by Darcy Burke
He heard the ache in her voice and recalled the way she cared for Barkley’s daughters, and his lungs constricted. “I am not like that.”
“No, I can’t imagine you are,” she said softly, a smile tinged with regret lifting her lips. “But you are still offering a marriage of convenience, and I can’t accept that. Besides, you need an heir, and I almost certainly can’t provide you with one. You must want a child, especially after what happened with your wife.”
She knew. How did she know? Viola had to have told her. What else had she revealed? The pain and fury of being a cuckold was something he’d had to learn to overcome. He hadn’t been a laughingstock exactly, but he’d heard the murmurs and seen the pity. Now, having Isabelle know of it brought the anguish searing back.
“It wasn’t my child.” He barely recognized his own voice, so low and bitterly cold.
Her lips parted. She hadn’t known that part. “Oh, Val.” She stepped toward him, but he didn’t want her comfort. He didn’t want her to bloody know.
He backed away. “I think that ruined me for wanting a child, actually. And a wife. You’re quite right to refuse me.” He forced his shoulders to relax, to put on a display of relief. Shouldn’t he feel that way? He no more wanted to marry than she did. She was right—he wanted a convenient shag with the finest lover he’d ever had.
She deserved better than that.
“Wait here, and I’ll fetch Viola and put you both in a hack.” He moved the barrel out of the way and left the brewery room, closing the door behind him.
The tavern was alive with laughter and cheer, but none of it permeated his shell of self-recrimination. He never should have allowed things to progress with Isabelle. They were not careless youths. They knew better. He knew better.
All he’d done was reopen the wound of loss, of knowing he’d never find happiness and that he wasn’t meant to.
The noise was loudest in the billiard room where Viola was in the thick of things. She’d just made a shot that had garnered a cacophony of shouts and tankards clanking together. Though her grin was cloaked with a fake beard, he would know it anywhere. Her gaze found his, and her smile dimmed.
He waited for her near the door. It took several minutes for her to extricate herself from the celebration and make her way to his side.
“Excellent timing,” she said quietly. “I just won my game.”
“Timing or not, you’re leaving. Come on.” He spun on his heel without waiting to see if she followed him.
Partway through the private salon, she snagged his sleeve and caught up to him. “What’s wrong?”
“Mr. Beaufort is ill.”
Viola’s eyes widened. “Oh no. I had no idea she—he—couldn’t hold his liquor.”
They moved into the kitchen, and Val pulled her into the storage room. “She isn’t bloody ill. Her disguise is…compromised, and you need to leave.”
Viola’s brow arched beneath the brim of her hat. “Compromised?”
Val scowled at her. “She was compromised the moment you brought her here. She doesn't know how to look or act like a man. She isn’t like you.” His gaze dipped over his sister, who’d spent the last two years perfecting her ability to pass as a gentleman.
“I thought it would be fun,” she said. “Plus, I thought the two of you should spend some time together, and it looks as though I was right. You were gone for a while.” Her look held a bit of a scold, as if this was somehow his fault.
“You brought her here hoping we would spend time together? What the hell are you doing meddling in my life?”
“Shhh!” She looked past him toward the kitchen. “Do you want someone to hear you?”
“Don’t ignore the question.”
“I wasn’t meddling. I was facilitating.” She huffed out a breath. “Never mind. Clearly, I made a mistake. Let’s go.” She pushed past him and stalked into the kitchen, then stopped short and spun back around. “Where is she?”
“Brewery.”
Viola walked through the kitchen and opened the door to the brewery. Isabelle stood just inside, her disguise back in place with the exception of the beard, which she held in her hand. She looked at Viola with a weak smile. “I’m afraid I can’t stick this back on.”
“It isn’t necessary,” Val said. “You’re leaving anyhow. Just keep your head down as we leave and once we get outside.” He led them from the brewery into the kitchen and then out through the back entrance to the alley.
