Because she needed Lord Livingstone. She needed him to help her collect her sense, remember her place, consider Father, and forget what just happened at the seashore.
Her lips still throbbed.
She doubted she would ever forget.
She had not returned to the stables in the past three days.
Not that William blamed her. He laid fault on no one but himself. Perhaps it was better this way. He had known they could not keep on as they were—at least not forever.
But it hurt.
More than he’d realized. As he lay in bed, with rain beating the roof outside, a strange pain clamped down on him. ’Twas a hollow sickness, like holding Shelton’s dead body in his arms or departing the gates of Rosenleigh for the last time. Why had he kissed her?
At least if he had controlled himself, she would have departed for London with a fond memory of him. They could have told each other goodbye with smiles and tender looks.
Now he would have no goodbye at all. He would have nothing from her. Nothing but memories—along with all his other haunting remembrances. Rosenleigh’s bewitching green grass, Shelton’s quiet ways, Ahearn’s rippling muscles beneath William’s body, and—
No.Rolling over in bed, he rubbed both cold hands down his face. He would not despair. He could not. All he needed to do was keep his head high and his work done. If his hands were busy, he would not have time for his heart.
Help me, God.The prayer spread warmth through his chilled body.Help me not to grieve her too.
“May I come in?” Father’s voice rumbled loud in the hush of nighttime.
Without moving from the window, Isabella tightened her wrapper. “Yes, of course.”
The door hinges shrieked as he entered her chamber, his tall presence a warming comfort to all her swirling thoughts. Rain pattered outside, just as it had done for three days past, and light from Father’s candlestick reflected off the water-streaked window.
Standing next to her, he pulled her against his side. He smelled of tobacco and lemon, a pleasant mixture she’d been inhaling for as long as she could remember. “I fell asleep reading in the library chair and only just awoke,” he said.
“Not great praise to the author.”
“I saw a light under the door.”
“Only because I could not sleep.”
He leaned his chin to rest on her head. “When you were a little girl, sleep evaded you because Camilla had taken sick, or because your tutor had been unkind, or because you had eaten too much marzipan and had a toothache.”
She chuckled against him. “I remember.”
“I always tried to resolve your troubles, did I not?”
“Of course you did.”
“Then do you not think I have the right to resolve this one too?”
Sadness vied with shame in her chest, a ruthless battle that kept her eyes glued to the window and not his face. What would he think if he knew what she had done? If he knew the thoughts that kept her from sleep?
She had devoted the last three days to Lord Livingstone’s company, but her mind was a traitor. She could not prevent herself from reliving the kiss. The one that never should have happened. The one that would hurt Father—and herself—if she ever spoke of it aloud.
He squeezed her tighter. “It cannot be so very bad, my dear. I am troubled to see you not yourself. What has dismayed you in the short time of my absence?”
“I shall not have you fret over my melancholy.”
“Has Mrs. Morrey been imperious?”
“No.”
“Has someone written you an unamiable letter?”
