Chapter 29
“Do we have an understanding?”
Desmond was standing, like he was at attention, in his own study, his jaw slack.
Not only was there a duke in his humble abode, but a duke that saw fit to lecture him within it, as though he—the duke—owned the place. As though a duke as wealthy as the one seated at his desk would stoop so low as to own a home as modest as this.
The worst thing about it was that there wasn’t a thing Desmond could do about the current situation—the duke acting as a king on his throne. He had little in the way of money, and less in the way of power, whereas this man could destroy him with one flick of a quill if he so chose.
Desmond clenched his jaw shut, feeling his teeth grit together. He wasn’t so much angry as his pride was feeling a bit pricked, which was, really, basically the same thing the way that the emotion played out on his hard-as-granite face and stiff muscles.
His mien didn’t faze the duke that was nearly a decade his junior, however. The man was a veritable babe! And he had the audacity to deign to presume to know what was best for Desmond? It was unthinkable.
Except that it was entirely justified.
The Duke of Brighton had no familial claim to Isabelle. Lady Isabelle. The closest relation they had was the duke’s broken engagement to her sister. But family or not, he was here, fighting on her behalf. Though Desmond still hadn’t a clue as to how the duke had tracked her down.
“Well, do we?” the Duke of Brighton asked from his position, seated, behind Desmond’s desk.
Desmond hissed a breath between his teeth, his lips pursing together in disgust. It wasn’t directed at the duke in particular, or the not present Lady Isabelle. It was more so directed at himself and the circumstance he presently found himself in. He had a choice, and it was not a simple one.
How had he got himself into all of this? His life had been so simple a mere ten days ago.
Fact remained that the past was the past, done and gone. True, he had already agreed to marry the girl, but that was before. Before she had made him fall in love with her, and before she’d ripped out the carpet from beneath him.
He knew he was being unfair, that it had happened before he had met her, but it hurt just the same. It felt like betrayal. Not the fact that she did not immediately tell him when she rediscovered the pregnancy for herself, but that she was carrying at all.
He loved her and she was supposed to love him back.
He loved her and she was supposed to have waited for that love to find her, not squander it away on God only knows who.
Except for that he did know who. Or at least, he presumed he did.
He’d heard of an officer who’d died on his way to London. Desmond had been in London when it happened, read the news of the man’s unfortunate demise in the paper.
Isabelle hadn’t told him the name of the man she’d allowed into her heart, and her bed. There hadn’t been time before her ankles were wrapped in orange tendrils of flames, licking her skirts, biting her skin as she passed out on the floor.
But it had to be the same man. She’d said she fallen in love with an officer. And she’d said a name during her unintelligible speech. Andrew.
Sir Andrew Carver.
Life was cruel and unjust. It’d always been that way.
And as much as it hurt, as much as he hated her for her past, could it be possible that he loved her more than the pain he was in? Was it possible to see past her past?
He couldn’t even see past his own.
The duke was seated before him, and the words might have been phrased as a question, but Desmond was not deceived. It wasn’t actually a choice, wasn’t really a question at all.
It was a command.
Desmond thought of Isabelle’s angelic face.
He thought of where she would be if he turned her out.
He thought of the near empty coffers that would never keep a lady of her caliber happy.
Still, it was not a choice.
Whether the duke had showed up and presented him with this order or not, there was no option, no door from which Desmond could rightly escape through.
“We do,” Desmond said, with less conviction than would ordinarily be believed.
“Good,” the duke said with far more joviality than Desmond himself could imagine either of them felt at that precise moment. “Then it is done.”
Desmond knew there’d be more to it than that. Nothing was done. He’d promised the duke that he would marry Lady Isabelle, pregnancy withstanding—though, truthfully, the duke didn’t know about the child—but there was still her family to contend with. Not that they would have any objections. But if they did, if they knew of her pregnancy and wished her still to marry the duke…
“Will her family cause any sort of trouble, your Grace?”
“You just leave her family to me,” the duke answered with a great deal of misery darkening his features.
Desmond hadn’t the nerve to ask, but it sounded as though the last thing that the duke wanted to do was speak to her family.
“Will you be staying the night, your Grace?”
“No, I shall be departing shortly. And so will you,” Lord Brighton said, standing up.
“I beg your pardon?”
First he stormed his house and basically demanded he marry the Lady Isabelle. Now he was ordering him out of it?
That was going a bit far.
