Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

" H e is here! He is riding up now!" Prudence cried triumphantly, her face pressed to the drawing room window, leaving a smear behind on the glass.

Isolde sat perched on the edge of the settee, holding a teacup and saucer that would not stop rattling together with the tremor of her nerves. The tea inside the cup had long since cooled, but she sipped it anyway, her throat arid with fear of what news they were all about to receive.

She still had not slept, tossing and turning through endless nightmares of Vincent shooting Edmund dead, or the equally awful opposite. Her fatigue showed, but there was nothing to be done about it. Indeed, if Edmund had been killed in a duel, she doubted she would ever sleep again.

"All will be well," Isolde's mother said hoarsely, as if she too had not slept a wink. She took Isolde's hand and squeezed it. "Your brother is a reasonable man. Yes, he rode off in an abject fury, but I wager that the long ride tempered his anger somewhat. After all, Edmund is his dearest friend."

Isolde squeezed her mother's hand in return. "Is it wrong to wish I had never told you?"

"It is not wrong," her mother replied softly, "but I am still glad that you confided in me. Secrets are a burden, my darling. They can destroy you if you do not share the weight of them, sometimes. And say what you will, but I know that secret was in the midst of destroying you."

"Do you wish Vincent had not heard?"

Her mother laughed stiffly. "Oh, without doubt."

Isolde peered into her mother's eyes, those light blue pools a reflection of Isolde's own. Over the past few years, they had not been as close as either of them would have liked, with the pressure of debuting taking precedence. But no matter what news came through the door, Isolde was pleased that a warmth and a trust had returned between her and her mother, for she had often missed having a parental confidante.

"Mama, did you… love Papa?" Isolde asked haltingly. "I remember that you argued a lot, and that he was absent often, but… was there ever love between you?"

Her mother's eyes widened as she drew in a sharp breath of surprise. "There was… respect between us, which is a kind of love. By the end, he was dear to me, and I like to think that I was dear to him, but it was a… platonic affection. We were friends. Not always, I grant you, but I have missed him more than I ever thought I would. In the quiet moments, when I am preparing for bed, I still turn to tell him something."

A smile tugged at the corners of Isolde's lips, for she could not recall ever hearing her mother speak of her father so fondly. Julianna had grieved, of course, when her husband died, but after he was buried and the mourning period had ended, she had never liked to speak of him much.

Isolde had assumed it was indifference, but maybe she was mistaken.

"Would you have chosen him for yourself, if you could go back to your youth?"

Her mother frowned in contemplation. "If I knew him to the depth and breadth that I did in the end, I think I might. If I knew nothing of him, as I did when I married him, I do not think I would. I would still want to find the kind of love that one dreams about from girlhood."

What if the man that I was starting to care for very much is gone? What if all I can expect now is a marriage of convenience? Isolde was not nearly brazen enough to ask that question, considering her secret had caused her brother to ride off with pistols in his pack and vengeance in his heart.

Fortunately, the front door opened at that moment, squashing her thoughts into a tangled ball of terror. She knew from Prudence's declaration that Vincent had returned, but what had befallen Edmund? She was not at all certain that she wanted to find out.

As footfalls headed down the hallway, Isolde held her breath… and expelled it in a rasping gasp of desperate relief as two figures stepped into the drawing room.

"I told you," Isolde's mother whispered, nudging her daughter in the arm.

Isolde gripped the edge of the brocade settee, struggling to suppress the urge to yelp at the heartening sight of her brother and Edmund, both in one piece. However, no one seemed to have told the men that they should be gladdened, their faces as solemn as a priest.

"You did not kill each other, then?" Prudence said, sliding down from the window seat. "With all of your roaring and ranting, Brother, I was certain there would be bloodshed."

"Prudence Wilds, you will go to your bedchamber at once!" Julianna scolded, jabbing a finger at the door.

Prudence sniffed and folded her arms across her chest. "There is nothing to amuse me here anyway. After so much melodrama, this is quite the disappointment," she muttered, pushing past the two gentlemen to get out of the drawing room.

"Actually," Vincent said, his gaze falling on Isolde, "I would like you all to leave the room. Everyone but Isolde."

Teresa hurried out, forever eager to obey. But it became obvious where Prudence got her mulish, willful streak from, as Isolde's mother immediately began to cause a fuss.

"I do not see why I should leave. If there is something to be said, it can be said in front of me," she insisted. "Indeed, I have not sacrificed my rest and my peace of mind all night and all morning just to be sent away like a naughty child. No, I will not go. I shall sit here, as is my right."

Vincent narrowed his eyes, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Mother, you will leave, or I will throw you over my shoulder and make you."

"You will do no such thing!" Julianna barked.

However, as Vincent moved toward her, she jumped up and rushed for the door, muttering rude things under her breath as she left. And she did not miss an opportunity to flash a disapproving scowl at Edmund as she passed by him, her loud tut of condemnation echoing back into the room.

You were desperate for us to marry not so long ago, Isolde mused, mildly entertained by the stark difference in her mother's response to the Duke of Davenport.

"Isolde," Vincent said, pulling her out of her thoughts, "Edmund has something he would like to say to you. I shall be just over there by the garden doors, to allow you some privacy."

"Privacy?" Isolde repeated, casting a pensive glance at Edmund. "I do believe that is what created the trouble in the first place."

Vincent leaned down and kissed Isolde's brow. "Yes, but I am here this time. All will be well, dear sister."

With that, he wandered over to the opposite side of the room, leaving Edmund to step forward.

