Chapter 27

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

" A pity there's no Duchess to bring back with us," Mr. Phipps said, his frail frame swaying to the jolting rhythm of the carriage as it bounced along the uneven countryside roads. "Are you quite sure you don't want me to go back and open up the house again? It's too early in the Season for you to be at your estate, isn't it?"

Out of kindness, Edmund did not mention that the butler had said the same thing five times already.

"I never intended to stay very long," he said, repeating the same thing that he had said five times. "I have decided to take inspiration from my friend Lionel. He spends the majority of his year at his country estate, and I have been away from mine for long enough. I cannot leave it all to Sinclair or he might stage a coup."

Mr. Phipps raised a bushy gray eyebrow. "Do you want me to keep an eye on him when we return?"

"It was a jest, Mr. Phipps," Edmund replied gently. "I am well aware that my estate is in capable hands with Sinclair, but I really do think I ought to dedicate more of my time to the running of it. I do not want to be a Duke who does not actually do anything for his estate and dukedom."

Of course, he could not tell the old butler the real reason they were departing London in haste. Edmund's country estate of Davenport Towers was a four-hour journey from the Capital, and even then, he was not certain it was far enough away from Isolde to keep her out of his thoughts. Maybe, there was nowhere far enough, but at least he would not be tempted to call in to her residence to see how she was faring.

If there is news of her, I shall read it in the papers like everyone else.

Just then, the carriage turned off the winding road and passed through a vast set of entrance gates. They were crafted from bronze, but Edmund had never seen their original color. For as long as he could remember, they had been green with age, which happened to suit the intricate metalwork, designed to resemble the blooms and thorns of rose bushes: his inspiration for the mask he had had made in Venice.

I doubt I shall ever see that mask again, he lamented in silence, thinking of all the things he had left behind at the Grayling townhouse. He would have to write to Vincent to request their return, though the only item he would truly miss was his father's signet ring. Everything else could be replaced if necessary.

Almost everything.

He pushed the heel of his palm into his chest, trying to relax the tight sensation that had held his lungs in a vise since last night. It did not help. Nothing did. Not even packing his belongings onto the carriage to depart for the countryside had eased the guilt that hounded him.

"Are you quite well, Your Grace?" Mr. Phipps asked.

Edmund turned his gaze out of the window to watch the oak trees that lined the driveway pass by. "Yes, thank you. Perfectly well."

Who would not be after they had just kissed the most… beautiful, ferocious, astounding woman in the world?

For a brief few minutes, holding Isolde in his arms, savoring the returned passion of her kiss, he had known absolute peace. If that book had not fallen when it did, he might have been permitted to stay in that glorious paradise for a few minutes more, though he had no doubt that his vow and his sense would have kicked in eventually.

But he would not forget that kiss, regardless of where he went or how many years passed by. Indeed, like the most exquisite art or the most wonderful performance of a play or the most heartrending piece of music, no one could forget perfection, no matter how much they might have wanted to.

Clearing the townhouse of all traces of Edmund had not had the desired effect upon Isolde.

There had been a temporary relief that had lasted until the morning after the ball, but it had been four days since then, and her devastation had wormed deep into her soul like a contagion: she could not sleep, barely ate, had no desire to attend any of the events she had been invited to, and rejected all visitors in favor of staying in her chambers.

Indeed, the only ‘visitor' who would not be dissuaded was Noah. She had not agreed to have an audience with him, but he had left her sweet gifts every day: flowers, candied fruits, a little poem that he may or may not have written himself, and a paper crane, expertly folded.

"You must thank him," her mother had urged, when delivering the gifts to Isolde's bedchamber. "Use this time of sickness to at least write him a note of gratitude, so he does not lose interest."

But it was Isolde who had lost interest in pretty much everything. She did not know where the time went, but mornings slipped swiftly into afternoons, and afternoons dove violently into night, the hours speeding by without reprieve. If months had passed, it would not have surprised her.

On the afternoon of that fourth day, a hesitant knock came at the bedchamber door.

