No servants lingered about, likely already in their chambers for the night, so she slipped out the entrance doors unseen by anyone.
The walk to the garden took her much longer in the dark, and the moon was not so bright as she had thought it from her bedchamber window. Discomfort fluttered in her chest. Perhaps she should have listened to Bridget. What did she hope to find anyway?
Her insane curiosity would be the death of her.
Her slippers crunched the gravel garden path as she padded deeper into the foliage and past several benches and urns. Then, framed by rosebushes and two Grecian statues, the grotto appeared in the moonlight.
Isabella slipped inside. The temperature cooled in the small stone area, and the darkness deepened enough to chill her. She should have brought a candle. At least then she could have inspected for any sign of—
A shadow stirred outside.
Isabella flattened against the wall, pushing her hand to her mouth, heart staggering. Someone was out there.
Boots crunched gravel, then another shadow moved in the moonlight. Voices, deep and humming, drifted over the air. She strained for words, but they were too low to distinguish.
Then silence.
Coldness rushed through her veins, and she prayed the grotto darkness was black enough to hide her. Perhaps there was no danger. Perhaps she was nonsensical to be afraid. But she would be glad when the boots crunched away again and—
“You can come out now.”
Air exploded from her. She stumbled farther into the grotto, but a black figure followed her inside. Lord Livingstone. She recognized the tall frame, the voice, the fear that was already puncturing her calm. “Get away from me.”
“I only came to escort you back.”
“What?”
“I had forgotten my pipe in the drawing room. I was going to fetch it, when I saw you slip outside, alone in the dark, and conscience would not permit me to leave you unattended that way.”
“You met someone.” Her chin quivered but lifted. “You cannot deny speaking with someone just now.”
“Certainly not. I asked a servant to accompany me in my search of you, in case you were in any sort of danger. When I realized you were not, I sent him back.” His hand grasped hers.
She gasped and yanked away, but his grip did not lessen. Instead, he pulled her from the grotto and back into the pale hues of moonlight.
“You mistrust me greatly, do you not, Miss Gresham?”
She pulled free of his touch and marched forward. “I admit that you puzzle me and nothing more.”
“Am I such an enigma?”
“Excuse me, but I must get back—”
He jerked her around, pulling her close enough to his face that an inch closer would have released the scream in her throat. “You fear me because I have confessed undying love to you.”
“Unhand me, my lord.”
“One day it is you who shall confess the love, and you who shall beg for my hand in marriage.”
“You are quite mistaken. Now let me go, or I shall scream.”
He complied, the faintest grin lifting the corner of his mouth. “I am never mistaken about anything.”
“I came to repay you.” William sat across from Lord Manigan in the magnificent blue-and-yellow drawing room. As a child, when Aunt had hauled him in here and presented him to the earl like some sort of favor-gaining trophy, all the splendor had made William feel inferior.
The same inferiority welled in him now.
Perhaps worse.
