Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

E dmund was already partway down the porch steps, the housekeeper in the midst of closing the door after him, when Isolde slipped out. She did not know what was possessing her, but she could not stop herself from reaching out, grabbing him by the wrist to turn him around.

A look of astonishment graced his face as he stared at her, though even from the lower step, he was still taller than her.

"What are you doing?" he rasped, shaking his head as if to dislodge something. "You should return inside at once! It is unseemly for a lady to chase gentlemen out of a house, and more improper still for a lady to… grasp at a gentleman who is not family or a husband."

Nevertheless, he made no attempt to remove her hand from his wrist, just as she did not take her hand away. And as she looked into his eyes, she saw that odd fire still burning in the depths of those intense sapphires. She could not decide if it was a glow of hatred or hunger or something she had no name for.

Isolde straightened her posture, swallowing past the thickness in her throat. "I will go inside when you tell me why you have been avoiding this house for three days. I have missed two dinner parties, an afternoon recital, a poetry reading, and a luncheon because of you. Did you forget that I cannot attend anywhere without an escort, or did you stay away so I could not go anywhere?"

"Last I heard, your mother still has legs," Edmund bit back, his entire demeanor more… unraveled than usual.

He did not look like he had slept much, there was a rather appealing shadow of stubble across his jaw that immediately conjured an image in Isolde's mind of him wandering windswept hills; his hair was tousled and wild as if he had been running his hands through it often, and his cravat and collar were loose around his neck, revealing a hint of his collarbone that should probably not have been visible.

"Yes, well, my mother had prior engagements," Isolde replied, disarmed by his unexpected ruggedness.

Edmund shrugged. "From what you have said, it rather sounds like I saved you from at least four instances of utter tedium. Now, please, return inside."

"Why have you been avoiding me?" she insisted, her heart beating uneasily in her chest.

He glanced back over his shoulder, bristling with a similar unease, before he returned his gaze to her. When he did, she noticed a subtle flinch of his eyes and mouth, as if she had caused him pain. But she had not gripped his wrist any tighter, nor could she think of any other injury she might have inflicted.

"As I mentioned, I have been busy," he said flatly.

"With what?"

"With estate matters," he replied.

"Then, why have you not gone to your estate?"

He expelled a great sigh. "Because I made a promise to your brother, and it is better for me to be nearby to undertake that duty, where I can also attend to my estate business."

Gently, he prized her fingers from his wrist, but rather than let go immediately, he hesitated, holding her hand for a moment. His palm was rough and warm against hers, for she never wore gloves when she dined at home and had quite forgotten that she was without them when she had reached for him.

All at once, she was reminded of the garden party, and how he had come running to her side; the look of stricken concern on his face as he had checked her for injury, touching her stomach though many would have deemed that improper. Yet, in that instant, he had cared more about her than he had about society opinion.

It was the same in the drawing room. I felt it. You did not care about society opinion then either.

As if he could tell what she was picturing in her mind, he dropped her hand as if it were ablaze. "Go inside," he growled. "I will not have you undo your own reputation because you refuse to listen to me."

"Undo my own reputation?" she said, breathless. "And what of you undoing it with your… dance lessons?"

She could not bring herself to speak aloud the truth of it—that he had almost kissed her, and she had almost kissed him back. But he was no fool; there was no possible way he would not understand what occasion she was referring to.

He rose up until he was perilously close to her, stealing the last of the air out of her lungs as he leaned in and whispered, "Goodnight, Isolde."

Whirling around, he marched on down the steps and into the night, leaving Isolde with shaky legs and a racing heart as he blended seamlessly into shadow… rather like someone else who had made her feel that way, not so long ago.

Edmund slammed into his townhouse like a summer storm, panting hard as if he had sprinted all the way from the Grayling residence when, in truth, he had walked at an ordinary pace. His mind, on the other hand, was a different story: it was running several marathons at once, every race peppered with hurdles in the shape of Isolde Wilds.

"Your Grace?" a hoarse voice said, startling Edmund.

He recovered swiftly, tipping his head to his longtime butler, Mr. Phipps. The old man had been an old man in Edmund's father's day, and though Edmund knew he ought to seek a younger replacement who did not struggle with stairs and eyesight, he simply could not do it. It was the same with Sinclair, the steward of Davenport Towers, though at least he still had most of his wits about him.

