Then she had ignored Mrs. Morrey’s unfavorable looks, donned her warmest clothes, and hurried down to the stables to see him.
But he was changed.
Toward her.
The gap between them was cavernous and spanned too great for any bridge. Perhaps she had been right. Perhaps thereweredifferences in the poor and the rich—differences that reached deeper than wealth.
He was a pauper.
She was not.
They had no more right to be acquaintances now than they did in London, with no formal introduction and no true connections—or here at Sharottewood, when he had been her secret, dangerously unwanted brother. Why should it matter to her if the stable hand would not meet her eyes? Of what consequence could it be if his smile was no longer compelling and earnest? If he no longer teased her?
The first day, when she’d begged him to stay, everything had been the same between them.
But every day after it was not.
La, but she would drive herself mad this way. They held different stations, and propriety demanded they return to strangers.
But that was just it.
He had never been a stranger to her.
Pushing away her half-eaten plate, Isabella scooted from her chair and returned to her bedchamber. A pile of unanswered letters lay waiting on her desk, Bridget sat mending Isabella’s redingote, and a blazing hearth filled the room with light and the scent of burning wood.
Isabella threw herself across the bed and sighed.
If only Father would return. If only winter would be over. If only they could depart for the season and leave behind all this boredom and frustration and loneliness.
She rolled onto her stomach, propped herself up on her elbows, and glanced out the window.
Below, in a slow-falling flurry of snow, Mr. Kensley walked a horse from the stables. He bent down, checked the back-right shoe, then mounted and rode away. If he no longer had a wish to befriend her, why should she try to befriend him?
Even so, she pressed her lips in a line and slid off the bed.
“Where are you going?”
“Outside.” Isabella drew a cloak from her hand-painted clothes press then whisked to the door as she draped the garment over her shoulders. “To have a word with Mr. Kensley.”
Whether he liked it or not.
CHAPTER 13
The biting air pulled in and out of his lungs, invigorating and refreshing. William galloped so hard the snow kicked up around him and his hair beat away from his face.
Were it not for the groom’s achy bones, such an honorable task would not have been given to William. He was grateful it had been. Out here, he could unleash his mind and give free rein to any thoughts he wished.
Except the only thoughts he didn’t wish for crept to him anyway. Again. Why did Isabella Gresham keep returning to the stables? What did she wish to gain from her visits?
Mercy knew it was not proper.
Not now.
He’d promised himself to keep his head high—and he had—but this was different. He had his place. She had hers. No matter how much he wished it might be different, it could not.
Besides, she was lonely with friends so far away and roads too rough for travel. But with warmer weather and the start of the season, she would have no use for him and would forget the friendship she longed to return to.
’Twas better they both accepted reality.
