Chapter 13

CHAPTER13

Isabella waited for Henry to go on, holding her breath. There was a tension that hung in the air between them, but not the sexual kind that had often lingered there. This was a tension that came with revealing secrets.

“What you need to know about the last duke was that his reputation mattered to him more than anything else.” Henry paused and looked at the ceiling before cursing. It was plain he sent a plea to God for help for the strength to tell this story. “It mattered more to him than me, and certainly more than my mother.”

“More than anyone?” Isabella asked.

Henry nodded slowly, never once taking his eyes off the painting.

“I always knew he wasn’t like other fathers.” His next words came in a rush as if he had to get it off his chest quickly. “Growing up, he didn’t play games, nothing of the sort. I remember being very little and coming to find him once in this room. I thought he might play with me.” He laughed at himself, yet the short sound didn’t last long. “He sent me out of the room with a clip to my ears.”

“For just asking?” she whispered.

“Yes.” Henry cleared his throat and blushed a little. It was clearly painful to speak of, though he went on regardless. “My mother decided to keep us apart for as much as possible. God, I loved her for that. She was devoted.”

He smiled suddenly. That smile was such a genuine one that lit up his features, Isabella couldn’t help smiling a little himself. It was as if his mother’s ghost walked before them, holding out her hand to her son, for he didn’t look at the painting but at the air itself.

“She played with me. She was a true mother. Never once did she leave me to the care of a tutor or even a maid. She was always there.” Henry adjusted his position on the desk, sitting back a little further with his gaze still on the empty air. “When my father went into one of his tempers, unhappy with something we had done, she’d take me off to a different wing of the house, create a world for me that was far away from him.”

“She sounds like a loving mother,” Isabella whispered, her voice soft.

“She was,” Henry agreed, his voice startlingly firm. “He belittled her, frequently.” He waved a sharp hand in his father’s direction. “As I grew up, I saw their relationship for what it really was. He insisted she curtsied to him every time she walked into a room. She addressed him as ‘Your Grace.’” The scorn reminded Isabella of what Henry had said on the first day of their marriage. He had insisted she would never do such a thing. “I don’t think he ever cared for her.”

“Not at all?” Isabella asked in shock. “He married her.”

“Because she came with a dowry and was born into a good family. As he said, ‘she did her duty.’” He huffed loudly. “By that, he meant she bore his heir. Me.” On the final word, he laid a hand on his chest, his voice pitching high in disgust. “It was all he wanted, for the dukedom to live on. It disgusted me. The first chance I had, I got away. I went to the continent and traveled.”

“When was this?”

“After my university days. My mother and I wrote to one another practically every week. My father only wrote when he wanted me home, to show me off as the next heir.” He shook his head in plain derision. “One of the times I came home was the night of your debut.” He glanced at her, though his gaze didn’t linger long. “A year later, I returned again, though my father should have made me come home sooner.” He paused and breathed deeply.

Sensing it was difficult for him, Isabella slid a little closer to him on the desk. Her arm brushed his, and the slight touch had the words tumbling from his lips.

“My mother was sick. It was the white plague,” he muttered darkly.

Isabella blinked, for she’d heard and read much about it. She knew how cruel a sickness it was to die from and the pallor it gave to the sufferer’s skin.

“I’m so sorry, Henry,” she whispered.

“You see?” He waved towards her suddenly. “You never met her, yet you have empathy for her. My father, who was married to her for so many years, did not shed a single tear. He had no empathy in him, nothing.” His tone had darkened to something that could have been frightening had she not seen the pain in his expression. It made his eyes narrow, never once blinking. “He revealed a heart of stone. He didn’t tell me she was sick. Hawkins did that.”

“Your kind butler?”

“Yes,” Henry replied, looking at the painting. “Hawkins wrote to me. I came running, but I was too late.” He swallowed uncomfortably. “She died a few hours before I got here.”

He glared at the painting. There was not a sound between them for a minute. The only sound in the room came from a ticking clock on the mantelpiece.

Unsure what to do, all Isabella wished for was to make Henry smile again. No teasing would suit this moment, and she didn’t know how he’d respond to an offer of affection.

Be brave, Isabella.

She raised her hand and laid it gently on his upper arm. When that touch made him take a deep breath, she lowered her hand down his arm, and the back of her hand brushed his. Their fingers slid against each other in the softest of touches. It was tender, and it made her heart flutter in her chest.

