quality of the room and by the incongruity between that room and its mistress. The furnishings weren’t to Bennington’s taste, either; he’d bet his life on that. Bennington was too much of a dandy. He’d always favored style over substance, form over function. He and Clement had called him “Knees” at Cambridge because he used to wear trousers so tight he couldn’t sit down. This room—this whole house—reflected the style of his father, General Sir Henry Bennington. The general had died over a year ago, but clearly Bennington hadn’t yet made the house his own. Or maybe he was trying to become the kind of man who’d be at home with sabers on the walls and bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes of military strategy. Maybe he wanted to remake himself in his father’s image. Like a tulip pretending to be a hickory tree.
Isidore shouldn’t judge. After all, he was society’s black sheep trying to sprout a golden fleece.
“We expected you last week,” Daphne prompted when a few moments had passed without his offering any kind of response.
“Yes, about that … ” Isidore rubbed his thumb along his jaw, the airy, charming excuse and the off-color anecdotes vanishing from his mind. Daphne was looking at him with interest, one delicate brow raised, as though she enjoyed watching him squirm. He released his breath in a burst.
“I should have sent a note, but what would I have written?” He wrote in the air with his forefinger. “Sick of it all, let’s meet instead on a farther shore, Sid?”
“You could have made up a polite excuse,” said Daphne dryly. “Something less dramatic. Bad cough. Pressing business. Allergic to turbot. Anything, really.”
Isidore laughed. Daphne was so tiny and exquisite that people often made the mistake of thinking her a perfect little doll—masses of red-gold hair, round blue eyes that opened and closed, head filled with sawdust. But she had a keen mind and a scathing tongue. He’d heard her deliver withering set-downs to men who couldn’t ever seem to grasp the fact that she wasn’t cooing in their ears. She had been the Incomparable of the season her first year out in London, and even though she’d married Bennington that summer, she didn’t stay at home feathering her love nest like many young wives. She attended every ball, every party, with Bennington and without him.
She and Phillipa had been thick as thieves.
He swore to himself. Fought the memories. But, looking at Daphne’s bright hair, remembering Phillipa’s dark head bent toward hers as they shared some whispered joke, he couldn’t stem the tide of dark thoughts.
Thick as thieves, yes, but Phillipa had not confided in Daphne. There was no one with whom he could share the burden of his knowledge. Phillipa had told Daphne the same story she told everyone else.
Cynical, brooding Isidore Blackwood had dropped down on his knees in the Tromblys’ music room, clasped Phillipa against his chest, and begged her to become his bride. Her heart had beat wildly. His heart had beat wildly. After so many years of friendship, they’d both realized, simultaneously, as though struck with the same bolt from the heavens, that they were in love. A perfect romance. He would never say a word to the contrary.
There was, of course, one other person who knew what he knew. The man who should have proposed to Phillipa but didn’t. The man who left her in such an impossible situation that Isidore, her best friend, had had no choice but to step up and offer to make her his wife. If Isidore ever learned the man’s name … Why, he would beat him within an inch of his life.
Daphne was staring. Christ, his repartee was rusty. She had joked about polite excuses. Now he must riposte.
“That is very good counsel,” he said, almost hearing the creak in his voice. “But I have no need for it.” He flashed his most charming smile. “I’ve resolved to live in a way that puts me less in need of
Isidore shouldn’t judge. After all, he was society’s black sheep trying to sprout a golden fleece.
“We expected you last week,” Daphne prompted when a few moments had passed without his offering any kind of response.
“Yes, about that … ” Isidore rubbed his thumb along his jaw, the airy, charming excuse and the off-color anecdotes vanishing from his mind. Daphne was looking at him with interest, one delicate brow raised, as though she enjoyed watching him squirm. He released his breath in a burst.
“I should have sent a note, but what would I have written?” He wrote in the air with his forefinger. “Sick of it all, let’s meet instead on a farther shore, Sid?”
“You could have made up a polite excuse,” said Daphne dryly. “Something less dramatic. Bad cough. Pressing business. Allergic to turbot. Anything, really.”
Isidore laughed. Daphne was so tiny and exquisite that people often made the mistake of thinking her a perfect little doll—masses of red-gold hair, round blue eyes that opened and closed, head filled with sawdust. But she had a keen mind and a scathing tongue. He’d heard her deliver withering set-downs to men who couldn’t ever seem to grasp the fact that she wasn’t cooing in their ears. She had been the Incomparable of the season her first year out in London, and even though she’d married Bennington that summer, she didn’t stay at home feathering her love nest like many young wives. She attended every ball, every party, with Bennington and without him.
She and Phillipa had been thick as thieves.
He swore to himself. Fought the memories. But, looking at Daphne’s bright hair, remembering Phillipa’s dark head bent toward hers as they shared some whispered joke, he couldn’t stem the tide of dark thoughts.
Thick as thieves, yes, but Phillipa had not confided in Daphne. There was no one with whom he could share the burden of his knowledge. Phillipa had told Daphne the same story she told everyone else.
Cynical, brooding Isidore Blackwood had dropped down on his knees in the Tromblys’ music room, clasped Phillipa against his chest, and begged her to become his bride. Her heart had beat wildly. His heart had beat wildly. After so many years of friendship, they’d both realized, simultaneously, as though struck with the same bolt from the heavens, that they were in love. A perfect romance. He would never say a word to the contrary.
There was, of course, one other person who knew what he knew. The man who should have proposed to Phillipa but didn’t. The man who left her in such an impossible situation that Isidore, her best friend, had had no choice but to step up and offer to make her his wife. If Isidore ever learned the man’s name … Why, he would beat him within an inch of his life.
Daphne was staring. Christ, his repartee was rusty. She had joked about polite excuses. Now he must riposte.
“That is very good counsel,” he said, almost hearing the creak in his voice. “But I have no need for it.” He flashed his most charming smile. “I’ve resolved to live in a way that puts me less in need of
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