Desmond wouldn’t stand for being ordered out of his own house.
He would have said so. He was going to say so, he was simply working up the courage to defy a duke. However, the duke got to it first.
“You and Isabelle will remove yourselves to my home in London, where you will procure a special license and be married properly by the end of the week.” The young duke was pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes roaming thoughtfully. “It would be a dash easier just to whisk the pair of you off to Gretna Green to finalize the arrangement with greater expediency, however, it is important to at least cast a small glimmer of propriety and respectability about this marriage. The Blythe’s have no doubt become notorious by this point, and they still have two daughters to bring up into Society yet. It is important for you and Isabelle to set an example and to make recompense for the scandal Society has perceived.”
Desmond bowed, though he wasn’t sure it wasn’t the weight of the duke’s lecture that had gravity pulling heavier on him, and not merely submittal to the deference he was required to show. “Of course, your Grace.”
Obviously, he didn’t want to agree. But the duke did make a rather fine point. Not that any appearance of propriety would mend the damage that the last ten days had done to Isabelle’s reputation. It would take a lot more to recover the respect she and her family had lost, possibly more effort than could ever be expended. Society wasn’t necessarily forgiving. They had rules and they demanded they be obeyed. And Desmond had never much cared for the game. It was what sent him chasing the unknown outcome of war, and then drifting aimlessly around the globe, even after he’d inherited an earldom.
“We’ll be like brothers now. I was to marry Isabelle’s elder sister, you know.” The Duke of Brighton sighed heavily, with far more emotion than would ordinarily pass between two practical strangers, then said, “But it was not to be. Though, I do hold all her sisters in great regard and will not see them hurt. You will treat Isabelle with the respect that she deserves.”
The duke’s words were underlined with a warning that Desmond would have had to be blind and deaf not to realize.
“I will,” he said assuredly, his body a rock with seriousness.
The duke appeared to size the older man up. Then, he approached, a smile of approval crossing his lips. “Good, then you may call me Robert, if you wish.”
“Desmond,” he replied, accepting the duke’s hand in what was more of a friendly shake than an agreement, but Desmond knew that, while it might be more one than the other, it was still very much both.
&nb
sp; “Desmond, I believe you and I are going to be good friends.”
Chapter 30
“When can I see Lady Isabelle?” Desmond asked, barely containing the irritation he felt.
He’d sent a maid to her chamber to ask if he could call upon her half an hour ago, and still he waited for an answer.
Mr. Long didn’t step farther into the study than that first few feet inside of the door.
“Well?” Desmond prompted.
“She appears to missing, my lord.”
Desmond jumped to his feet. “Missing? This must be some kind of mistake. She is on bed rest,” Desmond needlessly explained as he pushed past the butler and hurried across the house to the stairs, taking the steps in threes, until he was at her door, throwing it open, and finding it empty.
“Where is she?” he fumed.
“I do not know, my lord,” the butler answered from beside him. “We have searched the house and the grounds. There is no sign of her.”
“No sign of her?”
It was impossible. How could there be no sign of her? It wasn’t as though she could have disappeared.
“Where is the Duke of Brighton? She must be with him.”
It was a logical explanation. He’d sent for Isabelle just minutes after the duke had retired to the guest chambers made up for him. The duke must have got to her first.
“Did I hear someone mention my name?” queried the young duke.
“Yes,” Desmond said matter-of-factly. “Where is Lady Isabelle?”
Robert stepped into the room, one brow lifted archly. “Surely I do not know. I have not seen her since my arrival. She is here, is she not?”
“Apparently not,” Desmond seethed through his teeth.
“But she posted me a letter just yesterday stating that she was, that she’d be waiting for my arrival.”
“She wrote to you?”
“Yesterday. I received the letter by special messenger late in the evening and was on horseback within the hour.”
“She has to be here somewhere,” Desmond said, terror lacing itself around his last hope, dreadfully strangling it. “She has to be.”
*****
Isabelle was well on her way to a new life. It was a daunting prospect and she had to constantly remind herself of her reasons for leaving, the many reasons why she could not turn back around, why she could not have a life with Desmond. With him, she would have some semblance of security. Now, she had none.
But her eyes were dry with the decision she had made.
She wasn’t running away, she reminded herself. She was merely giving Desmond a shot at the life he deserved, freeing him from the impossible decision of choosing between two rocks. He was good man, he was honorable, he might still honor his promise of marriage. But it wouldn’t be right for her to accept it.
