Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

“ A nd this passage leads to the older wing of the house, Your Grace,” Crawford intoned, gesturing to a long gallery lined with ancestral portraits. “Although it’s rarely used these days.”

“Thank you, Crawford.” Isolde managed a small smile. “I believe I can find my way from here.”

The butler hesitated, clearly torn between proper service and proper distance. “If Your Grace is certain…”

“Quite certain.” After nearly two weeks of constant supervision, Isolde needed a moment alone to explore her new home. “Please inform Mrs. Phillips that I will review the weekly menu after luncheon.”

After Crawford’s measured footsteps faded, Isolde allowed her shoulders to relax.

The weight of her new title pressed heavily some days, every servant watching her every move, waiting to see what kind of duchess she would prove to be.

She moved down the gallery, studying the stern faces of past Dukes of Meadowell. They all shared Arthur’s striking green eyes, though none possessed his?—

She halted that train of thought. She’d spent far too much time lately thinking about Arthur’s attributes.

The sound of music stopped her mid-step.

Something haunting and achingly beautiful drifted through the air, drawing her forward like a siren’s call. She followed it down a lesser-used corridor, the notes growing clearer with each step.

The door to the music room stood partially open. Isolde moved closer, drawn by curiosity as much as the melody. What she saw made her breath catch.

Arthur sat at a magnificent grand pianoforte, his back to the door, completely lost in the music he created.

Gone was the rakish Duke who delighted in tormenting her, the stern aristocrat who ran his estate with an iron fist. This man seemed… younger somehow. Vulnerable.

His fingers moved across the keys with surprising delicacy, coaxing forth a piece so full of longing it made her throat constrict.

She’d never seen him like this—all pretense stripped away, totally absorbed in the beauty he was creating.

As he reached for a higher octave, his sleeve pulled back slightly, revealing a scar she’d not noticed before.

The music shifted then, as if echoing some painful memory. She found herself wondering what stories that mark might tell. What had shaped the man who could play with such emotion yet guard his heart so fiercely?

The afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching his dark hair and turning it almost mahogany.

His usual perfect posture had softened, his head bowed slightly as he swayed with the music. One lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, making him look almost boyish.

The melody shifted into something darker, more passionate. Isolde found herself holding her breath, afraid to move lest she break the spell.

This was a side of Arthur she’d never imagined existed—this depth of feeling, this raw emotion poured into every note.

A floorboard creaked beneath her foot.

Arthur’s hands stilled on the keys, his spine stiffening. Before he could turn, before she could see his walls slam back into place, Isolde fled.

She didn’t stop running until she reached her chambers, her heart thundering in her chest. She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks and tried to catch her breath.

It wasn’t fair. She’d finally convinced herself that her husband was exactly what he appeared to be—a rake, a scoundrel, a man incapable of real feeling.

But now…

Now, she couldn’t stop wondering what other depths lay hidden behind his carefully constructed facade.

His fingers stilled on the keys at the flash of pale blue muslin in his peripheral vision.

Isolde.

He thought he had glimpsed her watching him, but he had dismissed it as a mere trick of the light, as she rarely came to this side of the house.

For a moment, he considered going after her, explaining why he sought solitude in his mother’s favorite room?—

“Your Grace?” Crawford’s voice shattered the lingering echoes of Beethoven. “Mr. Harrison just returned from the northern fields. He says it’s most urgent.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he closed the lid of the pianoforte. “Very well.”

Duty called, as always. Whatever softness he’d allowed himself to feel while playing would have to wait.

He found Harrison in his study, the farmer’s usually stoic face lined with worry. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there’s been more trouble.”

“More trouble?” Arthur moved behind his desk, drawing his ducal authority around him like armor. “Explain.”

“The stone walls in the northern fields—the ones we rebuilt last month? Someone knocked down some sections. We lost thirty sheep before we discovered the breach.” Harrison twisted his hat in his hands. “And that’s not all. We found one of the storage sheds broken into—feed scattered everywhere. Almost like someone wanted to waste it.”

Arthur’s mind immediately began calculating losses, considering possibilities. “The sheep?”

“We’ve recovered most of them, Your Grace. But six are still missing. And with the feed ruined…”

“Have extra rations sent from the main granary.” Arthur pulled out his ledger, already making notes. “What of the walls?”

“That’s the strange part, Your Grace. They weren’t knocked down by any storm. The stones were scattered deliberately. And…” Harrison hesitated.

“Speak freely.”

“We found boot prints in the mud nearby. Big ones, a man’s. And this,” he placed a torn piece of fabric on the desk, “was on one of the rocks.”

Arthur lifted the coarse wool, a suspicion forming. “Do you know of anyone who wears broadcloth of this color?”

“I wouldn’t like to speculate, Your Grace.”

“Double the night guards,” Arthur ordered. “And have Campbell send word to my solicitor. I want a complete inventory of all recent damages.”

When Harrison left, Arthur began to consider the implications. These incidents were escalating, becoming bolder. More personal. Whoever was behind them knew the estate’s workings intimately—knew exactly where to strike for maximum effect.

The question was, what would they target next?

He should be focusing on this threat to his estate, on protecting his tenants and livestock. Instead, his mind kept drifting to the look of wonder on Isolde’s face as she watched him play. The way her eyes had softened, seeing past his carefully constructed facade…

“Enough,” he muttered to himself, forcing his attention back to his ledgers.

He was a duke first, a husband second. His estate needed him clear-headed, not mooning about like some needy boy because his wife had shown a moment of genuine interest.

Even as he worked through the morning’s reports, his fingers itched to return to the pianoforte. To lose himself in music the way he had when he’d felt her watching.

And some deep, hidden part of him wanted her to watch him. To see him.

“Your Grace?” Crawford appeared with fresh coffee. “Shall I have luncheon sent to your study?”

“Yes.”

Arthur didn’t look up from his work. He couldn’t afford distractions, not with his estate under threat. Not even beautiful, tempting distractions who watched him play with such captivating wonder in their eyes.

But later, alone with his ledgers and responsibilities, he found himself humming the melody he’d played earlier. The one that had drawn Isolde to him, however briefly.

Focus , he commanded himself.

Sheep to recover. Walls to rebuild. A possible saboteur to catch.

His wife’s growing fascination with his hidden depths would have to wait, no matter how much he yearned to explore it.