Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

“ Y our usual table, Your Grace?” the owner of White’s asked, though Arthur was already striding past him.

The establishment’s familiar labyrinth of green baize tables stretched before him, where gentlemen of means pursued their fortunes. Pipe smoke covered the ceiling in gray tendrils, punctuated by the steady percussion of clinking coins.

Arthur loosened his cravat, the fine linen suddenly suffocating. His fingers brushed the fabric where Isolde’s touch used to linger each morning, her gentle adjustments always accompanied by that soft smile he’d taken for granted. He pushed the memory aside, but it shadowed him like a persistent ghost.

Settling into his preferred corner, he surveyed his former kingdom. Once, he’d ruled these shadowed spaces, master of every game, champion of every stake. Now, the worn leather chair beneath him felt foreign, as if it belonged to another man entirely—the rake he’d been before Isolde had shown him a different kind of fortune.

The evening turned into night. Arthur drove away partner after partner, his legendary skill at cards made dangerous by a reckless abandon that hadn’t been seen since his wildest days. The pile of winnings before him grew with each hand, yet it didn’t bring the satisfaction it once had.

“I say, Meadowell,” Lord Rutland slurred, clearly deep in his cups. “Still brooding over that business with your Duchess? Come now, marriage isn’t meant to be a prison, eh?”

Arthur’s gaze could have crystallized summer air. “I suggest you find another table, Rutland.”

“Now, see here?—”

“Another. Table.” The words carried the full weight of ducal authority.

As Rutland retreated, snippets of conversation drifted to Arthur from the tables nearby.

“… never seen him like this…”

“The Duchess must have…”

“Three weeks now…”

Let them gossip, Arthur thought darkly, claiming another victory with a brutal flourish of cards. Their idle speculation was preferable to the truth—that the notorious Duke of Meadowell had finally encountered something beyond the reach of his charm or skill.

The hours blurred together until a familiar voice cut through his solitude. “My, my. How the mighty have fallen.”

Lady Trowbridge sat beside him, her expensive perfume an unwelcome intrusion. Everything about her presence felt wrong—too calculated, too reminiscent of past indiscretions he now regretted.

“Not now, Joanna.”

“Such a fascinating spectacle you’ve made of yourself,” she observed, ordering wine with an elegant hand gesture. “The reformed rake, fleeing back to his old haunts. One might almost think marriage didn’t agree with you.”

“My choices are none of your concern.” He claimed another win without bothering to acknowledge his defeated opponents.

A liveried footman approached, bowing slightly as he offered her a freshly poured glass. She accepted it with a nod, her gaze never leaving him.

“No? And here I thought we were old friends.” Her fingers traced the rim of her wine glass with practiced grace. “ Very old friends, if memory serves me right.”

“That was before.”

“Was it? Yet, here you sit in the very spot where we first…” She leaned closer, her voice sweet like honeyed poison. “Well, perhaps some memories are better left in the past.”

Arthur studied her, seeing with sudden clarity how hollow her carefully crafted allure was. This woman, with her calculated gestures and empty words, was a pale shadow of the genuine connection he’d found with Isolde.

“What do you want, Joanna?”

“Want? I’m merely concerned for an old friend.” Her laugh held no warmth. “It’s not every day that one sees a newly married duke abandoning his wife for cards and brandy.”

His jaw tightened. “You know nothing about my marriage.”

“Don’t I? I had quite an enlightening conversation with your Duchess at the engagement party. Such an innocent creature, believing she could tame London’s most notorious rake.”

His fingers tightened around the cards. “What did you say to her?”

“Only the truth, darling. That some of us aren’t meant for domestic bliss. That love is a weakness neither of us can afford.” She studied him over her glass. “You and I understand each other. We know better than to indulge in romantic fantasies.”

“You understand nothing.”

“No?” Her eyes glittered dangerously. “I understand you’re hiding here because she wanted more than what you can give. Because she dared to ask for your heart, when we both know you buried that particular organ years ago.”

Arthur’s grip threatened to snap the cards. This viper dared to speak of Isolde—the one person who had seen past his carefully constructed walls and awakened feelings he’d thought long dead.

“You had no right,” he growled, “to poison her mind with your lies. Isolde is worth a thousand of you, and I won’t have you undermining what we’ve built.”

Lady Trowbridge’s smile turned cruel. “And what exactly have you built, Arthur? A marriage of obligation? You and I both know that your heart belongs to pleasure, not devotion.”

“Better to take our pleasure where we find it,” she continued, her hand sliding up his arm. “You taught me that, remember? All those nights when desire was enough.”

Arthur stared at her hand, remembering how different Isolde’s touch felt—genuine, nurturing, filled with a trust he hadn’t earned.

Everything about Joanna suddenly seemed artificial, a counterfeit of something real.

“You’re living dangerously,” she pressed. “Playing the devoted husband will only lead to disappointment. Better to establish proper distance now, before she expects too much. After all…” Her smile sharpened. “We both know what happens to people foolish enough to love you.”

The words struck him like lightning, and he almost wheezed, feeling as if the wind was knocked out of him. He caught his reflection behind the bar, seeing for one horrible moment his father’s cold eyes staring back at him.

“Good God,” he whispered. “I’m becoming him.”

“Becoming who, darling?”

But Arthur was already standing, the cards forgotten. He looked around with new clarity, seeing the desperate revelry, the forced laughter—the emptiness of it all.

Was this truly his destiny? To become like his father, drowning his inability to love in spirits and bitterness?

“I must go.”

“To your little Duchess?” Lady Trowbridge’s voice dripped with contempt. “Don’t be a fool, Arthur. Women like her, with their romantic dreams and tender hearts, will only make you weak.”

But all he could think of was Isolde’s quiet strength in facing scandal, her courage in offering her heart despite his coldness, her dignity even in pain.

His father had been wrong. Wrong about everything.

“You’re right about one thing, Joanna,” Arthur said quietly. “I have been a fool. But not for the reasons you think.”

He left a handful of coins and strode toward the door, ignoring her calls. The night air hit him like salvation, clearing his mind of the brandy’s fog.

“Your carriage, Your Grace?”

“Yes. To Meadowell. As fast as the horses can manage.”

He had to reach her. Had to explain… what? That her love gave him strength, not weakness? That he’d been a coward, running from the very thing that could heal him?

The carriage lurched forward, but Arthur barely noticed. His thoughts were consumed by Isolde—her smile in the music room, her gentle authority with the servants, the way she’d looked at him as if he were worthy of love despite his scars.

He’d been so focused on fighting his father’s ghost that he’d nearly destroyed the one person who could help him lay those demons to rest.

Please. Please let me not be too late.

But as the carriage crested the hill overlooking Meadowell, Arthur’s prayer died in his throat. Against the night sky, orange flames reached toward the stars, and black smoke curled up from Isolde’s wing.

“No,” he whispered. “NO!”

The carriage had barely slowed before he was leaping out, his heart thundering as he raced toward the burning house. Toward Isolde.

This time, he wouldn’t run from love.

This time, he would run toward it, even if it meant charging straight into hell itself.