The Marquess of Grayson grinned up at her, his shiny brown hair disheveled and his deep blue eyes red-rimmed. He was missing his cravat and the neck of his shirt gaped open, revealing a golden throat and a few strands of dark chest hair. He appeared to be lacking a waistcoat as well, and she could not help but smile back at him. Gray reminded her so much of Pelham when she had first met him nine years ago. Those had been happy times, short-lived as they were.

“O Romeo, Romeo!” she recited, taking a seat on the window bench. “Wherefore art thou-”

“Oh, please, Pel,” he groaned, cutting her off with that deep laugh of his. “Let me in, will you? It’s cold out here.”

“Gray.” She shook her head. “If I open my door to you, this incident will be all over London by supper time. Go away, before you are seen.”

He crossed his arms stubbornly, the material of his black jacket straining to contain his brawny arms and broad shoulders. Grayson was so young, his face as yet unlined. Still a boy in so many ways. Pelham had been the same age when he’d swept her off her seventeen-year-old feet.

“I am not leaving, Isabel. So you may as well invite me in, before I make a spectacle of myself.”

She could tell by the stubborn set of his jaw that he was serious. Well, as serious as a man such as him could be.

“Go to the front, then,” she relented. “Someone will be awake to admit you.”

Isabel rose from the window seat, and retrieved her white satin dressing robe. She left her bedroom and walked into her boudoir, where she opened the curtains to let in the now pale pink light. The room was her favorite, decorated in soft shades of ivory and burnished gold, with gilt-edged chairs and chaise, and tasseled drapes. But the soothing color scheme was not what most moved her. That distinction went to the only spot of obtrusive color in the space-the large portrait of Pelham that graced the far wall.