Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

“You are an unusually discerning audience,” Arthur muttered to the gray cat that had appeared in his music room. “Though I doubt you appreciate Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.”

The melody shifted into something darker, his fingers finding the keys for a piece his mother had often played during her final days.

Strange how clearly he could remember the way her hands had looked on these same keys—so delicate, almost translucent near the end, yet still able to coax such beauty from the instrument.

She’d tried to teach him that music was a language of its own, one that spoke truths too deep for words.

“She would have known what to say this morning,” he told the cat, which had settled more comfortably beneath the piano. “She always knew how to make sense of things that seemed impossible.”

His hands stilled on the keys as another memory surfaced—his mother sitting in this very room, pale but smiling, while his father raged about some perceived slight at Court.

“My dear,” she’d said, her voice gentle but firm, “sometimes the bravest thing we can do is open our hearts to possibility.”

His father had stormed out, of course. He always did when she spoke of matters of the heart.

And now here Arthur was, about to enter into a marriage as loveless as his parents’ had been.

But no—that wasn’t quite true, was it?

His parents’ marriage had not been loveless. His mother had loved deeply, completely, hopelessly. It was his father who had been incapable of returning her love.

Just as Arthur himself was incapable of giving Isolde what she truly wanted.

The cat stretched and moved closer as he began another piece, this one filled with all the turbulent emotions he couldn’t express any other way.

His mother had taught him this one too, on better days when her strength allowed for more challenging compositions.

“Music speaks what cannot be expressed,” she’d told him, guiding his young hands over the keys. “When words fail, Arthur, let your heart speak through the piano.”

But what was his heart saying now, on the morning of his wedding? That he was about to chain himself to a woman who dreamed of love? That he was possibly making the greatest mistake of his life?

His fingers continued their dance across the keys as dawn’s first light filtered through the windows.

He hadn’t slept—couldn’t sleep. Not with the weight of impending matrimony pressing down on him.

The cat tilted its head, its yellow eyes unblinking as the melancholy notes filled the room. Strange, how a kitchen mouser had found its way to this sanctuary. Rather like his mother’s cat used to do so many years ago.

“You’d have liked her,” Arthur told the cat, his hands never stilling on the keys. “She played far better than I do. Even as ill as she was, her music could make you forget everything else.”

His fingers faltered.

The cat stretched and padded closer, settling beneath the piano bench just like his mother’s cat used to do.

“It’s not that she isn’t…” Arthur trailed off, switching to a darker piece that better suited his mood. “Lady Isolde is everything a duke’s wife should be. Well-bred, intelligent.” He paused. “Beautiful.”

His fingers struck the keys harder.

“And completely unsuitable for a man like me.”

The last notes hung in the air like an accusation. He’d seen how she looked at her father and Lady Langhall, such yearning in those hazel eyes. She wanted that kind of love, that tender regard that his own parents’ marriage had notably lacked.

His hands stilled on the keys as another memory surfaced, this one far less warm—his father discovering him at the piano when he should have been reviewing estate ledgers. The rage in those cold eyes, so similar to his own.

The cat meowed softly, drawing him back to the present. Dawn had fully arrived now, painting his music room in shades of gold and pink.

In a few hours, Arthur would stand in St. George’s and bind himself to a woman who made him feel things he’d sworn never to feel again.

“She deserves better,” he told the cat, beginning another piece, this one fiercer, more demanding. “She deserves someone who can give her what she wants. Love. Romance. All those foolish notions my father beat out of me years ago.”

His fingers flew over the keys, the music growing more intense with each measure. He could still see Lady Isolde’s face in the library that night, the way the candlelight had caught her tears.

She’d looked so young, so vulnerable. Something in his chest had tightened at the sight, an unfamiliar protective instinct he hadn’t felt since…

Since his mother’s death.

The music crashed to a discordant halt. The cat startled, darting from beneath the bench.

“I apologize,” Arthur said wryly. “It seems I’m poor company this morning.”

Rising from the piano bench, he moved to stare out the window. London was awakening. Vendors began their morning calls, and carriages were rolling over cobblestones.

Somewhere across the city, Lady Isolde was probably being roused from sleep and prepared to become his Duchess.

His Duchess. The title suited her, he had to admit. She had a natural grace, a quiet dignity that even scandal couldn’t tarnish. And when she’d stood up to him at the tea rooms, her eyes flashing with indignation… No one had dared speak to him like that in years.

“She will hate it here,” he told the cat, which had cautiously emerged from its hiding place. “She will hate me, eventually, when she realizes I can’t be the husband she has dreamed of.”

