Chapter 28

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I n the gloom of his study, shadows dancing between the cobwebbed rafters, Edmund swirled a glass of brandy and watched the flames waltz in the fireplace.

His eyes were blurred by the many glasses of brandy that had gone before, the lashing tongues of the fire transforming into scenes he wished to forget: Isolde dancing with Noah at Martin Thorne's dinner party, Isolde chatting with Noah at the same dinner party, Isolde leaning in to hear what Noah had to say at the ball where Edmund had kissed her; Isolde looping her arms around Edmund's neck to pull him closer, Isolde kissing him back so fervently, Isolde staring at him with burning hurt in her eyes when he had left her standing there against the bookcases.

"Was I jealous all along?" he muttered into his glass as he took another deep sip.

Regardless of whether he was inebriated or sober, he could not fathom when his feelings toward Isolde had changed. It was understood that they were supposed to dislike one another, as they had done since the day they met six years ago. It was expected that they would carry on disliking one another—so much so that it had become a joke among friends.

We grew up.

The notion was quieter than the din of his memories and regret, puzzling him. Was that why things had changed? Had they both matured while he was away on the Continent, and she was preparing to enter society? Had they matured, somehow, at the same pace, bringing them together instead of apart?

"Where is he?" a furious shout exploded into the silence, propelling Edmund out of his armchair, the glass of brandy sloshing in his hand.

He backed up, squinting at the study door until he could make out the rectangle of it more clearly.

"If you do not tell me where he is, I shall search every inch of this manor until I have found the beast!" the voice bellowed again, more familiar this time, less muffled by the effects of the brandy.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway outside, and Edmund turned in a clumsy circle, trying to find something he could use to defend himself. Instead, he ended up so dizzy that he had no choice but to sink back into the comfort of the armchair and wait for the fury to reach him.

It did, a minute later.

The study door blasted open, a familiar figure marching in with a pitch dark cloud hanging over his head and the devil in his eyes.

"I trusted you," Vincent seethed, wasting no time. "I asked you to guard one of the most precious things I have in my life, and you… you tarnished her! Not only that, but you ran like a coward! I went to your townhouse, I saw that it was closed up, but I knew where you would be. I knew where you would hide."

He strode over to where Edmund sat listlessly and grabbed his oldest friend by the front of the shirt. Perhaps, Vincent meant to haul him to his feet, but the brandy and the dizziness had turned Edmund into a dead weight.

So, Vincent leaned in instead, leveling those burning eyes at Edmund. "I ought to kill you for what you have done, Edmund. I ought to beat you black and blue. She is the best of us, Edmund! She is good and kind and sweet and honorable, and you… you took advantage!"

Edmund met his friend's eyes with resignation, his shoulders slumping as he set down his brandy glass. "Do what you will, Vincent. I deserve it."

"What?"

"If it is satisfaction that you seek, I will not argue. If you wish to duel me, I will accept. If you wish to beat me black and blue, I will not stop you. If you want to make an example of me, do what you must," Edmund replied, his words like thick honey in his mouth.

Vincent hesitated, frowning as if he had expected a fight from his oldest friend, a protest at least. "I brought my pistols. I am entirely serious, Edmund. For what you have done, a duel is not nearly enough to make amends."

"I am serious too." Edmund blinked slowly.

"No, you are drunk," Vincent spat, letting go of Edmund's shirt with a disgusted shove.

Edmund sank back into the chair, not bothering to adjust the twisted fabric or refasten the buttons that had popped open. He had already dishonored the vow he had made to his fallen family by kissing Isolde and feeling things he should not; it only made sense that he should resemble the wretch he was.

"I might be somewhat inebriated," he said, "but I am still serious. Punish me however you see fit. If it is to be a duel, give me until dawn to sober up and I will meet you wherever you please."

Some of the bluster seemed to drain out of Vincent as he took to pacing the flagstone floor of the study, sweeping a hand through his sandy blond hair. His eyes lost a few degrees of their intense burn, too, as they darted from Edmund to the door and back again.

"What if I want something else?" Vincent asked presently.

Edmund closed one eye to see his friend better. "What can I give to make amends?"

"What if I demand that you marry Isolde without delay," Vincent replied, halting in his frantic pacing.

He looked as disheveled as Edmund felt, and it delivered a second sting to Edmund's guilt, that he had caused his oldest and dearest friend such distress.

How did you find out? he wanted to ask, wondering if it was Isolde herself who had informed him. Not that he would have blamed her. In truth, part of him had been waiting for this moment, certain that there was some manner of repercussion coming for him. When one kissed a divine being, giving in to base, mortal impulses, the heavens rarely allowed that person to get away with it.

Edmund considered the request for a short while. "If that is what you want, and Isolde will have me, then I will do it." He paused, rubbing his hand against the burning sensation in his chest. "However, I do not want Isolde to have to marry me out of duty."

"It is rather too late for your concern; do you not think?" Vincent growled, resuming a slower strut back and forth.

"No, I do not think it is." Edmund swallowed a hiccup. "Her honor, I assure you, is intact. And I should hate to see her forced into a union of misery because of a grave mistake that I made. Why, unless I have missed some condemning news and all of society is aware of what happened, she is still free to marry whomever she pleases. Why not make it someone she could actually love?"

Vincent halted so sharply that his boots squeaked on the smooth flagstones. He whipped around, glaring at Edmund as if he was waiting for some sort of trick to reveal itself. Edmund stared back with a sad smile, wishing he had never pulled Isolde away from Noah, yet unable to fully regret the fact that he would always know what it was like to be kissed by her.

I may go on to live a solitary existence—even more solitary now—but I shall always remember that one shining moment.

It was bittersweet, remembering those fleeting minutes where everything was blissful, and anything was possible. If he had not been roused to his senses in time, he had no doubt that he would have broken his vow completely, there and then, whispering a proposal of marriage against her lips as he kissed her.

Vincent stamped over to the empty armchair, opposite Edmund's, and slumped down into it. He draped one leg over the thigh of the other, jigging his foot in anxious contemplation.

"I do not want to have to duel you," he said darkly, scratching the shadow of stubble on his jaw. "I thought I wanted you dead, but the journey here cooled my ire somewhat. It has not removed it, but… I would prefer it if we both could live."

Edmund nodded slowly. "So, you want me to ask for Isolde's hand? That is your choice?"

"Yes," Vincent replied. "That is my choice."

With a groan, Edmund moved to rise out of his chair. "I suppose I ought to stow my belongings back onto the carriage then, if this is to be a London wedding."

Vincent waved an irritated hand. "Sit back down. You can do all of that in the morning. Until then, I need you to sober up, bathe yourself, rest well, and ensure that you look halfway decent when we return tomorrow." He stretched out a hand. "For now, pass me that bottle of brandy and a spare glass. I think I need a tipple far more than you."

Edmund did as he was asked, handing over the liquor and a crystal tumbler. He watched as Vincent poured himself a hefty measure, and as his friend put the brandy to his lips, Edmund picked up his own glass and sipped what was left.

Feeling the warmth slip down into his stomach, Edmund returned his gaze to the fireplace, his heart somehow heavier than it had been before Vincent's arrival. He could just about picture Isolde, sitting in the drawing room as he entered, glaring at him as he sank down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. She would hate him more than she had ever hated him for taking away her dream of an epic romance, crushing it with the vows she would not want to make to him.

In many ways, he would have preferred a duel, for at least the risk of that was something he felt he deserved.

But gaining Isolde as his wife, his Duchess, his companion—no, he knew he did not deserve that at all.