Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

H azy sunshine slanted in through the casement windows of Edmund's study, the scent of cut grass and lavender drifting in on the mild breeze. He closed his eyes and inhaled the aroma, considering the prospect of taking a late morning walk through the grounds.

I should purchase a dog. That would keep me occupied.

His restlessness over the past couple of weeks since Isolde's rejection had proven to be rather useful, giving him more time to dedicate to his correspondence and estate affairs. Indeed, he had almost caught up on everything that had been waiting for him in the two years that he had been on his grand tour.

But he could not shake the loneliness that had settled over him like a heavy blanket.

A knock came at the study door.

"Come in," Edmund called, stretching out his aching arms.

The steward, Sinclair, walked in and bowed his head. "There is a visitor for you, Your Grace. I told him you were at your work, but he was insistent. I've left him in the Sun Room for you."

Sinclair was a hard-edged man with thinning gray hair and sharp, blue eyes that could pierce right through any nonsense. He had been around for as long as Edmund could remember, moving through the ranks of staff. He had begun as a gardener's boy, then a footman, then a valet, and now the steward of Davenport Towers. And he took great pride in that, even though he showed no emotion on his face at any time.

Is that what I will become?

The steward had never married and never shown any inclination toward the institution. Edmund could recall his father scolding many a member of staff for dallying with other servants, but Sinclair had not been among them. Not once. He was always alone, with the sort of demeanor that kept most people at a distance.

"Should Mr. Phipps not be telling me this?" Edmund asked, rising from his chair, wondering who could be calling upon him.

Sinclair grimaced. "He has taken to his bed again, Your Grace. Another bout of his mad rambling. We'll have to find a replacement soon." He hesitated. "I can do it on your behalf, if you'd like?"

"Yes… I think it is time," Edmund replied reluctantly. "Mr. Phipps will not be removed from this estate; he has more than earned the right to stay here until the end of his days, but a new butler will be necessary. Bring me a list of anyone suitable, and I shall select one."

Sinclair dipped his head. "Very good, Your Grace."

As Edmund headed out into the sun-dappled hallway, he paused and looked back at the steward. "Is the visitor a gentleman or a lady?"

Has she come to see me one last time before she is married?

He had seen the first of the banns in the paper, announcing the engagement between Isolde and Noah. The second would likely be in that day's paper or the next day's, but he had neglected to check. Seeing it once had been more than enough, and if the knife in his heart twisted any more, it would undoubtedly shatter him.

"A gentleman, Your Grace," Sinclair replied. "It is the Earl of Grayling."

Edmund raised an eyebrow. "Why did you not say?"

He took off at a clip, nervous tendrils slithering across his chest, wrapping his lungs in a thorned vise. Maybe, Vincent had some manner of message for him, from Isolde. A farewell that might slick a temporary balm on his sore heart… or make it ten times worse.

"That man of yours is woefully rude," Vincent declared, the second Edmund walked through the Sun Room door. "Was he always that way?"

He sat on a low stool by the terrace, the French doors open to let in the warmth and perfume of the gardens. That golden sunlight formed a fuzzy halo around him, reminding Edmund of the garden party where Isolde had fallen foul of Lord Spofforth. She had been so radiant that day, as if she had captured some of the glowing sunlight and drawn it into herself.

I shall never meet another like her, for as long as I live.

"It is, alas, his character," Edmund said ruefully. "I cannot recall if he was the steward of this estate the last time you were here."

Vincent smiled. "I have not visited this fine manor nearly as much as I should have."

"Nonsense. It was me who always insisted on gathering at Grayling House." Edmund picked up another low stool and took it over to the French doors, setting it down opposite his friend. "Back then, I did not want to be here in this manor very often."

"It is understandable," Vincent said, turning his gaze toward the neat boxwood hedges that bordered the rose garden. The scent of those blooms ebbed and flowed with the breeze, teasing the nostrils.

Edmund followed his friend's line of sight, remembering the first time he had gone to stay at Grayling House after the loss of his entire family. All of the tricks and snide remarks that Isolde had thrown in his direction, long before the strawberry tart incident. He had not initially known why she seemed determined to be unkind to him, and once he had learned why, it had made him less inclined to do what she wanted.

It shamed him to think, now, of how juvenile he had been.

"I never did thank you properly," he said haltingly. "For what you did for me after… I became the Duke of Davenport. I do not think I ever told you how grateful I was—how grateful I am. I doubt I would have survived the grief if not for you."

Vincent looked back at him, eyes creased in a surprised smile. "You thanked me plenty, Edmund."

"Perhaps, but… I know I did not apologize." Edmund hesitated. "When you lost your father, I made no attempt to offer comfort or a safe haven. I gave you no generosity in your grief, when you likely needed it the most. As your friend, I should have done for you what you did for me. I am… sorry that I neglected my duty as a dear friend. Truly, I am sorry. As I am sorry that it has taken me so long to apologize."

A soft laugh whispered from Vincent's lips. "I have never needed your apology, but I do wish you had saved it for later."

"Later?"

He nodded. "For when we return to London, so that I can knock your heads together and make you see sense."

"Pardon?" Edmund squinted at his friend, raising his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun's glare. "Whose heads are you knocking together and why?"

Vincent shifted on his seat, leaning back against the doorjamb as he once again let his gaze trail toward the gardens and the lawns beyond, to where a line of woodland bordered the estate.

"I trust you have seen the announcement?" he said, furrowing his brow.

Edmund's throat tightened. "I saw it in passing, yes. Most… fortuitous news."

"Come now," Vincent said, rather sharply. "You might have everyone else fooled, Edmund, but you do not fool me. I was furious when I heard what you had done, as you well know, but I have had time to mull it over and there are parts that do not make a jot of sense."

"Oh?"

