottewood.
And the seashore.
She wished to heaven everything would stop reminding her of Mr. Kensley. Why could she not remove him from herself, just as Father had done?
But she couldn’t stop wondering how he fared. Had the journey back to his Rosenleigh been too taxing? Did the wound bleed again? Did he still find occasion to smile, to laugh in that dear way that had brightened her otherwise dull world? And what had he found upon his return to his home?
A chill ran through her. If the person who wished him dead—
“Something is the matter.”
“No, dear.” Isabella smiled into Bridget’s careful, searching eyes, but the truth bubbled at her throat. Why could she keep naught from the maid? “Nothing except … my worry for Mr. Kensley.”
Bridget nodded, as if she’d known. “You think of him much.”
“Too much, I fear. There is no purpose in it.” Isabella walked faster down the path, brushing her gloved hand along green leaves. “Father has already made me promise to never see him again. My own brother. His own son. It is not right that we should be estranged to him.”
“What is right and what is necessary are not always the same.”
“You sound as if you agree with Father.”
“Only because it would cost you so much. I should not wish to see you injured.”
“Lately, I find it all very deplorable.” Isabella plucked a purple bloom from a tall foxglove. “The cruelty of rumormongers and the haughty eye of society, always watching everyone for a blunder they can pounce on.”
“I quite agree,” rumbled a male voice.
Isabella jumped, the flower falling to the path.
Lord Livingstone emerged from the shadows of the grotto, hat in his hands. What was he doing out here? Waiting for her?
As if sensing her question, he frowned. “I was inspecting this impressive garden and noting the design of this grotto. Perhaps I shall build one in its likeness at Wetherbell Hall.”
Isabella tucked her arm in Bridget’s. “Then we shall not interrupt—”
“On the contrary. I was just leaving. Allow me.” He stepped next to her and claimed her other arm.
Despite his chivalry, the calmness of his voice, he seemed not himself. Not three steps away, he glanced back at the grotto. What was he looking for?
“You are enjoying yourself, my lord?”
“Vastly. Lady Sarsfield is a most gracious hostess.”
“Indeed.” Isabella spared a knowing grin to Bridget. “I did not realize we shared so many of the same acquaintances. How long have you known the Sarsfields?”
“Not more than a month, I confess.”
“What a remarkable impression you must have made. To be invited to their house party on such short acquaintance.”
“I desire to make many new friends before I return to Wetherbell.”
“You do so with great rapidity. I am astonished.”
“You need not be.”