But he could protect her. Keep her safe from scandal, from poverty, from the cruel whispers of the ton. It was more than anyone had done for his mother, who had wasted away in this very house while his father entertained his mistresses.

The cat rubbed against Arthur’s leg, purring.

Despite himself, Arthur smiled slightly. “At least you’re easily pleased.”

A clock chimed somewhere in the house. His valet would be arriving soon, bearing his wedding clothes and probably a lecture about his disheveled state.

“Time to face my fate,” he murmured, turning away from the window. The cat watched him with those knowing yellow eyes. “Though I suppose you’d say I’m being melodramatic.”

He moved to the piano one last time, closing the lid with gentle reverence.

His mother would have liked Lady Isolde, he thought suddenly. Would have appreciated her quiet strength, her love of music and books.

But his mother had also believed in love, and look where that had gotten her.

No, better to keep those walls firmly in place. Better to be the cold, rakish Duke everyone knew. Better to never let Lady Isolde see how her presence made his carefully constructed defenses tremble.

Better to never let her know that when she smiled—truly smiled—something in his frozen heart thawed.

“Wish me luck,” he told the cat as he strode toward the door. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

The cat merely yawned, curling up in a patch of early morning sunlight. At least one of them would have a peaceful morning.

As Arthur closed the door behind him, the first notes of the wedding march began playing in his head.

A dirge would be more appropriate.

After all, what was a loveless marriage but a beautifully decorated prison?

“Your hands are trembling, my dear,” Jessamine murmured, adjusting Isolde’s veil with practiced movements. “Though I dare say that any bride would be nervous on her wedding day.”

Lady Langhall, who had been quietly arranging Isolde’s bouquet near the window, turned with a sympathetic smile.

The small chapel in St. George’s seemed impossibly suffocating despite its soaring Gothic arches. Isolde stared at her reflection in the tiny anteroom’s mirror, hardly recognizing the pale-faced bride who stared back at her.

“I can’t seem to make them stop,” she whispered, watching her fingers twist the delicate lace of her handkerchief. “Perhaps it’s a sign.”

“The only sign is that you’re human.” Jessamine’s tone brooked no argument. “Your mother’s hands shook just as badly on her wedding day.”

“Did they?” Isolde’s voice caught. “Did Papa tell you that?”

“Indeed. Though she managed to overcome her nerves long enough to say her vows.” Jessamine’s eyes softened. “Just as you will.”

“I cannot do this,” Isolde whispered.

“You can, and you will,” Jessamine murmured, adjusting the heavy folds of her veil. “Now, straighten your shoulders. The vicar is waiting.”

The chapel door creaked open, and Lord Winthorpe stepped out, presumably to check if the Duke had arrived. The sound echoed in the nearly empty building—so different from the grand Society wedding Isolde had once envisioned.

“There’s hardly anyone here,” she said, more to herself than her aunt. “Does His Grace have no family? No friends to stand with him?”

Her aunt and Lady Langhall exchanged glances.

“The Duke of Meadowell is…” Lady Langhall seemed to choose her words carefully. “A very private man.”

“A cold one, you mean.” Isolde turned back to the mirror, fighting back tears. “A man so unfeeling that not a single person would stand beside him on his wedding day.”

“Isolde—” her aunt began, but the chapel bells began to ring, cutting her off.

Lord Winthorpe returned, his expression a mixture of pride and concern. “It’s time, my dear.”

Isolde’s heart thundered in her chest. But as she rose, Jessamine caught her trembling hands. “Remember who you are,” she said firmly. “You are a Townshend. Whatever comes, face it with dignity.”

“And courage,” Lady Langhall added softly. “You have more of that than you know.”

Isolde drew a steadying breath, straightening her spine. They were right. She might not have chosen this marriage, but she would face it with grace.

Even if her groom stood as alone and cold as a marble statue at the altar.

“I’m ready, Papa,” she declared, taking her father’s arm.

The wedding march began to play. But to Isolde’s ears, it sounded more like a funeral dirge.

As the chapel doors opened, she caught her first glimpse of Arthur standing alone at the altar, his broad shoulders rigid beneath his elegant coat.

So solitary. So remote. Was this truly to be her future? A lifetime bound to a man who stood apart from all human connection?

Then, he turned around, his usual mask of aristocratic indifference firmly into place, and Isolde remembered herself.

This was a marriage of necessity, nothing more.

After all, how could a man who had no one to stand with him on his wedding day possibly understand the meaning of love?

Taking another deep breath, Isolde began her walk down the aisle, each step bringing her closer to her new life as a duchess.

And farther from her dreams of true love.