Chapter 12

CHAPTER12

Henry couldn’t leave, not now. He’d sent a hurried letter to John to explain that, regrettably, he couldn’t join him for a hunt that afternoon. The moment Isabella had received that letter from her sister, her manner had changed.

I feel a strange responsibility to stay here with her.

He sat in the corner of the drawing room, where their redecorating had begun. As he sat in the armchair trying to read a book that Isabella had left behind on the study of the human mind, he was aware of her pacing back and forth. Even when he attempted to talk to her about the studies in the book, she would not be drawn in. It was a testament to her fear.

Soon enough, Irene arrived. She was shown into the drawing room by the butler with tears already on her cheeks.

“Irene!” Isabella flung her arms around her sister. There was such love in that embrace that Henry had to watch. He discarded the book on the table beside him and sat forwards, his gaze on the two sisters. “Goodness, Irene, what has happened?” Isabella stood back. She searched her sleeves, but finding she had no handkerchief, she looked at Henry. He reached into his pocket and produced one. “Thank you. Sister, you remember Henry?”

“Of course. Your Grace.” Irene bobbed a curtsy to him through her tears before she took the handkerchief from her sister and tried to dry her cheeks.

“Please, call me Henry,” he said hurriedly. “I am not one for formalities in my own home.” His words had her smiling briefly.

“That is kind.”

“What has happened?” Isabella’s question had Irene’s focus returning to her.

“It is Father.” Irene’s breath hitched. “He wishes to marry Susan and me off.”

Henry watched as Isabella’s body stiffened. It wasn’t just a straightening of a spine, but a rigidness that absorbed her entire body, as if the words had converted her skin to the hard surface of the marble.

“To whom?” Isabella asked, her voice growing deep.

“His debtors!”

Irene wailed and hid her face in her hands. Isabella backed up, placing a hand over her mouth. She turned in a circle, her eyes never meeting Henry’s, though he sought out her gaze. He would have been happy for her to look at him pleadingly then, asking for help.

I would do anything.

He’d seen firsthand what it was like when a woman was married to a man she did not love.

What happened to my mother will not happen to another.

“God’s blood,” Isabella muttered and looked back at her sister. “I told Father I would help with your dowries. He plainly intends to use them to pay off his debts by marrying you both off.”

“It’s true.” Irene’s words were muffled by her hands over her face. “It gets worse.”

“Why?” Isabella peeled her sister’s hands away from her mouth. It was a careful and slow action, one done with love.

She has tenderness in her, devotion too.

Henry could not stop watching Isabella. It wasn’t just her face that entranced him at that moment, but these small actions, with her hands taking hold of her sister’s.

“I met a man last week,” Irene whispered in a rush, blushing and hanging her head in embarrassment. “I know it is absurd to have such hope of courtship after one meeting, but I cannot help it, Isabella. He is so kind in manner, and I believe he likes me too. We danced twice together.”

“Then he did like you,” Henry said simply from across the room.

The Duke knew no man would risk the talk of a connection between him and a lady without being fond of the woman.

Irene smiled a little at the words before she gave way to her crying.

“Now, what chance do I have of ever seeing what could happen between this gentleman and me if I am to be married to another regardless?” Her breath hitched, and she hid her face in the handkerchief.

Isabella returned to her pacing, with her hands on her hips.

“This is absurd, madness, every wild word I could possibly think of. Has Father taken leave of all of his senses? I know him to be a fool, but not one so careless as this.” She turned her head back to face her sister. “What has he told you of times? Does he intend to make these marriages happen fast?”

“He keeps talking about how you two married by special license.” Irene gestured between her sister and Henry.

Henry sat back in his seat, aware that Isabella looked at him at last. There was a fierceness in her expression, a strength he had not seen before. He couldn’t help admiring it.

“That will not be allowed to happen,” Isabella spoke firmly before softening her tone and taking her sister’s hands once again, lowering them from her face. “Irene, it cannot happen. I assure you of that.”

“I can help,” Henry offered, unable to stay quiet anymore. Isabella flicked her gaze towards him, a deep frown of evident suspicion on her face. “The word of a duke can help matters like this.”

“No.” Isabella’s word came so quickly that he was stunned. She shook her head firmly. “Thank you, Henry. I know you are trying to help, but no. It is not your battle to face. It is ours.” She gestured between her and her sister. “I would not ask it of you.”

“I’m offering it, you are not asking,” he pointed out.

“It is the same thing.” She waved a hand at him, dismissing his offer all the more. “It is my battle to fight, and I will fight it.”

She turned to face her sister again so quickly, she could not have possibly seen his expression. He was smiling, quite in awe of the command she had taken over the conversation.

She sometimes has the capacity to be very impressive indeed.

“What do I do?” Irene asked between her tears. “I cannot imagine marrying a man I feel nothing for. Whose presence I cannot stand to be in. The mere thought…” She broke off, her breath shuddering. “Surely, such an existence would be a miserable thing?”

“Indeed, it would.”

Irene didn’t look at Henry upon hearing Isabella’s words, though the Duke felt there now could be a duality in the meaning of what had been said.

Isabella is tied to a man she would not have married if she’d had a choice, isn’t she?

Henry looked at Isabella, waiting for any kind of glance from her. Despite all his vows not to go near her, he frequently did, didn’t he? Disobeying his own requests. There was more to the attraction though. He wanted her to be happy and content in this house, to view it as her home, even if he could never be to her what another husband might have been.

Ah, Bella, I am so sorry.

Feeling the guilt writhing in his stomach, he sat forwards, resting his elbows on his knees.

“We will do something.” Isabella stepped towards her sister, her manner abrupt and her head held high. “Irene, I need you to trust me on this.”

