Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

“ E asy now, girl. That’s right.” Tom’s gentle voice carried across the stable yard. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Arthur paused in the shadows of the stable doorway, watching the boy carefully brush down the new mare—a skittish creature they’d rescued from a traveling horse trader with more cruelty than sense. The morning sun caught the patterns on her coat, highlighting old scars that spoke of past abuse.

His own scar seemed to burn beneath his sleeve as he observed Tom’s patient movements. The boy had grown more confident these past months, no longer flinching at sudden movements or loud voices.

“There now,” Tom murmured as the mare shifted nervously. “You’re safe at Meadowell. His Grace won’t let anyone harm you.” He cast a glance in Arthur’s direction, and the faint smile on his lips suggested that he’d been aware of his audience all along. “He protects those in his care.”

Arthur’s hand moved unconsciously to his arm, his fingers tracing the raised line of tissue above his coat. Seventeen years had passed, yet he could still hear his father’s voice, still feel the bite of the riding crop…

A clatter of falling buckets made the mare rear, her eyes rolling white with fear. But instead of harsh words or punishment, Tom simply stepped back, giving her space while murmuring soothing words.

“Steady now. No harm done. Just a noise, nothing more.”

The mare settled gradually, lowering her head to bump it against Tom’s shoulder in a sign of tentative trust. The boy rewarded her with a gentle pat, his movements sure and confident—so different from the terrified child Arthur had found cowering under Morton’s rage.

“You handle her well,” Arthur remarked, finally stepping into view. “Better than many men twice your age.”

Tom straightened, his pride warring with ingrained modesty. “Thank you, Your Grace. Harrison’s been teaching me about working with nervous horses. Says that sometimes they just need patience and a gentle hand to overcome bad memories.”

Something caught in Arthur’s throat at the boy’s words. How many times had his mother said something similar before?—

He shook off the memory, focusing instead on how Tom had positioned himself protectively between the mare and any potential threat—just as Arthur had once stood between Belle and his father’s pistol.

“She trusts you,” Arthur added, keeping his voice carefully neutral despite the pride swelling in his chest.

“Aye, Your Grace. Harrison says that trust has to be earned, especially from those who’ve known cruelty.” Tom stroked the mare’s neck, his young face serious. “Like you did with me, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Arthur’s scar burned again, an echo of old pain. He opened his mouth to offer the praise the boy deserved, but his father’s voice whispered in his head, Weakness, boy. Sentiment makes you weak.

Before he could respond, the sound of running feet announced the arrival of young Bertie, the gardener’s son. He was breathless from his dash across the grounds.

“Your Grace!” The boy sketched a hasty bow, his cap askew. “Mr. Harrison sent me—says there’s urgent trouble in the west wing. Water’s leaking from the ceiling in the gallery!”

“What?” Arthur’s spine stiffened with ducal authority. “Show me.”

As he followed the boy toward the house, Arthur found himself rubbing his scar again. But for once, the memory of that misty morning brought something beyond pain.

He had broken his father’s cycle of cruelty. The frightened boy who had once stood between a horse and a pistol had grown into a man who could offer protection instead of punishment, who could teach gentleness instead of fear.

Perhaps there was still hope for him.

A distant whinny made him turn back, catching sight of Tom leading the mare into the morning sunlight. The boy’s quiet confidence, the mare’s growing trust—these were the fruits of patience and kindness, not the harsh lessons his father had tried to teach him.

See, Father? Arthur mused, finally dropping his hand from his scar. Some lessons are better learned through love than fear.

Now, if he could only find the courage to apply that wisdom to his heart, to the growing feelings he harbored for his wife.

But those thoughts would have to wait. There were more immediate concerns demanding his attention, and a duke’s duty to his estate could not be ignored. Though as he quickened his pace, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps this mysterious leak was another attempt at sabotage.

Winthorpe House glimmered with light, every window glowing like a beacon against the darkening sky. Isolde’s heart swelled with joy as she watched Lady Langhall greet guests, already every inch the gracious hostess.

“My dear girl.” Lady Langhall embraced her warmly. “I cannot thank you enough for your blessing. Your father was so worried?—”

“How could I not give it?” Isolde squeezed her hands. “You’ve brought such happiness to Papa. And truly, I’ve come to love you as a second mother.”

Lady Langhall’s eyes glistened. “Sweet girl…”

“Congratulations, my lady.” Arthur stepped forward to kiss her hand. “Though I dare say no one in London is surprised by this match.”

Their small group shared knowing smiles before being swept into the usual social whirl. Jessamine appeared, resplendent in burgundy silk, her usual stern expression softened by the evening’s joy.

“A fine match,” she declared after embracing Isolde. “Though your father took his time.”

They found Augustus and Jane near the refreshment tables, the latter practically glowing despite her obvious fatigue.

“Your Grace!” Augustus bowed with the usual flourish. “Capital evening, wouldn’t you say?”

Before they could properly settle into conversation, a cluster of lords appeared, eager to discuss some business venture with Arthur and Augustus. Isolde watched them disappear into the crowd, already deep in conversation.

