“I trust your journey here was a pleasant one,” Garrett said to Isabella as the footman shook out her napkin and placed it over her lap.

“Indeed, it was,” she replied demurely. “It was kind of Lady Cassandra to invite me.”

“We’re all greatly looking forward to the wedding next week.” He felt like a complete ass. A footman poured Garrett a glass of wine. Wine. He’d never been so bloody happy to see a glass of wine.

“Such a lovely occasion and reason for the Swifts to come out of mourning,” Isabella murmured.

How long had she been in mourning for Harold?

The footmen began serving the first course, a watercress soup. Garrett sat with his back ramrod straight, racking his brain for a sufficiently pleasant yet simple topic to keep the conversation going. Thankfully, Miss Lowndes had turned to Owen Monroe. They appeared deeply interested in their conversation.

Garrett glared at Monroe. Was that reprobate flirting with Miss Lowndes? Since when did Monroe have a bloody dimple? And his eyes were—dare he think it?—sparkling. Garrett did a double take. He’d never seen anyone flirt with Miss Lowndes before. He narrowed his eyes on the couple. It was not possible. He was imagining things. He’d seen some of the women Monroe kept company with in London. Despite what he’d said today on the ride, it was unimaginable that Miss Bluestocking was Monroe’s sort. Never. Besides, Monroe, that blighter, had agreed to flirt with Isabella. He was doing a bloody poor job of it so far.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come,” Isabella whispered to Garrett, dragging him from his thoughts.

Garrett forced himself to look away from Miss Lowndes. He cleared his throat. “No. Not at all.” What else could he say? “I do admit I wasn’t aware that you and Lady Cassandra were … friends.”

Isabella peeped up at him from beneath her long dark lashes. She had the grace to blush. “I must admit that we are not, Mr. Upton.” She took a deep breath. Her lips trembled. “I … I … wanted to see you.”

With that astonishing bit of information, she turned her attention back to her soup.

Garrett reached for his wine glass and took a long, deliberate drink. He went to place the glass back on the table, thought better of it, and took another long drink. The footman rushed to refill his glass.

This was what he had feared. That Isabella admired him. That she was flirting with him. That perhaps she wanted something more from him. Something he couldn’t give. Not with the memory of Harold’s death burned into his brain. He wanted to kick Monroe under the table, get his attention, signal to him to use his infamous charm on Isabella, but that oaf would probably only ask why he’d been kicked.

Garrett was about to reply with some innocuous bit of wording when he caught Miss Lowndes laughing at something Monroe had said. Her laughter was … not unpleasant. He couldn’t take his gaze from her. Something about the way she’d tossed back her head and laughed as if she didn’t care a bit what anyone thought about her. And those blasted spectacles. For the second time he had the urge to rip them from her nose. They made her look too prim, too proper, too … Miss Lowndeslike.