“Well? Shall you keep us waiting?” asked Lady Sarsfield.
Several other guests piped in with their own hopes of hearing her. Traitorous Lilias made another praising comment. Of all the times for the girl to be cheerful, why now?
“You can hardly refuse now, can you, Miss Gresham?” From the chair nearest the floor-to-ceiling window, Lord Livingstone narrowed his eyes on her. “Do pleasure us. We all beg it of you.”
“Very well.” Sighing, she made her way to the piano, nerves already jittering her knees. “But I fear you shall all be gravely disappointed.”
Lady Sarsfield looked as if she agreed, while Lord Livingstone left his chair to stand next to her.
All throughout Isabella’s song—and the many mishaps she’d warned them of—he stayed close enough that she imagined she felt his breath on her neck. Was he truly in love with her? What would Father say if he knew?
He would surely insist she not dismiss him over one mischievous kiss in an alcove.
Yet it was more than that. She didn’t know what, any more than she knew the mystery that enshrouded him as he hid in the grotto, but it was distinct enough she must take heed. Surely that was right, was it not?
Though she could say one thing for him.
He still intrigued her.
With the song’s end, the guests applauded with less enthusiasm than they had shown when begging her to play, and Lady Sarsfield promptly complained of a headache and sent her servant for smelling salts.
Isabella rejoined Lilias on the couch. “You are terrible.”
Hiding half her face with the fan, Lilias whispered back, “Well, we were in need of some amusement. I could think of nothing better.”
“At my expense.”
“Oh, you are silly. It did not mortify you so very much now, did it?”
“Next time I shall insistyouplay.”
“It would not work.” Lilias splayed one hand. “Tiny hands, you know.”
After a few more hours spent in dull company, each guest finally retired to their own chambers. Isabella went to the window. Outside, a bright moon lightened the grounds, offering her a perfect view of the garden.
And the grotto.
“I think he was with someone.”
Bridget approached with a white nightgown and wrapper. “Who?”
“Lord Livingstone. Today in the garden. I think he was with someone.”
“Oh, Miss Gresham. You must not be imaginative. He told us why he was in the grotto.”
“I did not believe that a whit.”
Bridget sighed. “Here, let me help you with your dress—”
“Never mind that. Where is my cloak?”
“Oh, you cannot be—”
“In my trunk, of course. I shall get it.” Ignoring Bridget, Isabella swept to the trunk, rummaged for her cloak, and draped it over her shoulders. She pulled the hood over her head. “Stand in this window here and watch me, won’t you? Just in case, you know.”
Bridget twisted her hands together at her chest. “Miss Gresham, please do not go out there like this. It is most dangerous. Most silly too.”
“I just want to peek into the grotto. I shall likely find nothing.” Isabella grinned. “But then again, Idohave the habit of finding things, don’t I? I shall be right back.” The cloak billowed around her as she left the chamber, navigated the halls in the dark, and crept down the oak stairway to the ground floor.
