Garrett stared unseeing into the fireplace. How the devil did Isabella Langford know he’d been planning to come to the house party? He certainly hadn’t mentioned it in any of the notes.

“Is she—” He swallowed. “Has she arrived?”

“Not yet.” Cass shook her head. “I believe she intends to arrive first thing in the morning.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Garrett shut the door to his guest bedchamber behind him. He made his way over to the wing-back chair in front of the poster bed. He sat and shucked off his boots. Then he stood and strode to the window, flexing his toes. He looked down on the courtyard below, a sweeping expanse of gravel in front of the manor house.

Two words kept repeating themselves in his brain.

Isabella Langford.

She was Harold Langford’s widow. Harold Langford had been one of Garrett’s closest friends in the army. Harold had not returned from Spain. But Garrett had, and he’d done what he could—inadequate though it may be—to see to it that Isabella and the children were taken care of ever since.

Isabella was coming? Here? It made him … uneasy. He’d spent years distancing himself from those years at war. Even though the nightmares woke him with a cold sweat each night, he’d done an admirable job of keeping his Society life separate from his memories.

Lately, that was becoming more difficult. He’d seen Isabella at an increasing number of Society events in town. A fortnight ago, he’d even run into her when he was out and had been obliged to escort her home. She’d invited him in for a drink. He’d declined.

If he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d been flirting with him. It made him bloody uncomfortable. Now she had managed to wheedle an invitation to Cassandra’s wedding? Something about it seemed not quite right. And mentioning the house party? Had he even told her about it? He was certain he had not.

He scrubbed his hands through his hair. Deuced uncomfortable. He’d been looking forward to a bit of relaxation this week, but now that Harold’s widow was arriving, it would be anything but relaxing.

Garrett’s thoughts turned to Lucy and Miss Lowndes. Jane. Funny how he called Cassandra and Lucy by their Christian names but he’d never done so with Jane Lowndes. She, however, referred to him only as Upton. As if she couldn’t spare the word “mister.” He was quite certain if he said “Tory,” Miss Lowndes would say “Whig” just to spite him. Lucy insisted her friend was truly a nice young lady, once one got to know her. Perhaps she was … to other young ladies, but she’d been nothing but irascible to him.

Miss Lowndes assumed that anyone who didn’t have his nose permanently wedged between the pages of a book was an idiot. A rake, she called him. A profligate. What did Little Miss Bluestocking know about profligate rakes? Typical. Those who had no fun in life were constantly criticizing those who did. Perhaps Miss Loudmouth might benefit from a bit of rakishness and profligacy from time to time. He had to admit to a reluctant—very reluctant—admiration for her quick wit and biting sarcasm. He appreciated intelligence as much as the next person. Too bad the sting of her barbed words was too often aimed in his direction. Regardless of his issues with the woman, she was Lucy’s friend. She had been loyal to Lucy when few others would speak to her, before she’d become all the rage as the Duchess of Claringdon. He would give Loudmouth that.