Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

“ P ack the blue trunk first, Martha.” Isolde’s voice wavered despite her attempt to maintain her composure. “Just the essentials, for now.”

“Your Grace?” Her maid paused in folding a morning dress. “Are you certain about this?”

Isolde stared at her reflection in the armoire mirror, noting the shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of a sleepless night. Her fingers traced the delicate lace at her throat, where Arthur had so often kissed her.

“What choice do I have?” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I cannot stay here, pretending—” She broke off, turning away from her reflection.

But where could she go? Her father’s house would be in chaos with wedding preparations, and she couldn’t bear to cast a shadow over his happiness. Jessamine would welcome her, of course, but the thought of returning to Surrey in disgrace, again…

“Perhaps His Grace will?—”

“His Grace has made his position quite clear.”

The memory of last night’s conversation burned fresh in her mind. His silence had said more than words ever could.

A knock interrupted her dark thoughts.

“Enter.”

Mrs. Phillips appeared, her usually stern countenance softened with something akin to sympathy. “Your Grace, I… His Grace asked me to inform you that he has departed for London.”

Isolde’s hands stilled on the trunk’s brass latch. “I see.”

“He wants you to know that you are welcome to remain at Meadowell. He will stay in London for the foreseeable future.”

The formality of the message felt like another blow. No personal note, no explanation—just a properly conveyed message through proper channels.

“Thank you, Mrs. Phillips.” Isolde was proud that her voice remained steady. “You may tell Crawford to dismiss the carriage I ordered.”

Once the housekeeper had gone, Isolde sank onto the window seat, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. “You may stop packing, Martha. It seems the Duke has solved our dilemma by removing himself instead.”

“Oh, Your Grace…” Martha’s eyes glistened with sympathetic tears.

“That will be all.” Isolde couldn’t bear her kindness right now. “I believe I’ll rest for a while.”

But rest proved impossible. The chambers felt too empty, too quiet without Arthur’s presence. How quickly she had grown accustomed to his little habits—the way he’d hum absently while reading reports, the way he’d leave his cravat pins scattered across the dresser…

Her feet carried her through the silent house, each room holding memories she couldn’t escape. Here was the library where he’d first kissed her properly. There the conservatory where he’d taught her more than just music.

Almost against her will, she found herself in the music room. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching dust motes that danced like falling stars.

The pianoforte stood in silent reproach, its polished surface reflecting her approach. Her fingers trembled as she lifted the lid, revealing keys that had known both passion and tenderness.

Right here, he had sat behind her, his hands guiding hers across the keys. His breath had tickled her ear as he whispered instructions that had nothing to do with music. She’d melted against his chest, trusting him, believing in the tender feelings she’d thought grew between them…

Her fingers found the opening notes of the piece they’d played together that night. The melody emerged hesitant and halting, nothing like the confident passion they’d created together.

A tear fell onto the ivory keys. Then another.

“Foolish girl,” she whispered to herself, but her hands continued moving, playing through her tears. “Such a foolish, hopeful girl.”

The music swelled around her, filled with all the words she couldn’t say, all the feelings he couldn’t return. Each note seemed to echo with memories—his laughter in this room, the way his hands had wandered from the keys to her waist, the way he’d lifted her onto the pianoforte and…

The melody crashed to a discordant halt as a sob caught in her throat.

This was worse than their hasty wedding, worse than their silent meals and careful avoidance. Because now she knew what she was losing—not just a convenient marriage, but the possibility of something deeper. Something real.

She’d let herself believe the tender looks, the playful moments, the way he seemed to soften only for her. Worse, she’d let herself fall in love with him.

“Your Grace?” Crawford’s voice from the doorway startled her. “Shall I serve tea?”

Isolde quickly wiped her cheeks, squaring her shoulders. “No, thank you, Crawford. I believe I’ll take a walk in the garden, instead.”

She couldn’t stay in this room, surrounded by ghosts of happier moments. Couldn’t bear to sit where Arthur had sat, touch keys his fingers had touched, remember how it felt to believe he might someday love her too.

The garden would be better. At least there, she could pretend her tears were just summer rain.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the rose garden, but Isolde found no comfort in her usual refuge. She sank onto the stone bench where she and Arthur had shared so many intimate moments, only to find herself with an unexpected companion.

