Perhaps she should tell them that she did not need any advice about the events of the evening … but their awkwardness was amusing, and there was a little part of Isabel that wanted to lead them along for a bit—if for nothing else than to distract from her earlier thoughts.

“I am sorry. Please, go on.” She turned to face them. “What should I know?”

Gwen began. “Well, you have already mentioned that Lord Nicholas is a satisfactory kisser …”

"More than satisfactory.”

A blush began to rise on the cook’s cheeks. “Excellent. Then we have hopes that he will be an equally acceptable …” She paused, looking to Jane.

“Lover,” Jane said bluntly.

Isabel turned back to the mirror and lifted her comb once more. “I certainly hope so.”

“Yes, well,” Gwen pressed on. “You might be surprised by the way that … things … happen.”

Isabel grinned, trying to keep the laughter from her voice. “Things?”

There was a pause. Jane spoke first. “Well, as you know from your statues, Isabel, you have different … features … than does your husband.”

“Yes …”

"We are not going to get into too much detail,” Jane said, frustration edging into her voice.

Isabel willed herself not to smile. “But how will I know how to do it? ”

“We feel confident that Lord Nicholas will know, Isabel.”

It was too much. Isabel snickered. “Yes. I’m fairly confident of the same.”

Both women’s eyes grew wide. “You already know!” Gwen cried.

Isabel grinned, moving behind her dressing screen to don the night rail that she had selected for the evening—a deep rose silk that she hoped her new husband would enjoy. “I do. But thank you very much for your concern.”

“You are a horrid, horrid woman,” Jane said, laughter in her voice, “and he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Apparently he hasn’t a choice, considering she’s only been married for twelve hours and she’s already had her wedding night,” Gwen said, dryly. “So are we right? ”

Isabel peeked out from behind the screen. “Right? About what?”

“Is he an acceptable lover? ”

“Gwen!” Isabel blushed, slipping back behind the screen.

“Ah. It seems he is.” Gwen teased.

When their laughter died down, Jane asked, serious, “Do you love him? ”

Isabel paused at the question that had been playing over and over in her mind since that afternoon. Since before then, if she were truly honest. She caught a glimpse of herself in a long looking glass, noting her shape silhouetted beneath the silk negligee she had selected for him.

To make him happy.

To make him want her.

To make him love her more.

The truth was, she did love him.

And there was nothing more terrifying. She was terrified that, if she admitted it, she would somehow turn into her mother; that their marriage would somehow become that of her parents. How long had her mother pined for her father, how long had she waited at the window for a sign of his horses? How had she doted upon him when he was there … and told fairy tales about him when he was gone?

And hated her children for his desertion?

How could Isabel possibly risk repeating that terrifyingly desolate, despairing life?

No. Love had brought nothing but pain to this house, to her life.

She would not let love destroy her the way it had done her mother.

She would not live half a life.

And so, even as she admitted the truth of her feelings for Nick, she refused to speak them aloud.

“Isabel,” Jane called from the room beyond, shaking her from her thoughts.

She took a deep breath and spoke to her image, ignoring the sadness in her face, the pain that tore through her at the lie. “I do not love him,” she announced, willing her voice to stay light, to convince her friends that she was still as strong as she ever had been. To convince herself of it. “I married him for duty—for James and Minerva House and Townsend Park. I see no need to bring love into the scenario.”

She pasted a bright smile on her face—one she did not feel—and came out from behind the dressing screen, only to find Gwen and Jane standing, eyes fixed on a different part of the room.

She followed their gaze, and her heart sank.

For there, in the adjoining doorway, stood her husband.

He had heard everything.

Her smile faltered as he bowed stiffly. “My apologies. I did not know that you had company.”

“I—” She stopped. What could she say?

”We were just leaving, my lord,” Jane said, and she and Gwen were gone faster than Isabel had ever seen anyone exit a room.

She was alone with the man who loved her.

And she had cheapened that love with her stupid words.

He turned away, retreating into the other room. She followed without thinking, crossing the threshold as he poured himself two fingers of brandy from a decanter that had been set out for him. He stared into the glass for a long moment before he drank deep, then sat in a large, low chair and turned his attention to her. His gaze was cool and devoid of emotion.

She stepped toward him, desperate to fix what she had broken. “Nick.”

“You are wearing red.”

She stopped, the words strange to her ears. “I—” She looked down at herself. “I thought you would like it.”

There was silence as he stared at her, eyes shuttered from emotion. “I do.”

She did not like this Nick. His stillness was unsettling. “I—“