Isabel marched out of the dining room like an irate general—head held high, chest thrust forward, and back ramrod stiff. The battle of wills between her and Marcus, combined with too much liquor, had inflamed her senses. She itched to confront him, to continue sparring. But manners prevailed, and she found herself following Victoria into the parlor while the men stayed behind to drink their port. Isabel chose a seat opposite the countess in a comfortable leather chair. It was a chilly May evening, and a bright fire blazed in the grate of an overlarge fireplace, warming the room. Victoria leaned back in her chair, hands splayed over her swollen abdomen, and smiled casually at Isabel. “We have much in common.” Puzzled, Isabel looked up. “In common with what?” “You’re attracted to him despite yourself.” Isabel blinked in surprise. “Whatever do you mean?” “I realize we have just met, but Marcus is like a brother to my husband. May I speak plainly with you?” Isabel nodded, her ire dissipating beneath the countess’s green gaze.