"You should be in bed, Mr. Phipps," Edmund said, taking hold of the butler's arm, as thin and frail as a bird bone.

"I can't retire ‘til the household is abed, Your Grace," Mr. Phipps replied. "I heard you go out, so I've been waiting for you to come back."

Edmund helped the man down the hallway to the old study that had been repurposed as a bedchamber for the butler, to save him the trouble of having to master the stairs every day. Mr. Phipps had been horrified by the study's transformation at first, as Edmund had done it without mentioning it, but the butler had come to appreciate the gesture.

"Will Her Grace be wanting her sleeping tonic before she retires?" Mr. Phipps asked. "I was trying to find a maid, but I suppose they've all left their posts already."

Edmund's breath caught, the wind knocked out of him for the second time in one evening. The third, in truth. The first had been when he heard Isolde declare that she did not "have the faintest affection" for him; the second when she had come running out to ask about what nearly happened in the drawing room; the third was realizing that Mr. Phipps was having one of his ‘moments,' where he was somewhere in the past, living it as if it was the present.

"Her Grace is not here," Edmund said, swallowing past the lump that had formed in his throat.

Mr. Phipps frowned. "What do you mean? The family are leaving for the seaside tomorrow morning. Where else would Her Grace be but here?"

"You should rest, Mr. Phipps," Edmund urged, his head spinning with memories.

But there was a new layer to them now, an undercurrent of loneliness that tugged on him like a riptide. Isolde had done that. Isolde had thrown him off course, bringing things to the surface that had been shoved down so deep that he had assumed he would never have to feel them again. By distracting him, she had allowed old pains and agonizing solitude to slither past his guard.

I cannot be near her again. I ought to return to Davenport without delay and leave her to her mother's protection.

On the steps, he had almost kissed her cheek. He had wanted to, had wanted to discuss back and forth what might or might not have been about to happen in the drawing room, had wanted to force her to untangle the knots she had twisted in his head.

"I am muddled again, aren't I?" Mr. Phipps asked, diverting Edmund's attention.

"A little, but it is nothing sleep cannot fix," Edmund replied.

The butler made his own way into the repurposed study, hobbling over to the desk where he leaned for a moment. "They're gone, aren't they?"

"They are." Edmund clenched his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms to distract himself from the influx of memories.

That, in turn, merely led him back to the distraction of Isolde. How soft and warm her hand had been in his, so fleetingly. How she had peered at him with shy intrigue, how she had asked about the ‘dancing lessons' so brazenly, how desperately he had longed to tell her that, yes, he would have kissed her if her mother had not returned.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Phipps said. "I'm sorry you only had us. We weren't much of a substitute, I know, but it'll not be long until there are younglings in this house again, and you'll have a family of your own to replace what you lost. I think I'd like to see that before my days come to an end."

Edmund mustered a smile. "Goodnight, Mr. Phipps."

"And to you, Your Grace."

Edmund closed the door and padded back into the entrance hall, too weary to do anything but lie down on the chaise-longue by the staircase. He lay there until his breathing slowed and his mind calmed somewhat, but it was not enough to shuffle off the twinge of guilt in his chest.

The staff at his London residence and at Davenport Towers had often, none-too-discreetly, asked when there might be a Duchess and children to look forward to. They missed the noise and vitality as much as he did, especially those who had been there when it was a happy place, and he regretted having to tell them not to look forward to such things.

Still, that prickle of guilt would never overcome the sweeping flood of certainty that he would not have a Duchess or children at all. He did not deserve a legacy, when he had not been able to save the people that he loved the most. If they did not get to grow old and gray, surrounded by grandchildren to dote on, then he would not either.

"Thank you, Isolde," he murmured to the ceiling, for she had made it that much easier for him to keep his distance. Indeed, though it had not been pleasant to hear in the moment, he was glad he had walked into the dining room when he had. Nothing cooled a man's ardor faster than receiving an icy bucket of reality.

"Nor do I have the faintest affection for the man!" He played the words over and over in his mind, remembering every detail of the fervent fury in her voice.

Whatever had almost happened between him and Isolde, it would never happen again. In truth, it would be better for everyone if they went back to being enemies, as quickly as possible.