Vincent chewed his lower lip in thought. "I have never known you to do anything that could be considered dishonorable or impulsive. You are an abider of the rules, and a gentleman who takes pride in being an upstanding member of society." He met Edmund's eyes. "So, I had to ask myself—why would you kiss my sister? More to the point, why would you kiss Isolde while tasked with guarding her, when you always put duty above everything else?"

Because I love her, you dolt. I love her, but even if I were to propose marriage now with a confession of my affection, she would not have me, Edmund wanted to admit, clamping his lips together to prevent the truth from escaping.

"Then, I remembered," Vincent continued. "It was such a small memory: we were having tea in the orangery at Grayling House, and the cook had made scones because I told her they were your favorite. I offered you one and you refused. I must have offered six times, feeling rather dismayed that I had gone to the trouble, and you did not want them. Do you recall what you said when I asked why you did not want one?"

Edmund shook his head slowly, for he could not remember the moment at all.

"You said, "I do want one, but I do not deserve one." You would do the same thing here and there, so discreetly that it has taken me this long to realize that there was a deeper meaning in your refusals," Vincent said more gently, his eyes swimming with sadness. "You were denying yourself happiness, and you are still doing it."

Edmund stared at his friend, unblinking, feeling as if Vincent had taken a hammer and chisel and cracked him wide open. He had avoided putting a name to the reason he denied himself, but he knew when he was doing it, and he knew why he was doing it: if there were things that might please him that his family could not enjoy, then he would not partake.

That was his punishment for being alive when they were not.

"But denying yourself happiness will not bring them back," Vincent said. "You are only hurting yourself… and my sister."

Edmund swallowed thickly. "It was never my intention."

"I know." Vincent sighed. "I did not want to admit it, at first, but… I am ever more certain that Isolde is in love with you, just as I am ever more certain that you feel more for her than you would dare to say. That is why you kissed her—because you feel something for her, but then you felt happiness, and you pulled away to punish yourself."

Edmund did not need to say anything; the truth of the matter was probably written all over his face. It sounded silly when it was explained out loud, but grief and loss did strange things to people, and what might have seemed stupid to some was a crutch to others.

"She is not herself, Edmund." Vincent's face twisted into an expression of pain. "She is quiet, she is withdrawn, she has not bothered to involve herself in any of the wedding arrangements. All she does is sit in her bedchamber, and whenever I go to check on her, she is holding a mask in her hands. She used to try and hide it, but she does not anymore. I am worried that she will lose herself entirely if she proceeds with this wedding, when it is quite evidently not what she wants."

Edmund sat rod-straight, a shiver running up and down his spine. "Did you say she has been holding a mask?"

"It is the one you were wearing at her debut ball, if I am not mistaken," Vincent replied.

A sudden, shocking thought ricocheted through Edmund's skull. "Vincent, was Isolde in the gardens at any point during that masquerade ball?"

"Indeed. She ventured into the gardens with an irksome little man. The Marquess of Fenton, if memory serves. My mother was supposed to be chaperoning her, but she got distracted by some friends, which left Isolde alone with that man for a time. I do not know exactly what happened, but I know that Isolde was rather distressed afterward—it is why I asked you to watch over her when I was called away to Bath, to avoid such a thing happening again."

The Sun Room became a touch brighter, as if Edmund had been looking at everything through a dark lens that had just been removed. He had not forgotten that night, nor the woman he had saved from Colin, the Marquess of Fenton. He had often wondered how she was faring, unaware that she was the very woman that he was destined to fall for.

It was you. I knew you were familiar. I knew… it was you.

He had not been able to explain it at the time, but had it been any other lady, he would not have dared to be so bold. He would not have pulled her to him or said the possessive things he had said, to scare Colin away. In truth, he had shocked himself with his behavior that night, and now he understood why—somehow, deep down, he had known it was Isolde.

"Have the second banns been announced?" Edmund said abruptly. "When is the wedding?"

He had made his vow to never marry at a time when the depth of his grief had been all-consuming. He had made it to make himself feel better, when nothing else could. But Isolde made him feel better. She made him feel more alive than he had done in an age, she made him feel hopeful, she made him feel… joyful and capable of love.

If he allowed his guilt to condemn her to an unhappy marriage and an unfulfilled life, then he would only end up carrying more guilt on his shoulders.

Vincent smirked. "I delayed the second announcement. The wedding, however, is set for a fortnight hence." He leaned forward. "But I happen to know that she will be at Madame Versailles' shop tomorrow, to look at fabric for her wedding gown. A private appointment, arranged by me, that I will ensure she attends. Alone."

"How… could you be so sure of me?" Edmund asked, his heart thundering in his chest, his feet itching to rush out to his carriage to make his way to London immediately.

Vincent shrugged. "I have known you for half of my life, Edmund. As I said, I know you would not have betrayed my trust for no good reason. You are not a rake, my friend—you are not even close to being one. As such, I was left with only one explanation: you fell in love with her. If I did not do something to see you both happy, what sort of friend and brother would I be?"

"Thank you," Edmund rasped, jumping up. "I will not disappoint you, Vincent."

Vincent stood with him. "I have every faith that you will not." He paused, smiling. "But I will be sending Isolde to the shop with a chaperone, just in case. We cannot have a scandal before you two find your joy together."

"A broken betrothal is not a scandal?" Edmund pointed out, aware that it was his fault. If he had proposed with his heart instead of cold logic, Isolde might never have accepted Noah at all.

Vincent shrugged. "Society will forget quickly enough, as long as the wedding follows swiftly. Indeed, there is nothing the Ton relishes more than a love story." He began to walk to the door. "Of course, we are ignoring one important detail."

"And what is that?"

Vincent turned on the threshold. "You must convince Isolde of your feelings first. I know she loves you, but we both know how stubborn she can be."