Circling around the building, they made their way out to the Haymarket, where Val promptly hailed a hack. He looked at Viola. “I’m instructing him to drive you directly home and to inform me if you request otherwise.”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s no need to be an autocrat.”
Val opened the door but stopped himself from helping either of them inside since that would look incredibly…wrong. As the hack rumbled away, he considered going home himself.
But Barkley was at home. For one more night.
Val went back to the Wicked Duke, but didn’t feel like rejoining anyone. As he made his way through the kitchen, one of the employees approached him. “Your Grace?”
He turned to her with a weary exhalation. “Yes, Mary?”
“I found this in the brewery.” She handed him the length of muslin that had bound Isabelle’s breasts.
“Thank you.” He took the fabric, and she dipped a curtsey before returning to her work.
Val left the kitchen and started toward the office. Just before he reached the doorway, he instead opened the door to the narrow staircase that led to the rooms above. Doyle lodged there, and they kept a chamber where Val and Cole used to sleep on occasion. Back in the early days of the pub when they’d practically lived here.
He rubbed the muslin between his thumb and forefinger, imagining he could still feel the warmth of her skin. He lifted the fabric to his nose and, closing his eyes, inhaled deeply. Lilies and Isabelle, the most intoxicating scent in the world.
He discarded his coat and boots, then went to lie on one of the two cots. He glanced over at the empty one and thought of Cole, who would be married soon. Who was so deeply in love, he couldn’t see straight. Whose future was so bright with promise that it was positively blinding.
Envy snaked through Val’s veins. He’d never felt such optimism, such happiness, and he never would.
Folding the muslin, he held it to his chest as he lay back and closed his eyes. He might not have a future, but he had the past. And tonight, his past had become even more remarkable.
Right now he couldn’t decide if that made him happy or sad.
It was impossible to completely avoid the dowager and Viola, but over the past two days, Isabelle had done her best. When she wasn’t working at the library, she was there “familiarizing” herself with the inventory. Or so she told Mr. Dangerfield. Not that he minded having her there.
Staying with the dowager had already been awkward, but after what had happened with Val on Monday night at the Wicked Duke, it was almost untenable.
Happened?
That made it sound as if it was something she hadn’t been able to control. Rain happened. Spilled tea happened. Running into your one-time lover in his house while you were working as a governess happened. But rekindling that relationship, even if only for one night, wasn’t something that happened. That was something one must choose.
And Isabelle had chosen it. Furthermore, just as with the first time, she refused to regret it. Oh, she should, just as she should have the first time, but contrition had never been her strong suit.
The wind was cold as she made her way across the square to the dowager’s house. A footman opened the door, and she hurried inside, shivering.
“Mrs. Cortland, there is a letter for you,” the dowager announced from the library.
Isabelle gave her cloak, hat, and gloves to the footman and took a deep breath before going in to face Val’s grandmother.
She sat in her favorite chair next to the fireplace,
a cup of tea—nearly empty now—beside her on a small table. “It’s over on the table there. I was going to have it delivered to your room, but hoped you’d return so you could open it with me.”
Isabelle went to the table and picked up the missive. It was marked from Oxford. Her pulse sped as she opened the parchment.
It was from Mrs. Featherstone, the headmistress of one of the schools she’d written to. Mrs. Featherstone’s School for the Development of Young Ladies was located in Oxford. She’d known Isabelle’s parents, and if Isabelle hadn’t been educated at home, she would have gone there.
Mrs. Featherstone was considering retirement and invited Isabelle to work for her with the potential to take over the school as soon as next January. It was more than Isabelle had hoped for. It was—or it had been—her dream.
Wasn’t it her dream anymore?
She thought of the circulating library and how well it suited her. However, that wasn’t what gave her pause. Frustration raked her from the inside out. Why was she hesitating at all? This was everything she wanted.
Only it wasn’t. It seemed Val was everything she wanted.