"Izzie?" Teresa said from the other side.

Rubbing tired eyes, Isolde sat up in the window seat where she had been attempting a nap. "Come in."

The door opened and Teresa poked her head around. "How are you feeling?"

"No better, no worse," Isolde replied, her mouth stretching in a yawn.

"Well… Mama has had the cook prepare some of your favorites for luncheon, if you felt like coming down to eat with us all? There is lemonade, too, if you would like that?"

Isolde drew her knees up to her chin, frustrated by the lack of vitality in herself. She was not oblivious to her behavior, but it was as if a bizarre, life-sucking creature had taken hold of her, weakening her until she did not want to do anything but sit around, staring into nothingness, her mind a blank.

More than that, she knew her mother and sisters were worried about her. Teresa most of all, since she was the only one who had any notion of why Isolde had retreated from company and society.

"Please, Izzie," Teresa said quietly, her voice catching.

Isolde's numb heart sank into the depths of her stomach, hearing that woeful sound. "If you give me… five minutes, I will come down to have luncheon with you all."

"You will?" Teresa's pretty blue eyes brightened, her hands clasped together as though she were praying.

Isolde nodded. "I promise. I will wash my face, put on a dress, and do my best impression of a cheerful person."

"You do not have to do that last part, but the rest might do you some good," Teresa said, backing out of the room. "I shall leave you to it."

Exhausted to the point of feeling lightheaded, Isolde slid off the window seat and set about preparing herself for luncheon with her family. She splashed and scrubbed her face with cold water from the basin, neatly pinned her hair with one of her best slides, and went to the armoire to select a suitable dress for the occasion.

Her eyes settled on the sparkle of stars against the midnight blue of night, somehow captured and fashioned into a gown. She touched it gingerly, the spangles glimmering.

"I am sorry you will have to stay here, gathering dust," she murmured, picking out a simple day dress of duck-egg blue and closing the armoire door on the most beautiful thing she would ever possess.

In truth, she knew she probably should have put it into the apple crate with the rest of Edmund's things, but she had not been able to do it. The gown did not deserve that fate, regardless of how her own had turned out.

Ten minutes later, Isolde descended the stairs and headed for the dining room.

She had just passed the drawing room door when a voice called out, "Isolde, is that you? We are in here! We thought we would do something different this afternoon!"

Hearing her mother's falsely cheerful voice made Isolde want to turn around and run back up the stairs, but she had made an unspoken promise to Teresa. She would not let her sister down, no matter what intensity of interrogation she was about to face from her worried mother.

With a breath, she pushed into the drawing room, wearing what she hoped was a believable smile. "Well now, this is unusual," she crowed, hearing the false cheer in her own voice. "I have never heard of having a picnic in one's own drawing room. Is this the new fashion? Have I been in my sickbed for so long that picnics are now done inside rather than outside?"

Her mother chuckled anxiously, while Teresa beamed from ear to ear at the sight of her sister washed and dressed. Prudence, on the other hand, seemed uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes brimming with sadness as she raised them to Isolde.

"What is wrong, Izzie?" Prudence asked. "Mama said you were very poorly, and I tried to sneak in to see you, but she had the footman guarding the hallway day and night. I have been dragged across the landing at least ten times these past four days."

Isolde's heart wrenched for a third time. "I do not know what sickness I had, dearest Prudie, but I can tell you that I am better now. I doubt it shall be very long at all until I am completely myself again."

"So, you do not have the deathly melancholy?" Prudence said, quirking an eyebrow. "A friend of mine said their cousin had it, and almost died of it."

Their mother clicked her tongue. "Is that why you have been so morose of late? Goodness, Prudence, why did you not say so? No one has died of melancholy. It passes. You see, this is why I do not like you spending time with those Horsham sisters. They are forever filling your head with nonsense."

"Well, Prudie, one known cure for melancholy is a fine array of one's favorites," Isolde chirped, sitting down on the settee with her youngest sister, and putting an arm around her shoulders. "So, what do you say we begin feasting?"

