Desmond’s own eyes narrowed as he searched hers. She was a closed book he was unable to open, unable to read, so unlike the woman he had come to know. Then his eyes widened with unsettling knowledge. “You remember. You remember who you are,” he accused in utter disbelief.
“No,” she answered quickly. Too quickly.
“Yes. You do,” Desmond hissed as he stalked toward her.
His movement spurred hers, and she went around in the opposite direction, keeping the entire length of the table between them. But even at a distance he could see it, see the truth in her eyes, the pain that had not been there before.
Tears rimmed her lower lids, looking ready to burst.
“Who are you?” he demanded in tones that the king himself would find difficult to ignore answering.
She simply shook her head.
“Who are you?” he practically bellowed.
Her mouth worked, but no words come forth.
“Tell me who you are,” he said, lunging toward her. She didn’t move away this time. Smart girl. Because he was in a fit, ready to strangle her, tackle her to the ground if necessary. Everything was tense, every part of him constrained to keep from exploding on her. After everything he’d done for her, he deserved an answer, he deserved the truth.
She stood strong as he stormed toward her, clinging to the back of a chair, her knuckles turning white from the force of her grip. Finally, she gave him the answers he sought. “My name is Lady Isabelle Hayes, and I am the daughter of the Earl of Blythe.”
“Christ,” he cursed. Well that stopped him short.
She’d actually answered him, for one.
Two, that her father was the Earl of Blythe.
He didn’t know the man personally, and knew hardly anything about him other than he took up his seat in the House of Lords. However, he did know that he was an Earl, and a rich one at that. Far richer than Desmond, and more powerful too.
Lady Isabelle.
Isabelle…
The name she had given Mrs. Banks.
Despite his shock, his jaw went hard instead of slack.
Then, because he had been silent with his thoughts for too long and she had not yet said anything, and somebody had to say something, he growled, “How long have you known?”
“A few days,” she answered quietly. “For the past two nights.”
“Two nights,” he seethed. Followed by a controlled, albeit severe, “Why did you run away?”
The tears burst free at that, a raincloud exploding before him. “You don’t want to know.”
“I think I better be the judge of that,” he said curtly.
She closed her eyes, her face crumpling, her mouth widening as she cried in silence before him. Desmond hadn’t the mind, or the temper, to offer her a handkerchief. This was the moment, the moment he had been waiting for, and yet, all that he felt was numb. Just moments before, he had been ready to throttle her. Now, he just wanted to turn around, go back upstairs, find his bed, and find himself at home with nothing but his thoughts.
Still, he waited. He knew that he should feel something. Knew that whatever relaxant had overtaken him, would soon wear off. But for now, there was no pain. He didn’t feel the sting of her betrayal, the fact she’d had no intention of revealing to him her identity. All he felt was… nothing.
And for now, it was that nothingness that gave him the ability to stand there and listen to her speak, carry on a conversation with her like she hadn’t just stabbed a knife in his back and his front simultaneously.
“My sister ran away,” she started, her voice hoarse with emotion. “She left him waiting on the alter, and my father was going to force me to marry him.” Her explanation was not nearly the complete story, and Desmond found it dubiously difficult to follow. She was barreling through it, plowing down details so that she could get to the end as quickly as possible. Desmond understood the difficulty in stepping back and giving a full recount when there were so many details to be considered. But knowing this made it no easier to follow her story.
“He wouldn’t marry me if he knew, and Andrew was dead, so I had no choice. I had to get rid of it,” she continued. Followed on the heels by, “I needed him to marry me. For the sake of my younger sisters. So he couldn’t know. Nobody could know. But then I couldn’t do it, and now everything is ruined.”
She was looking at him pleadingly, begging for understanding, and… Goodness, was she looking for forgiveness? Could that be the other emotion in her eyes, reddened by tears?
But Desmond couldn’t understand, and he couldn’t forgive her for something he didn’t understand.
“What is ruined?” he prompted. “What couldn’t you do? What couldn’t he know?”
“I’m with child.”
The words were a fist that hit him like a bullet. The numb was suddenly gone and searing pain was replaced in its stead. He blinked back the devastation that shuddered through him. He deduced the truth, and said, in what could be described as a very civil tone considering the circumstances, “And it is not his.”
Statement. Fact. She didn’t even need to answer. But she did.
“And it is not his,” Isabelle confirmed, to her credit, holding her own, not removing her gaze from his.
Desmond didn’t know who the he was, but it wasn’t him, and that hurt more than he thought was possible.
“I couldn’t help it. I fell in love with an officer.”
An officer. How easily it could have been him.
She hiccupped, and added a name. “Andrew.” She struggled for composure, taking several harsh breaths before continuing shakily, “I was going to get rid of it. That’s what I was doing in Hollyfield. But—”
Chapter 27
She couldn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see.
How had she made such a muck of everything?
She could still feel the heat of the fire on her back where the paper crackled as it burned.
What was she thinking hiding the evidence? As if it were evidence at all.
It was reality.
It was her reality, and Desmond had a right to know.