And couldn’t have.
“Is it good news?” the dowager asked, startling Isabelle from her dismal thoughts.
“It could be,” Isabelle replied. “There may be a job for me in Oxford at a girls’ school.”
“How splendid.” The dowager sipped from her teacup and set it back down. “I was going to tell you that I may know of a family in need of a governess. They’re in Bath, but I didn’t think you would mind that since you’ve never lived in London before.”
“No, I wouldn’t mind that.” Hadn’t she said distance would solve her problems? She wanted to laugh at her naïveté. Distance wouldn’t solve the ache she had for Val. Time certainly hadn’t.
“I could arrange for you to travel to Bath to meet them,” the dowager offered.
Two possibilities now. Two opportunities to secure her future. Two chances to run away from Val. Not that he was pursuing her. He’d made his relief at not having to marry her quite clear.
But she didn’t want to be a governess anymore. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I think I’d prefer to pursue a position other than governess.”
The dowager cocked her head to the side, and her gaze softened. It was the kindest expression Isabelle had ever seen her wear. “Because of Lord Barkley, I presume. I wish I could tell you that would never happen again, but the plight of governesses is well known.”
Isabelle hadn’t been thinking of that, but she would have. “It’s more than that, to be honest. I found it difficult to leave the Misses Spelman, and I would have to do it again.” And again. And again.
“I see. Surely you could school yourself to maintain a bit of distance, knowing what you know now.” The tone of the dowager’s voice made it apparent she determined this effort would be of no consequence. She would likely find Isabelle’s preference to avoid having to do that a sign of weakness.
“Even so, I think I’d rather not be a governess again. Because of Lord Barkley.” If that was the reasoning the dowager could accept, that was the reasoning Isabelle would cite.
The dowager nodded. “I understand.” She started to rise, then sat back down again. “This blessed cold has made my legs so stiff.”
Isabelle rushed to help her up. “Are you going upstairs?”
“Yes, I need to choose my gown for this evening. I’m taking His Grace to Almack’s. Finally.” She said the last with a note of triumph.
Isabelle tried not to deflate in utter defeat.
“When will you know if this position at the girls’ school will be forthcoming?” the dowager asked. “If you’d like to travel to Oxford, I’d be happy to arrange it. You could even leave tomorrow.”
It was possible she was simply being kind, but Isabelle heard the note of anticipation in the dowager’s voice. Isabelle had known staying here would be temporary, and she decided it was probably time to go.
“I would like that, thank you.”
“I’ll arrange it now.” The dowager left, her gait more stilted than normal due to her aching joints.
Isabelle returned to the table to pick up the letter. When she turned to exit the library, she nearly ran into Viola, who breezed inside wielding her notebook, a pencil jutting from her hair.
“Grandmama said you’re going to Oxford tomorrow about a teaching position. Is that true?” Viola seemed less enthusiastic than the dowager, her expression even slightly distressed.
“Yes.” Isabelle held up the letter. “I received an invitation from one of the schools I wrote to.”
“That’s…wonderf—” Viola pressed her lips together. “No, it’s terrible.”
Isabelle blinked at her. “It is?”
“Well, yes! I, er, I need you.” Viola put her hand on her hip. “I’ve never had a chaperone I liked before.”
Isabelle was skeptical. “Have you ever even had a chaperone?”
“No. But that doesn’t disprove my statement.”
Isabelle couldn’t resist the smile that rose to her lips. “While I appreciate that very much, I am not a chaperone. I don’t accompany you to any events, nor would I want to. I wouldn’t know how to behave at a rout or, heaven forbid, a ball.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Viola seemed genuinely interested.
“I don’t dance, for one.”
“As my chaperone, you wouldn’t need to dance. Anyway, I rarely dance either.” She lifted her hand from her hip and slashed it through the air. “Only when Val or one of his friends asks me because they’re trying to avoid dancing with anyone else. If you came with me, you’d be my ally on the perimeter, my confidante. Well, along with my friends.”