Prudence grinned. "I say we gobble up everything until we are sick to our stomachs."

"Prudence!" their mother barked, rolling her eyes in exasperation.

But Isolde smiled back, already feeling a little more human and a little less like a scrap of paper that had been tossed aside. Maybe, being with her family, enjoying good food, talking of everything and nothing would be the perfect cure for her melancholy.

"I shall race you!" Prudence cried, haring after Teresa, who had volunteered to go to the kitchens to fetch a tea tray for everyone.

One of the maids or the housekeeper could have easily done it with the merest ring of a bell, but Teresa had insisted that it would ruin the authenticity of the picnic if they had the servants' help. There would undoubtedly be a lecture during their teatime about the merits of not always relying on staff for simple tasks, but that would have to wait until the expert on the subject returned with the tea tray.

"Thank you, Mama," Isolde said, once her sisters' footsteps had faded into nothing. "Teresa said that you had orchestrated this. I am grateful."

Her mother turned to face her on the settee they shared. "And I am relieved that you are out of your bedchamber, my darling." She raised a hand to brush a wayward lock of hair out of Isolde's face. "I have been so worried, dearest. I… cannot even begin to describe how afraid I have been. I thought you might stay up there forever."

"I would have grown bored eventually," Isolde replied, struggling to maintain a lighthearted tone.

The gentle brush of her mother's fingertips against her cheek was too much, conjuring up unbidden tears, though she had assumed she had no more to shed.

Her mother's brow furrowed as she swept away one such tear that landed on the apple of Isolde's cheek. "What has happened, my darling? You were happy… and then you were not." She took out her handkerchief to dab away another escaping tear. "Have I put too much pressure on you? Have I been too… invasive? I know I am supposed to believe that you are unwell, and you likely want me to play along with the pretense, but… I know you, Isolde. I can see that you are… in pain."

Isolde quickly turned away, embarrassed and dismayed in equal measure that her mother had seen right through her. Then again, Julianna Wilds had been young once, and likely knew more of what Isolde was going through than she thought.

Perhaps, it was that realization that made the truth bubble to the surface, perhaps it was the desire to have a knowledgeable opinion on the matter, or perhaps it was merely the fact that Isolde was too tired to carry the secret anymore.

"It happened at… the Farnaby ball," she heard herself whisper, like she was at a confessional.

Her mother's eyebrows shot up. "What happened?"

"Edmund… He…" Isolde paused to take a steadying breath. "At the Farnaby ball, I needed some peace and quiet and ended up in the library. Edmund… followed me there to see if I was… all right. After a while, he… he… Mama, he kissed me. He kissed me and then he left, saying, in essence, that I should not hope for anything from him. I do not think he meant it in a cruel way, but he said something about never wanting to marry, and then… he left."

"He did what ?" a voice that was not her mother's roared, the drawing room door banging open as a livid figure stormed in. "I will kill him! My goodness, I will kill him!"

Isolde's mother shot to her feet, panic-stricken. "Vincent, calm down." She put up her hands. "Let Isolde tell the rest of the story. There is no need to be rash. Perhaps, there is a reasonable explanation."

"A reasonable explanation?" Vincent seethed, hands curling into tight fists. "I put my sister in his care, Mother. I trusted him to keep her safe and out of trouble. For pity's sake, I came back early because I received his letter, and was ready to apologize to him for putting so much responsibility on his shoulders!"

Isolde stared at her brother, unable to recall another time when she had seen him so furious. Even in her wilder childhood, he had never roared with such venom in his voice, his eyes like two smoldering coals of pure rage.

"It was a letter of guilt, a letter of deception, a letter of betrayal!" Vincent sniped, two patches of scorching red appearing in his cheeks. "I will kill him. Truly, I will."

"Vincent, please," their mother begged.

But all Vincent hissed in reply was, "My pistols. Where are my pistols?"

And as dread surged up from Isolde's stomach, she wished she had thought to throw those in the apple crate too.