“I challenged my father on why he didn’t send for me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible at all. “It was as if the idea hadn’t even occurred to him that we would want to say goodbye to each other. Instead, he let her die alone. The doctor assured me she died peacefully, but it’s not the same, is it?” He shook his head, knowing the answer without having to wait for one. “It’s not the same as having the son you love beside you when it happens.”

“No, it’s not,” Isabella agreed. She turned her hand against his, giving him the opportunity to take it in his own. He took that chance, his hand grasping hers. The way their fingers intertwined had her heart slowing in her chest. “He should have given you the chance to be there.”

“He should have,” Henry said firmly, his glower still on the painting. “All the misery he put my mother through, all those years, and he couldn’t even give her a comfortable passing. I hated him for it.”

Isabella was startled that he didn’t cry. There was such passion in the way he spoke, yet he seemed to wear armor over his face. There was anger, but he did not show vulnerability. He kept it firmly hidden.

“Fathers… they can destroy our lives if we let them, Isabella. This is how I know what it is like to have an awful father. I lived with him for too long,” he whispered, raising their joint hands and gesturing towards the painting with them. “But that is the past.” Slowly, he lowered their hands and breathed deeply. “I have chosen my life since.” He revealed the flicker of a smile.

“You can do as you see fit, Henry. You are a duke. You have the independence to live life as you wish to.”

“I do,” he agreed with a nod. “Yet, that shouldn’t be singular to me.” He turned to face her, that passion still in his expression. “You should have that chance too, as should your sisters. We are not defined by them.” He nodded his head at his father. “If I was to be defined by him, then I would be truly miserable by this point in my life. I will not let him win.”

Isabella smiled at his words.

He’s trying to help me.

She knew Henry now better than she had ever known him before. He’d let her into a part of his world she had known nothing about, purely in the aim of helping her.

“Do what you wish to help your sisters and defy your father. You say it is your fight,” he said hurriedly.

“And it is.” She raised her eyebrow.

His lips twitched into the smallest of smiles.

“Defiant as ever.”

“I am.”

“I’m here if you want any help. Believe me, I’d give it in a heartbeat.” His eyes quickly flicked to the painting before he returned to looking at her.

They stared at each other for so long that the air shifted between them again. Isabella was aware of how close they sat with his head bent towards her and their hands clasped together.

“You confuse me,” she confessed.

“Confuse you? How?”

“Sometimes you seem like two completely different men.” She held his gaze, watching as his eyes narrowed a little.

“Who are these men?” he asked.

“The flirtatious rake,” she replied, “and this man here.” His eyes widened. “Who are you exactly, Henry?”

“It sounds like you’re getting to know me.” He merely smiled, not quite answering her question.

You confuse me indeed.

They sat there smiling at one another. They were sitting so near to one another that Isabella didn’t want to resist that distance. His head was bent towards hers. Remembering what his lips had felt like when they had traced her neck outside of her chamber, she wondered what it would feel like now.

Would it be passionate? Or would such a kiss be tender and soft to match the air we have created here?

She held her breath, wondering if he would kiss her.

Abruptly, Henry cleared his throat and stepped off the desk. When he released her hand, she found her palm cold without his touch. It ended all too fast for Isabella’s liking. One second she had been praying for his kiss, and now she was limp on his desk, wondering why their moment had ended.

“Now you know my story, you know me better,” Henry said, casting a weary glance at his father’s painting. “I tell you to stir you into action and to let you know I’m here if you wish for help. So, what will you do about your father?”

“I have an idea.”

Something began to build in Isabella’s mind. It was a way to get her father to leave Irene and Susan alone. It would hardly end his gambling and manipulative ways for good, but it could be enough to get him to back off so for now, her sisters could make their own decisions over whom to marry.

When Henry said nothing, she understood what he wanted. His back was towards her, indicating that no more discussion was to be had.

He wishes me to leave the room.

She stood to her feet and moved towards the door, walking around him so she could look him in the eye.

“One more thing,” she said, waiting for him to look at her. “Maybe someday soon you should take that painting down.”

“Why?” he asked, his nose wrinkling at the very thought.

“Because having a permanent reminder of a man so disliked must only bring unhappiness every time you step into this room. Don’t you think?” she pointed out, then she was gone, striding out of the room.

As she walked, she raised her head higher. There was something empowering about Henry’s story. He’d taken control of his life, and she intended to do so as well.

For Irene and Susan’s sake, I have to try.