Isabelle could imagine those friends were likely sisters or daughters of dukes themselves. She would be utterly outclassed. “If you’re trying to persuade me, you’re failing, I’m afraid. And please don’t think I don’t appreciate your kindness, but I am far more fond of books and learning than parties and socializing.”
“Oh, I’m not being kind,” Viola said. “I’m being selfish. You would love my friends. They are also fond of books and learning. You and Felicity would get along exceedingly well, I think. And now that Diana’s joined us, I am confident you and she would be thick as thieves.”
“Are you playing matchmaker?”
Viola’s head snapped up, her sky-blue eyes wide. “Absolutely not.” Her reaction was both rapid and intense.
“With friends, I mean,” Isabelle clarified, though now another thought was taking root…
“Oh, well then, yes. I haven’t even begun to tell you about Priscilla. You may like her best of all.”
Isabelle considered Viola’s behavior—today as well as Monday when they’d left the Wicked Duke. In the hack, she’d asked if Isabelle was truly ill. Preferring to avoid conversation entirely, particularly anything to do with Val, she’d said yes. Even so, Viola had asked if Val had taken care of her since they’d been gone together for so long. Isabelle had responded with a vague “Somewhat.” Then she’d laid her head against the side of the hack and closed her eyes, effectively putting an end to further interrogation.
In hindsight, Isabelle had to wonder if Viola had organized the entire thing—well, obviously not the entire thing. She was aware that Isabelle and Val had some sort of closer association than they’d acknowledged. Both she and Val had been foolish enough in their actions and words.
“Viola, are you playing actual matchmaker?”
Feigned surprise was quickly followed by resignation and then total accountability. “Yes. Someone has to. You and Val are apparently never going to find your way to each other on your own.”
They had too. Twice. At least temporarily. “There is no future for Val and me. He is a duke. I am—at present anyway—a librarian.”
Viola waved a hand. “Bah. Do you love him?”
Did she love him? It wasn’t a question, at least not in her mind. Of course she loved him. Sh
e’d loved him as a naïve girl ten years ago, she’d loved him when she’d had nothing else to love, and she loved him now—not because of who he’d been or who she remembered, but because of who he was today. A man who cared for others and encouraged them to be who they were meant to be. When he’d told her about why he and Colehaven had founded the Wicked Duke, she’d been moved by their egalitarian ideals, which they’d possessed at Oxford and had clearly maintained even as they’d donned and worn the mantle of duke.
But her love for him didn’t matter. He didn’t love her, and he was a duke. Most of Society didn’t share his ideals, and they’d eat her—a librarian and the daughter of a teacher and the granddaughter of a country vicar—alive.
Viola exhaled. “Never mind. I can see that you do, even if you cannot. This must have been a whirlwind romance. You just met, what, a fortnight ago?”
For some reason, the truth spilled from Isabelle’s mouth. What did it matter to keep it secret from Viola? “We met at Oxford.”
“You’re joking.” Viola gaped at her, then realization dawned, and she nodded slowly. “Of course you aren’t. Continue. Please.”
“Val—His Grace—and I kept running into each other in town.”
“Knowing my brother, there was nothing of chance about those encounters,” Viola said wryly.
Isabelle smiled. “No, there was not. He was rather persistent. Anyway, that is how and when we met.”
Viola moved to the table, where she deposited her notebook and perched on the edge, a stance that would horrify her grandmother. “Why didn’t he just marry you then?”
“Because he didn’t want to?” Isabelle let out a nervous laugh. They’d never discussed marriage—at least not to each other. She’d told him that her father had a suitor in mind for her, and that man had eventually become her husband. Val had told her that his grandmother had a list of young ladies he should consider courting, even though he’d made it clear he didn’t wish to wed for several more years. None of those things had given her any encouragement that he might wed her, and why should they have?