Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

“But Your Grace, the payment isn’t due until—” Mrs. Collins wrung her worn apron in distress.

“Consider it an advance,” Arthur said, watching her youngest daughter peek shyly around her skirts.

The child couldn’t have been more than five, her face still bearing traces of recent illness.

“For the excellent work your husband has done with the new drainage system,” he added.

“But—”

“And perhaps,” he continued, taking out a sweet from his coat pocket and crouching down to the little girl’s level, “Miss Emily would do me the honor of testing these candies? My housekeeper insists they’re the finest in London, but I require a second opinion.”

The child’s eyes widened, darting to her mother for permission. At Mrs. Collins’s tearful nod, she stepped forward, bobbing a wobbly curtsy that made Arthur’s chest tighten strangely.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she whispered, accepting the treat with grave dignity.

“The honor is mine, my lady.” He bowed to her with perfect ceremony, earning a delighted giggle.

Mrs. Collins pressed her apron to her mouth, clearly overwhelmed. “Your Grace, we can never⁠—”

“Your husband’s work speaks for itself.” Arthur straightened, his tone brooking no argument. “The advance is well earned. Now, I believe Harrison mentioned something about the new vegetable plot?”

As Mrs. Collins led him to the kitchen garden, her older children spilled out of the cottage to cluster around their sister, examining her precious sweet. Arthur remembered another child watching others receive treats, remembered the sting of being deemed unworthy of such indulgences, remembered a seven-year-old boy attempting to mimic his father’s proper bow.

He paused, drawing another sweet from his pocket.

“I find myself in need of additional opinions,” he announced gravely. “If you would assist me?”

The children’s beaming faces as they performed their best bows and curtsies made something twist in his chest.

This was what power should be used for—not to intimidate or control, but to bring such simple joy.

His father would have sneered at such weakness.

The thought soured his mood, following him through the rest of his visits.

By the time he returned to Meadowell House, the sun was setting and his thoughts had turned to dinner with Isolde. Perhaps they could discuss the village children, share observations about⁠—

“Her Grace sends her regrets, Your Grace,” Crawford announced as he took Arthur’s coat. “She has retired early. She took supper in her chambers.”

The disappointment hit harder than expected.

“I see,” Arthur said in a neutral tone. “And did she seem unwell?”

“I couldn’t say, Your Grace.” Something in Crawford’s blank expression suggested that he could say quite a lot if he chose.

Arthur ate alone in his study, but the food tasted like ash. He thought they’d moved past this avoidance after their encounter in the music room.

Clearly, he’d misread the situation entirely.

The next morning found him already at the breakfast table when Isolde appeared, looking pale but composed in a morning dress of soft green muslin.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, noting the shadows beneath her eyes that suggested she’d slept as poorly as he had.

“Yes, thank you.” She didn’t meet his gaze as she took her seat.

The silence stretched between them.

Arthur found himself studying her hands as she delicately picked up her teacup, remembering how they’d felt tangled in his hair, how they’d reached for him so trustingly before he’d stopped her…

“The Ashworths’ ball,” he said finally, unable to bear the quiet any longer. “Since it’s in London, I thought we might stay in town for a few days.”

“Good.” She still wouldn’t look at him. “I will be glad to visit my father and aunt.”

She rose abruptly, her breakfast barely touched.

Without another word, she walked out, leaving him to stare at her empty chair.

Crawford materialized to clear her place, his movements deliberate. “Will Your Grace be requiring anything else?”

“No.” Arthur’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup. “That will be all.”

When the butler had gone, Arthur allowed himself a moment of pure frustration. He’d thought offering to stay in London would please her—God knew he’d seen her homesickness in a dozen small ways. Instead, she’d treated his suggestion like an obligation to be endured.

Perhaps that’s all he was to her now—an obligation. A duty. The price she’d paid to save her reputation.