Mozart appeared silently beside her, his gray form a ghost in the fading light. He wound around her skirts before settling beside her with an inquisitive “Mrrrow?”

“Has he abandoned you too?” Isolde asked softly, scratching behind his ears. “Or perhaps you’re checking on me at his request?”

The cat bumped his head against her hand, purring.

“At least you’re still here.” Her voice caught as tears threatened again. “Though I suppose you’re cleverer than I am. You never expected him to love you back.”

Mozart tilted his head, his yellow eyes somehow managing to look concerned.

“I know, I’m being foolish.” Isolde gathered the cat in her lap, taking comfort in his warm weight. “But I thought… when he played for me, when he looked at me like I was precious—” She broke off when he patted her cheek with a gentle paw. “I thought perhaps he could learn to love.”

The cat’s purrs grew louder as if he were trying to soothe her pain.

“What am I to do now?” she whispered into his fur. “How do I live here, surrounded by memories of him, knowing it meant nothing?”

Mozart’s only answer was to snuggle closer to her, offering what comfort he could to his heartbroken mistress.

The London townhouse felt hollow, every room echoing with Isolde’s absence.

Arthur stood before the pianoforte, his fingers hovering over keys.

The first notes of Mozart’s sonata died down—all he could hear was Isolde’s soft gasp of pleasure when he’d first played for her back at Meadowell.

With a muttered oath, he strode to the brandy decanter. Perhaps spirits would drown the memory of her smile, the way her eyes had sparkled with joy when he’d guided her hands across the keys of his other piano.

“Your Grace?”

The young footman’s tentative voice grated on his raw nerves.

“What?” he snapped, whirling around so suddenly that the boy stepped back.

The look of fear in the servant’s eyes struck him like a physical blow. How many times had he worn that same expression while facing his father’s rage?

“Forgive me.” Arthur softened his voice. “You startled me. What is it you need?”

“Only to know if you’ll be dining in tonight, Your Grace.” The footman’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though his stance remained wary.

“Yes. That will be all.” Arthur paused, then added more gently, “Thank you, James.”

Once alone, Arthur pressed his forehead against the cool windowpane. Was this his legacy? To become the very thing he’d spent his life trying not to be?

His mother’s pianoforte stood in silent reproach behind him. She would be disappointed in him now, he thought. She who had taught him that music could speak when words failed, that tenderness was not weakness but strength.

“Love transforms everything it touches,” she’d told him once, her fingers dancing across the keys despite her illness. “Even pain can become beautiful when touched by love.”

But his father’s voice still echoed louder. “Love is for fools and poets, boy. A duke needs heirs, not tender feelings.”

Arthur’s hand moved unconsciously to the scar on his arm. He’d earned it protecting something beautiful, just as his mother had tried to protect him with her music. Perhaps that’s why he always felt closer to her memory in these quiet moments, when the notes could speak what his heart feared to say.

What would she think of Isolde? Of this woman who had somehow slipped past his defenses and made him want impossible things?

She would have loved her, Arthur was certain. Would have admired Isolde’s quiet strength, her gentle heart, and her ability to find beauty in even the darkest moments.

Just as she had tried to teach him before his father’s cruelty buried those lessons too deep.

But perhaps… perhaps they weren’t buried completely. Perhaps they had simply been waiting, like seeds in the winter earth, for the right moment to bloom.

Some lessons were better learned through love than fear, he’d told himself just yesterday. But was he brave enough to apply that wisdom to his own heart?

The brandy in his glass caught the lamplight, reminding him of how tears had glistened in Isolde’s eyes when she’d asked that impossible question.

“Do you love me?”

His mother would have known how to answer. Would have told him that love wasn’t a weakness but the greatest strength of all.

The real question, he realized as darkness gathered outside his window, was whether he was strong enough to believe it.

The brandy bottle was nearly empty now, but still, he couldn’t escape her memory. With unsteady hands, Arthur poured himself a last measure, watching the amber liquid catch the lamplight like honey—like Isolde’s hair in the morning sun.

Perhaps he should venture outside, he thought darkly. The gambling hells would still be open at this hour, filled with men seeking to chase their own demons. He could lose himself in cards and dice, in the familiar habits of his rakish past.

Anything to dull this ache in his chest, this hollowness that felt suspiciously like loss.

Yes, better the mindless revelry of his old haunts than this quiet room, where even his mother’s piano seemed to reproach him for his cowardice.