“Of course I trust you.”

“Then trust that I will get you and Susan out of this.” Isabella threaded her hand through her sister’s, entwining their fingers together. “Whom you both marry will be of your choice. I will make sure of that, I promise you.” She leaned towards her sister, clearly waiting for an answer.

Irene managed to pause her tears and offered the smallest of smiles.

“What can you do, Isabella?”

“Leave that to me.” Isabella was firm, not for one second cowering, second-guessing herself, or even biting her lip with nerves. “There are many ways to change our father’s mind. It just has to be done. Where is Susan now?”

“She’s at home arguing with him. He keeps saying her betrothed is coming to meet her tonight. Oh, he is old compared to her! He is three times her age. Can you imagine Susan married to such a man?”

There was something that made Henry quite sick about the idea. He could remember seeing Susan at his wedding. She was little more than a child if that, perhaps nineteen years of age at most. To think of a man in his sixties trying to bed her made nausea swell in his stomach.

It must be stopped. Isabella won’t let me help her, but it must come to an end.

“It will not happen, I promise you that.” Isabella took her sister’s arm. “Trust me, I will sort everything out. Now, you go home and look after Susan. Keep her away from this gentleman if you can this evening, and I will arrange it all.”

Henry caught the end of their goodbye. He let them say goodbye to one another at the door, not following for fear of intrusion. When Isabella eventually returned to the drawing room, he held out his hand.

“Well? What are you going to do?” he asked slowly.

Isabella stood very still, her hands on her hips, back to making that impression of a marble statue. She said nothing for a minute before her lips parted.

“I do not know.” Her whispered confession had Henry moving to his feet.

“Come with me, please,” he beckoned her to follow him through another door.

They walked out of the drawing room together and took a narrow corridor that curved back round to his study. Henry strode inside, holding the door open for Isabella to follow him. She cautiously walked inside, turning her head right and left.

“This is where you like to hide then?” she asked as he closed the door behind her. “Don’t think I hadn’t noticed you often like to hide.”

“Let us not talk about that for now.” He was in no mood to explain he sometimes shut himself away from her, just to keep her beyond his reach. “Take a look.” He leaned against his desk and gestured towards his father’s portrait.

Isabella turned to look at it, her movements growing slower as her eyes found his father’s.

At once, Henry felt a strange stirring in his gut. It was all too easy to picture himself introducing Isabella to his father in reality. That man would have been cruel in their meeting, Henry had no doubt. Gregory would have belittled her and made it clear that he thought her an ill-fitting wife for his son. He would have mocked her bluestocking ways and the fact she had not married when she was younger.

He would have been foul indeed.

Isabella looked between the painting and Henry.

“Meet my father,” he explained, his voice strained.

“You do not look much like him,” she said slowly.

“Thank God. Though I wish we looked even less like one another in truth.” He sighed deeply, his eyes tarrying on Gregory’s face.

The memory of the last time he had seen his father came back to him. Henry had already committed to his promise to ruin the name of the dukedom. In his journeys abroad, he’d misbehaved, and that reputation had followed him home. One night, he’d acted badly at the theatre, drawing a widowed lady to spend a few hours with him. Nothing was ever known for certain, yet whispers had spread like wildfire.

When Henry had returned to the house that night, Gregory had been waiting on the doorstep. They had argued outside. His father hadn’t backed down from his fury, outraged that Henry had been working so hard to undo the ‘good’ reputation he’d built over the years. Even when Henry had tried to point out that few people had actually respected Gregory to begin with, thinking him a cruel and distant man, he had not been able to accept it.

“I have respect wherever I go. Look at my staff,” his father had stated arrogantly.

Henry had laughed in his face.

“You think your servants care about you? You think they like you? They cannot stand you!” Henry’s words had made his father back up in surprise. “You think any human could be fond of another when they are so foul, so stuck up, so concerned with their own business. Hawkins puts on a brave face in front of you, but when his wife died, you didn’t even ask how he was coping with it. You sent no well-wishes, did you? Nothing!”

Gregory had backed up further still, stumbling against the doorstep. It was at that moment Henry had realized his father hadn’t even paid attention to the fact Hawkins had lost his wife. Gregory had been too busy thinking about his own problems to think of anyone else’s issues.

“You keep this here?” Isabella’s question had the memory fading. Henry shifted where he perched on the corner of the desk, trying to find some sort of seated position that was more comfortable. “I have seen no other pictures of him in the house.”

“That is because I have had them all taken down,” Henry hurried to explain.

“Then why keep this one?” Isabella looked between the chair where he would sit at the desk and the painting. “God’s wounds. It is as if he’s watching over you as you work. Examining you!”

“Sometimes I feel he does,” Henry whispered.

Isabella turned to face him now with burning curiosity in her gaze. He only hesitated briefly, wondering if it was a good idea. Never did he think he would tell the truth about his father to anyone but John. At this moment though, Henry saw how it could help Isabella to know something about how another father had run his life.

“I told you before I know something about awful fathers.”

“You did,” she murmured.

Slowly, she turned her body and sat beside him on the desk. Her arm brushed his, distracting him momentarily, though she didn’t seem to notice.

Maybe she has more of an effect on me at the moment than I do her.

“What does that mean, exactly?” she asked, her words coming slowly and carefully. “What kind of man was he?”

“That may take a while to explain.” Henry shifted his gaze from hers to the portrait, looking at the depths of his father’s eyes.

“We have time,” Isabella whispered.

“True. I can tell you his story.” Henry sighed deeply. “What I have to say, many do not know about the last Duke of Sutterton. Some think him a respectable man, but I know the truth. I know what sort of heart he truly had.”