The thought shouldn’t bother him. This was, after all, exactly what he’d wanted—a marriage of convenience, nothing more. No messy emotions, no complicated feelings, just a proper duchess to manage his household and eventually provide an heir.

So why did her withdrawal make his chest tighten?

He pushed away from the table, needing to escape these dangerous thoughts.

There were estate matters to attend to, tenants to meet, and accounts to review. He had no time to puzzle over his wife’s mercurial moods or the growing hollow sensation in his chest whenever she turned away from him.

But as he strode to his study, he couldn’t quite silence the voice in his head that told him perhaps he’d been wrong to stop her that night.

No. Better this way. Better cold politeness than the maelstrom of feelings he’d glimpsed in her eyes that night.

He was his father’s son, after all—incapable of showing the tenderness she so clearly craved.

The fact that his hands still itched to touch her, that his dreams were haunted by the soft sounds she’d made… that was mere physical attraction. Nothing more.

It had to be nothing more.

The scratch of Isolde’s quill seemed overly loud in her quiet chamber as she wrote:

My dearest Aunt Jessamine,

I trust this letter finds you well. Arthur and I will be in London next week for the Ashworths’ ball, and I cannot tell you how my heart soars at the prospect of seeing you again.

Her hand stilled, ink blotting the expensive paper. Through her window, she could see Arthur crossing the courtyard below, his long strides purposeful, his shoulders straight with ducal authority. Even from this distance, the sight of him made her chest tight with longing.

She turned back to her letter.

The house is lovely, and the staff is most accommodating. I find myself quite settled into the routine of⁠—

Another lie. The quill trembled in her hand as she fought the urge to write what she really wanted to say.

I am drowning here, Auntie. Every morning, I wake up hoping that today will be different, that somehow Arthur and I will find our way to something real. Every night, I go to bed with those hopes shattered. That night in the music room, I thought perhaps…

But no. She couldn’t write that. Couldn’t admit how his rejection had wounded her, how every meal shared in silence felt like another small death of her romantic dreams.

Her eyes drifted to her wardrobe. How simple it would be to pack a few necessities, to slip away in the night like she had before. Her cousin Elspeth’s castle in Scotland was remote enough that no one would think to look for her there. She could spend her days walking around the windswept moors, and spend her evenings reading by the fire while Elspeth talked to her dead fiancé’s portrait.

Wouldn’t that be easier than this exquisite torture? This daily dance of proximity without intimacy, of desire without tenderness, of marriage without love?

But Isolde wasn’t that girl anymore—the one who could run away from her problems. She was a duchess now, with responsibilities, with duties, with…

With a husband who viewed her as just another beautiful object to possess.

Tightening her grip on her quill, she returned to her letter.

I so look forward to our visit. Perhaps we might have tea at that lovely shop near Berkeley Square? I long to hear all your news and share what I can of mine.

Your loving niece,

Isolde.

“Martha?” she called, sealing the letter with perhaps more force than necessary. “Would you see that this goes out with tomorrow’s post? And I believe I shall retire early tonight.”

As her maid helped her prepare for bed, Isolde caught sight of herself in the mirror, her skin betraying emotions she desperately wanted to hide.

“Will His Grace be joining you this evening?” Martha asked, unfastening the buttons of her mistress’s gown.

“No.” Isolde turned away from the mirror. “His Grace has many important matters to attend to.”

Like keeping his distance. Like pretending that night in the music room hadn’t changed everything. Like ignoring the fact that his wife was falling in⁠—

No. She wouldn’t even think it. Couldn’t afford to acknowledge the dangerous feeling growing in her chest.

Better to focus on the upcoming London visit. Better to think about seeing her family, about lovely shops and familiar streets and anything but the man whose touch had awakened such treacherous hopes.

Anything but the truth she couldn’t write to her aunt: that being married to Arthur was both heaven and hell.

Heaven when he looked at her with heat in his eyes. Hell when he looked at her with cool indifference.