Page 81 of Isabel and the Rogue

“Then why have you, Isa?” Gabby demanded. “Why do you refuse to leave this room? What happened?”

Rising to her feet, Isabel walked to the window and peered out, desperately wishing she could escape her sister’s questions. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” Gabby’s hand slipped into hers, spinning her about to meet her gaze. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

And I don’t like being like this. But a malaise had settled over Isabel, and she had no notion of how to free herself from it…other than to leave. Without Sirius, London had become unbearable.

“I’m fine.” Isabel tried to smile but wasn’t sure whether she was successful. “Truly.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Isa.” Gabby spun about in a cloud of skirts. At the door, she glanced at Isabel over her shoulder, her lip curled in irritation. “If you’re going to lock yourself away, you may as well move to one of the attic rooms so you can haunt the house like a proper ghost.”

Isabel snorted…and it quickly turned into a laugh. A full-body laugh that soon had her wheezing. Gabby watched her with an exasperated, if fond, look on her face.

“Go tell Westhope you’re not interested in being his bride. He deserves to hear it from your lips.” Her sister opened the door and stepped into the hall. “The cowardly thing to do is hide. And you’re not a coward, Isa.”

Staring at the open doorway, Isabel covered her face with her hands and groaned. Gabby was right; she wasn’t a coward.

Setting her book aside, Isabel checked her reflection in the mirror, thankful she didn’t look as terrible as she felt. Straightening her spine, she headed down the stairs.

The viscount was chatting with Lady Yardley when Isabel entered the room, and his face lit up when he spotted her. After exchanging greetings, Isabel sat in the armchair next to his, and politely answered his questions about her health and her recent absence from society. But something about her bearing must have alerted Westhope that Isabel had not been entirely truthful, for he turned in his chair to face her directly, a tightness to his expression.

“Has something happened, Miss Luna?” The viscount shook his head. “I get a sense there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Isabel slid her gaze to Lady Yardley, who looked back at her with disgruntlement.

Knotting her hands in her lap, Isabel lifted her chin. “You’re right, my lord. I haven’t exactly been honest with you.”

Westhope moved to the edge of his seat. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” Isabel began, sinking her nails into her palms, “is that I haven’t told you that I plan to return to Mexico.”

“Soon?” he asked, rotating his head to look at Lady Yardley.

The viscountess grimaced as Isabel murmured, “No. I do not have immediate plans to return.”

Lord Westhope rubbed the back of his neck. “Why did you decide to tell me this now? If you will continue to live in London for the foreseeable future, why are you thinking of returning to Mexico?”

“Because I’m always thinking of Mexico. I have never planned to make my stay here permanent.” Isabel dropped her gaze. “But the more time I spent with you, the more I came to admire and respect you, and the more it became clear that you wanted more of me than I could give you.”

Isabel pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, fearful she had said too much. Worried she might have misread the situation and attributed feelings to the viscount that he did not feel for her. Setting her jaw, Isabel prepared for his response.

Thankfully she did not wait long, for the viscount stood and stalked to the fireplace, gripping the mantel with a firm hand. “It seems foolish now to admit it, but since you have been honest with me, Miss Luna, I will be honest with you.”

Lord Westhope turned to face her, a pained light in his eyes. “I had hoped to one day make you my bride. You’re the first woman I’ve met whom I find interesting and clever. And your life in Mexico has given you a different perspective on society. On culture and literature! I’ve enjoyed our conversations, and feel as if I learn something new whenever we speak.” He glanced down, the tips of his ears turning red. “And you’re quite pretty. Very unique and striking.”

It was Isabel’s turn to dip her head, overcome by the sentiments the viscount had shared. But the heart wanted what the heart wanted, and Lord Westhope deserved to have a bride who desired his.

“I am more honored than I can say that you hold me in such high esteem,” she said.

“But honor does not a happy bride make,” he replied with a self-deprecating smile.

“Any woman would be honored to be your viscountess,” Lady Yardley interjected with a tsk.

“Perhaps,” Lord Westhope said, his eyes wistful as they landed on Isabel, “but then I only wanted that honor from one woman.”

Taking a moment to fight back a blush, Isabel said, “You know, my lord, I have a friend you should meet. She’s witty and beautiful, and I believe you would get along splendidly.”

The viscount cocked his head in interest.