Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(48)

“Oh, please do come.”

The words rushed from her, impulsive—but they were no more reckless than her concurrent gesture.

She took his hand.

She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. Sweetly. As if he were a reluctant child who needed a bit of compassion and encouragement.

At least, that’s what he assumed those gestures felt like. His own childhood had been utterly devoid of compassion or encouragement.

“I’d be very glad if you joined us for dinner, Ransom. If only because it means one person at the table who couldn’t care less about the true identity of the Shadow Knight.”

He frowned. “What’s a Shadow Knight?”

“Exactly.” She squeezed his hand again. “That’s the best thing anyone’s said to me in ages. Do come to dinner and be your ill-tempered, unromantic self. Please.”

“I told the duke about our dinner this evening.” Izzy sucked in her breath as Miss Pelham gave her corset laces a firm tug. “I invited him to join us.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Miss Pelham tugged again.

“He declined.”

Another tug. “Oh. Too bad.”

Izzy wondered how many more times she could muster the courage to reach out to him. He was so obstinate and determined to isolate himself. Ever since Duncan’s story, she didn’t know what to think. Was he heartbroken over his lost intended? Angry about the loss of his sight and independence? Or was he merely a jilted man licking the wounds to his pride?

In any case, he needed to make his way into the world again—and soon.

She’d read through more than half his correspondence now, and Izzy was forming suspicions. Without conclusive proof, she didn’t dare mention the idea. But she was almost certain the duke’s solicitors were conspiring against him. For what reason, she couldn’t imagine. But he stood to lose far more than this castle if he didn’t rejoin the England of the living soon.

Tonight’s dinner could have been a step in the right direction.

If only.

Miss Pelham gave the corset laces another yank. When Izzy winced, she apologized. “Sorry, Miss Goodnight. But I have to cinch it tight, or the gown won’t fit you.”

She helped Izzy into a gown of poppy red silk. It was Miss Pelham’s gown, of course. Izzy’s wardrobe offered nothing appropriate for a dinner like this one.

“Oh, that color does look well on you. Even if the fit is too tight up top.”

The bodice was tight. Her br**sts were pale, quivering scoops overflowing the neckline. Rather scandalous attire, for little Izzy Goodnight. But she had a shawl, and it was only Miss Pelham and Duncan.

“I promise not to overeat.” Izzy smoothed her palms over the luscious red silk. “Thank you so much for the loan of it.”

“It’s nothing. I’m glad to help.” Miss Pelham pulled on the first of her elbow-length gloves, then held it out for Izzy to button. “It is taking a dreadfully long time for your belongings to arrive, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” As Izzy worked the tiny buttons, a pang of guilt twisted in her chest.

“Is something wrong, Miss Goodnight?”

“Only that I wish . . .”

Only that I wish I didn’t have to lie to you. Only that I’m wickedly envious of your golden hair and blushing cheeks and confidence. And I wish I could make you the tiniest bit envious of me by confessing everything I’ve done with the duke.

“Only that I wish you’d call me Izzy.”

Miss Pelham’s fan clattered to the floor. Her face lit with a radiant, sunbeam smile. “Truly?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then you must call me Abigail.”

“I’d like that.”

Miss Pelham—Abigail—caught her in a tight hug. “Oh, I knew it. I knew we would be best of friends.”

Friends.

So strange. Izzy would have never believed she could be close friends with a woman like Abigail. The Abigail Pelhams of her youth had treated shy, awkward Izzy with disdain, even cruelty. They called her Frizzy Izzy, Witch’s Broom, Mop Head, Funny Face . . . the list went on and on.

But this wasn’t her youth, she reminded herself. She and Abigail were grown women, and perhaps it had been unfair of Izzy not to give their friendship a chance.

Abigail pulled back from the hug. “Now that we’re friends, will you let me do your hair?” She took one of Izzy’s wayward curls and regarded it pityingly. “I have a recipe for an egg-yolk and rosewater preparation that will have this smooth as pressed satin.”

Izzy started to protest that it wouldn’t work. She’d tried every preparation known to womankind, and none of them had worked.

But Abigail would hear none of it.

She turned Izzy toward the mirror. “You’ll see. With the right coiffure and a bright new ribbon . . . this could be almost pretty.”

Almost.

Izzy reached for her shawl, trying to ignore the unintended slight. “Let’s go down to dinner, shall we?”

Abigail took her arm. “Yes, let’s. I have some questions I’ve been saving for tonight.”

Oh, dear.

To her credit, Abigail made it almost through the soup course before beginning the interrogation.

An apologetic smile tipped her mouth. “You must know what I’m going to ask.”