“Men,” Jane sighed fondly. “Always with their business talks. Though I suppose I should get used to quieter evenings I only have a few months of social engagements before my confinement.”

“Oh! We’ll miss you at events.” Isolde touched her arm. “Though of course, your health must come first.”

“You must visit me,” Jane insisted, then pressed a hand to her stomach. “Oh dear…”

“Are you unwell? Let me accompany you?—”

“No, no.” Jane managed a wan smile. “Just the usual queasiness. I’ll be fine after a moment’s rest.”

Left alone, Isolde made her way to the drink station, her spirits still high from the evening’s warmth. The glass had barely touched her lips when a familiar voice made her spine stiffen.

“Well, if it isn’t the Duchess of Meadowell.” Lady Lillian—Lady Wexford now—approached with calculated grace. “How unexpected to see you amid the ton again.”

“Lady Wexford.” Isolde inclined her head, noting how Lillian’s smile faltered at her calm demeanor. “I trust your wedding went well?”

“Quite.” Lillian’s eyes narrowed. “Though I’m surprised you’d mention weddings, considering your… history with them.”

“Oh?” Isolde set down her glass, feeling a new strength flow through her veins. “I would have thought you’d be more hesitant to discuss compromising situations, considering your experience on that balcony.”

The color drained from Lillian’s face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Strange. I remember it quite clearly—you in Lord Blackwood’s arms, desperate for a scapegoat to save your reputation.” Isolde’s voice remained gentle, almost kind. “You know, I never did tell anyone the truth about that night.”

“You… you didn’t?”

“No.” Isolde smiled, remembering all those cutting remarks about her own reputation. “I found happiness, instead. Real happiness, not the kind built on lies.” She gestured to where Arthur stood across the room. “Perhaps you should try it sometime. Honesty can be quite liberating.”

She turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and Lillian? Do remind Lord Blackwood that the walls have ears. And eyes. One never knows who might be watching from the windows these days.”

The look of horror on Lillian’s face was sweeter than any revenge.

Isolde moved through the crowd, her head held high, feeling lighter than she had in months.

She had faced her tormentor not with anger or spite, but with the quiet confidence of a woman who knew her worth. The frightened girl who had fled London after a scandal was gone, replaced by a duchess who needed no lies to maintain her dignity.

Let Lillian keep her secrets and schemes. Isolde had found something far more precious—truth, love, and the strength to face her past without flinching.

Buoyed by this newfound confidence, she felt an overwhelming urge to share her triumph with Arthur. He would appreciate the irony of it all, she thought, and perhaps reward her boldness with one of those rare, genuine smiles that made her heart flutter. She scanned the crowded ballroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of his tall figure among the guests.

As she wove through the crowd in search of her husband, her gaze darted to the spot where she had last seen him while speaking with Lillian earlier. He was no longer there.

A striking blonde woman stepped into her path. Something about her seemed familiar—perhaps from a musical evening last Season? Lady Trowbridge, if she recalled correctly.

“You must be the new Duchess of Meadowell?” The woman’s voice somehow sounded both sweet and sharp at once.

“Yes, I am.” Isolde offered a polite smile, though something in Lady Trowbridge’s piercing gaze made her uneasy.

“How fascinating.” Lady Trowbridge’s eyes swept over her, assessing. “I must say, you have accomplished quite the feat, getting our dear Arthur to marry. His legendary aversion to commitment was quite the topic of conversation in certain circles.”

The emphasis she placed on ‘certain circles’ made her meaning clear—she was one of Arthur’s past conquests.

“People change,” Isolde said, striving to keep her voice steady despite the sudden hollow feeling in her chest.

“Do they?” Lady Trowbridge’s laugh tinkled like breaking glass. “Oh, I suppose some might. But Arthur…” She shook her head with exaggerated sympathy. “He has such a pattern, you see. All fire and passion at first, then the inevitable cooling. Rather like watching a candle burn itself out.”

“You don’t know him as I do,” Isolde protested, but her voice sounded weak even to her own ears.

All her earlier confidence seemed to drain away under the widow’s knowing smirk.

“Don’t I?” Lady Trowbridge raised a perfect eyebrow. “My dear, I knew him quite… intimately, shall we say? Long enough to recognize his patterns. The intensity, the devotion, then…” She waved one elegant hand dismissively. “Well, you’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

Isolde’s throat constricted. She thought of Arthur’s tenderness these past weeks, the way he looked at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, all those intimate moments that had felt so real…

“My marriage is different,” she managed, though the words tasted like ash on her tongue.

Lady Trowbridge’s smile dripped with pity. “Indeed, if it brings you any comfort, my dear, do go on believing that.”

With a rustle of expensive silk, she glided away, leaving Isolde standing alone with her carefully constructed hope suddenly feeling as fragile as spun glass.

All her triumph from her encounter with Lillian evaporated, replaced by a gnawing uncertainty. She’d been so certain that she was breaking down Arthur’s walls, so certain that their growing closeness meant something deeper than mere physical attraction.

But what if Lady Trowbridge was right? What if Isolde was just another conquest, destined to be left behind once Arthur’s interest waned?