Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

E dmund strode out into the chilly night, the cool wind stinging his white-hot face. The night above was clear and star-draped, the swathes of that velvety dark bringing Isolde in that astonishing dress to his mind. Not that she showed any signs of leaving his thoughts.

He could still feel the press of her mouth against his lips, the desperate grasp of her hand around his lapel, the tickle of her fingertips on the nape of his neck as she had pulled him closer. It overwhelmed him to the point where he struggled to breathe as he hurried along, determined to get to his carriage and return to his townhouse before he changed his mind and went back to that library.

She will not be there. After that, she will never want to be in a room with you again. And that was what he wanted, was it not? She could be happy with Noah, and though it might pain him to see them together in Seasons to come, he had made his choice long ago. A choice that could not be changed because of one… astonishing kiss.

"Going somewhere?" a sly voice asked, as a shadow emerged from between two carriages.

He halted abruptly, squinting at the night-shrouded figure in front of him. "Do I know you?"

"No, but I have my eye on you." In the muted orange glow of a carriage lantern, her face emerged. "I saw you follow my new friend, and I saw you depart in haste without her, so I am… eager to know what you have done. I am loyal to my friends, Your Grace, and I do not like to see them upset. Will Isolde be upset? Should I prepare for that?"

Edmund recognized her, though he could not remember her name. She was the one who had danced with Isolde at the Thorne's dinner party. The dance that had made him smile at Isolde in a manner that he had rarely done before.

"Beatrice," she said, as if reading his mind. "I saw the way you looked at her at the dinner party. I sensed there was something between you, but Isolde insisted there was not. I think, perhaps, I was right. So, what have you done?"

Edmund straightened up, prickling with indignation at the woman's presumptuous, arrogant attitude. Who did she think she was, talking to him like that? He was a Duke and she was… He did not even know what she was, but she certainly did not outrank him.

But, perhaps, she can protect Isolde in a way you cannot anymore. Beatrice definitely had the fire and the determination to be a replacement guardian, whether he liked her attitude or not.

"I angered her, that is all," he replied, still feeling Isolde's phantom touch on his skin. "We quarreled, she stormed off, I pursued her, she did not want my company, and we parted ways. If she is upset, that is why, though we argue often enough."

Beatrice tilted her head to one side. "Very well. I will not stand in your path anymore."

She stepped to the side and waved a hand as if to say, Go on then, off you go.

He knew he should stand his ground and rebuke her for behaving so outlandishly for a lady, but he did not have the vigor anymore. He was weary to his bones and wanted nothing more than to return to his townhouse, put his city affairs in order, and venture off to Davenport Towers until all of this became a distant memory.

Is this why Lionel keeps to his country estate most of the time? Edmund's friend had always been wise, and maybe Edmund could learn a thing or two.

He was about to proceed to his own carriage, when Beatrice's voice called out again, snagging his attention. "Your Grace?"

"What?" he said, a note too harshly.

Beatrice smiled a wicked smile, pointing her chin at his chest. "Your collar is askew."

"You cannot leave us!" Amelia pleaded, holding onto Isolde's arm. "We have only just arrived!"

Valery nodded in agreement. "And you cannot waste a gown like that. Indeed, you must remain longer than anyone else, so that beautiful thing gets the glory it deserves."

Isolde had hoped to leave the ball with minimum attention. After finally mustering enough calm to depart the library, she had planned to collect her mother, feign a sickness of some kind, and return home without delay. She had not expected to run into her friends, who had arrived at the most inopportune moment.

"I am so very sorry," Isolde said, head bowed. "I have not been well all day and thought I would be able to endure the evening, but it seems that my ailment has claimed me. I must leave before I become even more unwell."

I must have quiet and solitude before I embarrass myself by bursting into tears. She had been fighting them back, but they kept trying to break through, her eyes stinging with the effort.

"Cease bothering her," another voice joined in, Beatrice sauntering up to the group. "If she says she is unwell, then she is. It does no one's health any good to feel guilt on top of sickness. Pay them no mind, Isolde—you go home and rest, and I shall wish you a swift recovery."

Valery eyed her cousin. "Where have you been? Were you not right behind us?"

"I had to pause to button my shoe," Beatrice replied, slipping an arm around Isolde's shoulders. "Come on, let us wave you off."

Isolde hesitated, not knowing if Edmund had departed already. The last thing she wanted was to bump into him, especially with her unimpressed mother at her side. Her mother would engage Edmund in conversation, delaying Isolde's return home, which was precisely what she needed to get away from him and the thought of him.

" I happen to think that your other friends are right," Isolde's mother grumbled. "It is such a tragedy to retire early in a gown like that. Are you certain you cannot just bear it for another couple of hours?"

Beatrice jumped in before Isolde could find a suitable reply. "Ah, but if she were to suffer through tonight, she might become worse, and then she would have to miss even more society events. Besides, a young lady of Isolde's merit and beauty should always leave people wanting more. Even after she has gone, no one will talk of anything but her."

That seemed to soothe Isolde's mother, and Isolde flashed a grateful glance at Beatrice, who winked in reply. Almost as if she knew there was something more to the situation than Isolde was letting on.

Surely not. Isolde suddenly felt a very real wave of nausea, her stomach churning with nerves and anger and hurt and confusion.