She hadn’t been thinking. For had she been thinking, she would have considered that the butler—and probably half the staff—had already seen the paper earlier that morning when it had been delivered. They would have seen the remarkably accurate depiction of her there on the second page when they ironed the creases out of it.
Word had probably been traveling through the house like fire as it was, already on its way to Desmond’s ears.
It would have only been a matter of time.
She hadn’t delayed anything. All she had done was paint herself with guilt.
If all that wasn’t bad enough, as if trying to discard the proof of her identity weren’t damning enough, she had to go and confess not only to her identity and her attempts to disguise it, but about the baby.
Seriously, what was she thinking?
She thought about the spilled tea on the table. The spilled tea that she’d been about to drink just minutes earlier. Before she’d opened the paper and the fairytale world she’d created for herself, once again collapsed around her.
It felt like a lifetime ago now.
She couldn’t lie. She couldn’t pretend that this baby was Desmond’s.
She loved Andrew.
She loved him and, as much as she couldn’t bear the idea of losing the last piece of him, a couple sips of tea could relieve her of the burden he’d cast over her. Of the reminder of the love she had lost. Of the shame she was literally carrying. Of the lie she would relate for years to her husband.
The tincture she’d brought down from her wardrobe was spilled across the white tablecloth.
Maybe it was a sign. Maybe seeing her face in that paper and spilling her tea was all meant to be. Maybe she wasn’t meant to drink it.
One look at Desmond’s face had her immediately reconsidering this theory.
He was angry. He had e
very right to be. She had not only been caught withholding her identity, but had also stupidly divulged that she was with child.
What had she done?
The world began to blacken at the corners, her sight narrowing further and further until all she could see was Desmond’s livid face.
Then, even he disappeared, and she couldn’t see anything but a bright light. It wasn’t a light that was comforting or inviting. She had no desire to go toward it. She didn’t even want to see it. But it couldn’t be ignored. Even with her eyes closed, it was all she could see.
It took her a moment to realize what it was, that it wasn’t a light at all, wasn’t the Great Beyond calling her to her eternal home. It was pain. Intense, all-consuming, earth-shattering pain that numbed nearly everything. Until it didn’t.
The pain of her broken heart and the remnants of her shattered life were not what was thickening the air. It was the flames that had caught hold of her skirts and were biting at her heels.
She let out a scream. Or at least, she tried to.
And then she collapsed onto the floor, in the middle of the breakfast room, in front of Desmond who look both confused, conflicted, and ready and willing to let her die.
Chapter 28
“Will she be all right?” he asked the moment the doctor stepped out of the door he’d been pacing in front of.
He couldn’t bear to go inside.
Oh, he’d carried her up the stairs, and he’d waited awkwardly by her side while a maid had slipped her out of the burnt garment and dabbed her forehead with a wet cloth. But as soon as the summoned doctor arrived, he’d bolted. It wasn’t a man’s place to be in the room during such… examinations. And certainly not a man who didn’t have a relation to mother or child.
“She should be fine,” the doctor said, his voice breaking through Desmond’s thick thoughts.
“Are you certain? She collapsed just moments ago. And she’s been sick for days. And she was struck by a carriage—”
“Yes, I am aware,” Doctor Franks cut in, “as you informed me upon my arrival. I did a full workup and, from what I can tell, she and the baby should be fine, if—”
“If?” Desmond cut in.
“I’m prescribing mandatory bed rest, for a least one week.”
“Bed rest? Yes, that is what Doctor Hart had advised as well. But she seems to be well-enough now. She has been walking quite a bit, and without a limp, and she never complains of being in any pain.”
“It is fairly easy to deduce that getting clipped by a carriage takes a toll on the body. She might not be willing to admit it, but her body needs the rest. She is housing another human being in her womb. She cannot be too careful.”
“Of course, Doctor,” Desmond responded, his eyes trained on the plank floor.
“One week, my lord. I’ll return then to reassess her condition, though, if there are any changes, please contact me immediately.”
Desmond nodded, raising his eyes in confirmation as he said, “Very well. Thank you, Doctor.”
Doctor Franks walked away, a black bag in one hand, and Desmond reached to shut the still-open door to the Countess’s bedchamber, closing it with a click.
What was he supposed to do now? How was he to proceed?
Surely it was not his gentlemanly duties to still wed the woman. But what fate would he be leaving her to face if he didn’t? She’d been alone in his company and, whether it had been for an hour or a week, women didn’t recover from scandals such as this. There was a reason why they called the predicament Isabelle now found herself in ruined, because her life was, from here on out, completely and utterly ruined.
And Desmond felt the full effect.
He strode away from the room. He couldn’t be here any longer. He couldn’t take the confinement. He needed to be away, outdoors. He needed to be free. He needed to be able to breathe. But he wasn’t sure that any amount of fresh air could every refill his lungs, presently crushed under the weight of his soul.
*****
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t take being looked at like that for the rest of her life.
Oh, he’d been a gentleman. When she’d blessedly passed out—her body realizing that this was one moment she was more than willing to forget, or not have happen at all—he’d patted out the flames and lifted her into his arms and carried her to her plush bed. But as they waited, he didn’t look at her like he had before. The longing that had been there for the past days had vanished as though it had never existed.