It had been almost a week since Isolde had last seen him, and the days in between had not been particularly kind to him. He seemed weary, his broad shoulders sagging, his head slightly bowed, his lustrous russet hair not quite as neat as usual, his beautiful sapphire eyes framed with dark crescents. And every step he took toward her appeared heavy, as if he was not there of his own volition.

I could have loved you if you had not run. I really think I could have fallen for you—I mean, I was already tumbling before I knew what the feeling was.

It hurt to look at him, even in his disheveled state. Meeting his eyes, seeing his plump, tempting lips, it just sent her mind spinning back to the library… and further back, to the gardens of Kensington Palace. The growl of his voice, calling her his. So many possibilities, so many unexpected hopes, dashed the instant he had walked out of the Farnaby ball.

With a breath, Edmund sank down to one knee in front of her. "Isolde, I realize that I have behaved poorly, and I am sorry for that. I realize also that this is probably the last thing you want to hear from me, but… would you do me the honor of consenting to marry me?"

Isolde sat frozen, her lungs forgetting to draw in breath. She stared at him for a while, uncertain of whether or not she had heard him correctly. After his parting words of "I never plan to marry," how could he be asking for her hand now? It did not make a lick of sense and, what was worse, it did not make her feel at all happy. Instead, it felt hollow and painful, like receiving a gift that had shattered to pieces on the journey.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked bluntly. "I know it is not what you want."

Edmund's eyes pinched, his brow creasing as it had done in the moments before he kissed her at last. As if she was the one causing him pain.

"I promised to protect you," he said. "If this is what it takes to ensure that your reputation and honor remains intact, then I will marry you. It does not matter what I want. That being said, it would be remiss of me not to be honest with you, as I have… mostly always been: I can only offer a marriage of convenience. I cannot offer you your dreams. It is beyond my capability."

She had been enamored by the man in the mask, but she did not like the mask that he was wearing now; the fa?ade that he was content with this decision, when he evidently was not.

"Thank you for your honesty," Isolde replied flatly. "Now, hear mine: No, I will not marry you. I have sought a marriage of love for as long as I can remember, and I will not sacrifice that now. If you cannot offer me love, I do not want what you can offer."

"Isolde!" Vincent raced over, exposing the ‘privacy' for the fib that it was. "Isolde, you have to marry him. You cannot reject his proposal. I have arranged this, Sister. He has agreed. After all these years of showing that you can be obedient and ladylike, do not revert to your old ways now!"

Isolde lifted her gaze to her brother, smiling a thin smile. "If I had reverted to my old ways, I would not still be sitting in this room. Or if I had a strawberry tart to hand, I would have pressed it to my chest and pretended that Edmund had shot me during the annual hunt."

She flashed a bittersweet smirk at Edmund, who blinked in surprise. It was the event that no one mentioned, the ‘wicked' trick that had shoved Isolde into years of intense education into becoming a proper lady, the final straw that had made Vincent believe for a while that his sister was irredeemable; the ultimate jest that had brought Edmund close to throttling her— after he had realized it was a trick, of course.

"You see, you do know how to say that you are sorry! Now, say it to my brother." She could still remember crowing those words as she sat bolt upright with Edmund at her side, coming ‘back to life.' He had been wheezing in frantic gulps of breath, apologizing profusely, thinking he had killed her by accident. And when she had sat up like that, he had looked like he might keel over.

"Brother, I appreciate that you have tried to remedy this in the only way you know how," she continued, "and I am glad that no one is dead, but I will not marry him. I want love, I deserve love, and even Edmund would agree with that."

If you would just say that you feel something for me, I will consider it. She gazed at him, hoping that her eyes might relay the message, but she was not foolish enough to wait for a confession. He had already stated his position.

"Besides," she added. "I already have another proposal to consider, and that is an offer of love."

"What?" Edmund and Vincent both asked in unison, one with an anguished frown, the other with a tone of pleasant surprise.

She got to her feet and curtseyed to Edmund, who was rising up from his fruitless proposal. Her eyes followed him up to his full height, briefly lamenting the fact that she would never feel safe in his arms again, experiencing the singular wonder of him curving himself around her, as if he really would be a shield between her and anything that would cause her harm.

But he could not shield her from himself, and that was the problem.

"The Viscount," she said curtly. "He has sent me gifts every day, and notes asking when he might see me again, for he has something very important to ask me. I hate to assume, but he is so… open with me that I do not think I am mistaken; I believe I know what the question will be."

Vincent nodded, clapping Edmund on the back. "That must be a relief for you! I can certainly say it is a relief for me. Heavens, I thought I would have to brace myself for your entry into spinsterhood!"

Edmund did not say anything; he just stared at Isolde, his expression unreadable.

"The Viscount does not wear a mask when he is with me," Isolde said, unable to help herself. "Indeed, I think I shall be very happy. So, if you will excuse me, I have preparations to make for this evening's dinner party."

She walked out of the room and up the stairs at a measured pace, only running the last short stretch to her bedchamber. Once she was inside, she closed the door behind her and pressed her back to it, panting hard as her heart wavered in her chest and tears threatened to fall once more.

For days, in her melancholic stupor, she had prayed that Edmund would come to the house and declare that he had changed his mind and wanted to court her, apologizing as profusely as he had during the strawberry tart incident. When he had not, the crack in her heart had widened.

Now, it splintered altogether, as she realized with all certainty that he was never, ever going to change his mind. He did not love her. He would not love her. Indeed, he would not even entertain the idea, leaving her with just one option: to throw herself into the next best thing, hoping it would not be the greatest mistake of her life.