Letting Beatrice guide her, Isolde did not say another word as she was led out into the night, and ushered into the waiting carriage. Whether Beatrice suspected something or not, Isolde doubted that it mattered. Beatrice would not say anything and, after tonight, there would never be anything to speak about again with regards to Edmund. He had shirked his duties, he had made his position patently clear, and if he had changed his mind, he would have come back to the library.

The momentary fairytale was over before it had even begun.

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece sounded out three chimes, reminding Isolde of the lateness of the hour.

She had not been able to sleep, for obvious reasons, and had tried everything to seek some respite from her racing mind. She had attempted to read, she had tried to work through some of her correspondence, she had gone to the kitchens for a glass of warm milk, she had paced and paced some more, but every couple of minutes, she found herself back in the Farnaby's library, kissing him , then feeling like she had just been tossed out of paradise.

I should buy a crate of strawberry tarts and leave them in his entrance hall, she mused, perching on the window seat for a moment, gazing out at the night-steeped street and the darkened park beyond.

She frowned, thinking of her promenade with Lord Spofforth. Edmund had been right about him, yes, but was he not also somewhat hypocritical? Lord Spofforth had touched her inappropriately, but at least he had not kissed her and then abandoned her with a paltry excuse.

"If anything, you are worse than Lord Spofforth," she muttered at the windowpane, letting her sadness transform into anger. Anger was better. Anger was manageable. Sadness just felt… hopeless, and she refused to let Edmund make her feel like that.

We should have remained enemies. I should not have lowered my guard, because I always knew what you were—a man who takes things and does not say "thank you" or offer a real apology. It was a silly assertion, the kind of logic that her younger self would have called wisdom, but it improved her mood a little.

"If it is my dream that he wants me to have, then I shall have it. If he wants to abandon his duties, then I will make sure he never feels welcome here again," she told herself defiantly, grateful that her mother was fast asleep along with the rest of the household, so no one could hear her solitary mutterings.

Suddenly revived, Isolde crouched down beside her bed and flailed an arm underneath, fumbling for the old, empty apple crate that she knew was there somewhere. She used to store her books there before Vincent had bought her another bookcase, and it was the perfect, dusty, decrepit vessel for the remainder of Edmund's things.

You will no longer have a place here. If Vincent invites you to stay, you will be a true guest like everyone else. She smiled at her ingenuity and slipped out of the bedchamber with the crate in her arms, praying there were no spiders lurking in the corners. Or, if there were, that they only came out once Edmund was in receipt of his left-behind belongings.

On tiptoe, Isolde made her way down the hall and crossed over the landing, peering down discreetly to ensure there were no servants or sisters wandering around.

Satisfied, she crept on down the hallway until she came to the very last door on the left: Edmund's former guest chambers. A room she had not entered in years, not since it been designated to Edmund by Vincent.

If Vincent questions it, I shall tell him to ask Edmund for an explanation. She almost wished she could hear what untruth Edmund would tell, to avoid having to inform his dearest friend that he had kissed her and put her reputation in peril. Perhaps, there would be a duel.

She let herself into the guest chamber, pleased that it was not locked, and set the apple crate down in the center.

Standing back up to her full height, she rested her hands on her hips and looked around, taking in the sights of the unfamiliar bedchamber. It barely held any signs of recent life, aside from a greatcoat hanging on the door, a few books strewn on the writing desk, and a pair of boots left beneath the windowsill.

"What secrets might we find?" she murmured, stealing over to the writing desk.

There was nowhere better for discovering things about a person, and though she would not stoop to reading someone else's personal correspondence, she would not draw her eyes away if one happened to be open for anyone to peruse.

Sitting down in the chair that Edmund must have used a thousand times, she traced her fingertips across his personal effects: an inkwell, a few prepared quills, a small stack of paper, a stick of wax and a Davenport seal, a signet ring with the letter ‘W' engraved in gold.

"An heirloom?" she mumbled, turning it over in her hand before setting it back down.

As she sat there, assessing the various drawers and little wooden boxes, wondering what to look at next, a chill ran up her spine. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, feeling for a moment that she was not alone.

Hesitantly, she glanced back over her shoulder to the door she had left ajar. It had not moved, nor were there any nefarious shadows lurking on the threshold, peeking an eerie head around.

It is the residual surprise, nothing more, she told herself sternly, squinting at the corners of the bedchamber. Moonlight offered a great deal of comfort to her frayed mind, shining through the tall windows, illuminating most of the room. She was alone, but perhaps she was feeling the presence of the gentleman who had recently been the room's occupant.

"Why did you have to kiss me?" she murmured, her voice cracking. "If you had no good intentions, why did you do it?"

It was the part she understood the least about the entire event, for though she hated to admit it, Edmund was an upstanding, honorable gentleman of society. To everyone else, at least. And in their time together as ward and guardian, she had begun to see what the rest of society saw.

No longer.

As tears began to roll down her cheeks, smudged away with the sleeve of her housecoat, she pulled open one of the desk drawers, not expecting to find much… So, when she saw a pair of almond-shaped, empty eyes staring up at her from a tangle of bronze roses and thorns, she barely stifled the shocked yelp that slipped from her mouth.