* * *

“Good day, Wetherby,” Isabella said as she strode into her father’s house. “I am here to see my father.”

“Of course.” The butler didn’t question her and motioned for her to wait in the sitting room. “Shall I send for Lady Irene and Lady Susan too?”

“Not yet.” She stood uncomfortably in the room, repeatedly fidgeting with her gloves. “I do not wish for them to hear this part of the conversation I am to share with my father.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” Wetherby bowed to her, using her new title, and left the room.

Isabella was glad he forgot to ask for her gloves, as it meant she had something to wring between her fingers in her stressed state. Looking around the room, she had no desire to sit in the chairs she had once called her own. Striding into the middle of the space, she remained standing and waited for her father to appear.

“Isabella?” her father called as the door opened. He immediately smiled. “I am so glad you have changed my mind.”

“I beg your pardon?” She nearly dropped her gloves in surprise.

“Well, that is why you are here, isn’t it?” he asked, crossing the room towards her. To put distance between them, she moved and stood beside a rococo settee, not letting him touch her. “You are here to give me that money, after all. I knew you would not let down your old man.”

“Prepare yourself, Father, for you are about to be greatly disappointed.”

“What?” The smile on his thick cheeks began to fade. “But you are here…” He gestured towards her. “You wished to see me.”

“So that we could talk with no confusion between us.”

She motioned for him to take a seat. At first, he refused, but then she insisted. It was as if she had the greater power now, even though he was her father, for he did as she asked and sat, perching on the edge of his chair.

“If you think I have come to offer you money, then you are mistaken. I will hold true to my resolution not to give you a shilling. Nothing.”

Andrew sat motionless, his hands loosely curled around his kneecaps. He stared at her as if they were strangers to one another, with no hint of affection.

“I will not take my husband’s money to pay for your errors.”

“What of your own?” he asked hurriedly. “I gave up a dowry for you to be wed, and I heard your husband say he has no need of it. You could give it back to me, Isabella.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why would I give it back?”

“So I can pay my debts!” he replied, frustrated. “I did not know my investments were to go so foul until the evening after you were wed. It’s imperative I now have that money back.” He emphasized the words so much that spittle formed at the corners of his lips.

Isabella fiddled with her gloves, buying time before she replied. As far as she could see, her father didn’t look at her as if he was her father at all. He stared at her more as a pig farmer might look at a swine in a meat market.

He looks at me only to ask for money.

“When you talk about investments, do you really mean business?” Isabella asked with a knowing smirk. “Investments? That’s a funny term for the gambling tables. I haven’t heard it called that before.”

Her sarcasm had his expression darkening. He looked at her with such hatred at that moment.

“You cannot judge me,” he hissed.

“I can judge you however I see fit.”

“I will not bear this.” He moved to his feet.

“Well, you will have to bear it a little longer.”

“Why?” he barked.

“Because I have news for you, Father.” She smiled at him with a sense of victory. “I am here to tell you that you will not be forcing Susan and Irene to marry those you owe money to.”

His angry expression lapsed for a moment into humor.

“Do you think you have such power over me, Isabella? You are my daughter, after all.”

“And a duchess.”

Isabella remembered something Henry had said. She might have told him she didn’t need his help, but as he had reminded her, she could use their position. It was something that gave influence and could make others shudder at what power there was in such a title.

“Let me speak plainly, Father. If you attempt to marry Irene and Susan off to any man that is not of their choosing, then I shall ensure that my husband weighs in on the matter.”

“How would the Duke stop it?” Lord Sinclair asked, holding his arms wide open.

“I would ask my husband to speak to the local magistrate. He’s already told me he would be happy to do so.” She bent the truth a little, just to scare her father. “The magistrate will be informed of the sheer extent of your debts. Once they know more about your affairs, they will start investigating. I imagine the gambling tables don’t pay nearly as well when you’re sitting behind the bars of a debtors’ prison. What do you say, Father?”

Andrew stared at her as if he was looking at a ghost. His eyes didn’t really focus on her but looked through her.

“You would do that to me? Have you no love? No conscience at all?”

“Do you?” she countered, her voice louder than his. “If you did, then you would not be intending to marry your daughters off to your gambling friends. You have no love for Irene and Susan now, do you? No sense of conscience at all. So, I am warning you of this now. Continue with your ruse to pay off your debts by marrying Irene and Susan off, and I will ensure you see a debtor’s prison.”