Not that she wanted him to look at her that way, as though she mattered to him. She didn’t want to matter to him. That’s what she told herself. Because it was too hard to think that she’d been falling in love with him when the most important person to her, the man she swore to love forever, was dead.
Isabelle pushed back her covers and stood.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t take another week confined to her bed, her only visitors the maids. She’d barely survived a few days of it at the inn.
Her wrapped ankles ached in their bandages, but luckily her delicate flesh had been spared from more serious burns. She had passed out quickly from the shock of the pain, but Desmond had managed to dampen the flames before too much damage could be done.
She found her bag hanging in the wardrobe, and she found the two dresses she’d possessed when she’d arrived here laundered and hanging nearby. There wasn’t much else that she owned. Gloves, a bonnet, and a small package of tea she could no longer bring herself to drink. Her velvet purse of coins was sitting on her bureau, though she didn’t remember Desmond ever returning to her. It was as though he knew what her decision would be; his return of her money a sign of his acceptance, his approval of her leaving. He didn’t want her here. Not now.
She couldn’t agree more.
One week of bed rest was what was best for her body. But her soul couldn’t stay. She needed to leave. It was for the best. The best thing for her to do was leave and give Desmond a chance at finding real happiness and an uncomplicated life. He had enough baggage of his own not to have to take on hers.
Isabelle opened her door, not even bothering trying to disguise the squealing of the hinges. Desmond had gone out, stormed into the field toward the stream, and had not yet returned. He was her only real obstacle. She held tightly to the railing as she moved down the stairway, certain that one of the squeaky steps would likely give way. If they were going to, it would surely be when she was upon them. But they did not and she made it to the first floor uninjured.
“My lady?”
Isabelle stopped and turned to see Mrs. Long descending upon her.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Then, eyes dropping to the satchel in Isabelle’s hands, she said, “Oh, dear.”
“You cannot stop me,” Isabelle exclaimed as the housekeeper drew closer.
“No, I don’t suspect that I can.”
“I must go. It’s what for the best,” she said, verbally repeating her reason for leaving.
“I understand that’s what you believe.”
“It’s fact,” Isabelle retorted, her brow creasing.
Mrs. Long wasn’t disagreeing with her; her voice sounded very much the opposite. But her words… they should have sounded condescending, and yet, they weren’t.
“You cannot leave like this. Let me prepare you a basket to take with you on your journey.”
“I really cannot wait.”
“It will only take a moment. A basket of food to supply you so that you won’t wither away to nothing overnight. Please?”
As if on cue, Isabelle’s stomach turned and growled hungrily.
She nodded. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”
“Wait right here.”
Moments later, Mrs. Long had returned with the assurance that a maid would be up promptly with the basket.
“I suppose you know where you are going?”
Isabelle made eye contact with the housekeeper. She would have lied, would have said yes, but the woman
knew. She knew everything. Just like Isabelle knew that Mrs. Long had known about the baby from the moment of their introduction.
“Not precisely,” she swallowed.
“It’s all right, my dear. It’s all right not to have all the answers.” Mrs. Long placed a gentle hand on Isabelle’s arm and it was already more affection than she’d ever received from her own mother.
“Where am I to go?” she blurted on a sob.
Mrs. Long smiled sadly, and said, “There is a home in Wiltshire. If you can get there, it’s not difficult to miss.”
Isabelle nodded numbly.
Wiltshire. It wasn’t so very far away, a few hours at the most. She had enough coin to buy charter on a coach and even some to spare.
“Your basket,” Rose said, handing the requested basket to Mrs. Long and disappearing once more into the woodwork of the old home without making eye contact.
Mrs. Long extended it to Isabelle.
Isabelle took it and turned away towards the doors. But a thought had her turning back a fraction of a second later. “Mrs. Long?” she queried.
“Yes, my dear?”
“How did you know? On that night when we met in the kitchen, how did you know of my condition?”
Mrs. Long smiled knowingly and then closed the distance between them and wrapped Isabelle in a warm hug.
“I’ve been a housekeeper nearly my entire life,” she explained, pulling away. “I’ve seen it all. Maids get into quite the predicament from time to time. And so, I guess I just know.”
Isabelle nodded again, but her understanding wasn’t there. She had spent days carrying a child she didn’t even know existed. And yet, one look at her and this woman knew the secret she was still coming to terms with.
“Thank you, Mrs. Long,” Isabelle said sincerely. Then she pushed open the door and stepped out of Desmond’s home.
She wanted to leave, to walk away, to never look back. But she couldn’t quite fulfill all of her wants. Further down the drive, she turned back, allowing herself one last look to fill her with regret.
She loved Desmond. And that was partly why she had to leave. He deserved so much. And even if she didn’t still have her love for Andrew competing for her love for Desmond, she did have a child and Desmond shouldn’t have to be tethered to that commitment. Maybe he’d be a good man and not kick her to the curb, but it was what she deserved. So she’d be the bad guy. She left so that he wouldn’t have to tell her to go.
Wherefore Art Thou. Page 22