With each step Isabelle fought the rising urge to panic.
The truth was that she didn’t want to leave Desmond. Not really. It was not merely because Hamilton Hall was the first place that ever felt like home, but because she loved him. Even as she hated herself for the emotion. Because she loved Andrew too; she had thought she was going to spend her entire life with Andrew, but he was gone and loving Desmond felt like a betrayal.
Her breath shuddered into her lungs as she came to terms with the fact that maybe she was running away. True, she did want what was best for Desmond, and she knew that she wasn’t what was best. But equally, she didn’t think she could live with the guilt of loving him, and she was afraid to find out.
She’d long since given up the comfort of the coach. The confining walls had her made her feel agitated. She needed to move. She needed to feel the air burning in her lungs. However, the chill from the unseasonably cool air had finally lifted and Isabelle quickly began to sweat as she pushed on.
She didn’t know what town she was in or even how much farther it was to her destination. But the movement was good for her soul, she told herself. Even as it caused a slight murmur of pain to spark through her body, which she easily ignored.
She didn’t need rest, as the doctor had said she did. Her body didn’t need anymore time to heal. She had spent enough time bedbound. Her illness and fatigue had been brought on by the stress of the past few weeks, not by the accident. She was fine.
But as Isabelle continued on, her determined steps increasing the distance between her and Desmond, her confidence continued to plummet.
Until there was nothing left to do, but fall.
Chapter 31
It was one step too far. She’d pushed the limits and had finally broken them. That’s what she thought about, bent over, as a crippling pain tore through her abdomen.
She should have listened to the advice of the doctor. She should have stayed in bed. She shouldn’t have overexerted herself. But she hadn’t listened. She never listened. She was immature and she deserved all the pain and trauma that life threw at her.
Her scream was merely a low squeak. There wasn’t enough air in her lungs to give it any more effort to cry out on the side of the abandoned road. There was no one to call out to for help anyways. And she couldn’t breathe. The pain was too much to focus on even something as basic as drawing in air.
Isabelle stumbled forward a few steps, but then she felt it. It was a rush, a release. A terrifying, yet comparatively painless, sensation that had the blood rushing out of her face. Her hands went instantly cold. Isabelle gasped as she looked down. The amount of blood. No one could lose that much blood and survive. And there was no one. No one around. No one to help. She was alone. The tears didn’t accompany this realization. She was too terrified to cry. She didn’t want to die. And she didn’t… she didn’t…
She didn’t have anything left in her. She could think no longer. She couldn’t breathe, and she felt so weak. She could do nothing, not even brace herself for the impact her body made with the ground as her legs turned liquid and defied her. But she didn’t feel the ground that she fell onto. She was blessed enough to pass out while still in mid-air.
Perhaps, she thought finally, with little conviction, she wouldn’t wake up this time.
*****
“She has to be here somewhere,” Desmond sneered. “You’re hiding her. Where is she?”
He’d followed Mrs. Long’s instructions exactly. Well, not precisely exactly. Had he followed the housekeeper’s instructions, he wouldn’t have chased after Isabelle at all.
She had told him that Lady Isabelle was doing what she believed was for the best. She wanted to leave and he should respect her decision. But he couldn’t. She wasn’t doing what was for the best. She was running away from an awkward situation. And from what he’d learned about her in the past week and a half, it appeared to be a habit of hers. One he was not going to allow her to rely upon. She needed to grow up and take responsibility. She needed to face him. She needed to love him, and allow him to love her.
She needed…
Well, he supposed he needed it. He needed her. It was as plain and simple as that, despite the complicated situation.
“You are mistaken, my lord,” the slender woman in the ratty dress said, “the woman you seek is not here.”
“I demand to be allowed entrance so that I may search the property.”
Mrs. Long said this was where she had sent Isabelle. She was here. Somewhere.
The woman stepped in front of him as if ready to do battle, further blocking the entrance. “I cannot allow that, my lord. The women at this home are under my protection and I will not allow you to make them feel unsafe here.”
“So, you admit she is here.”
“I admit no such thing. But if she were, I wouldn’t tell you and I certainly wouldn’t allow you to see her.”
“Let me in,” Desmond growled. He stepped forward, a bear ready to swat away the insect, but was caught from behind, stopped from his advance.
“Thornton,” the Duke of Brighton warned, “this is not the way.”
Desmond flung the young duke off his back a
nd stalked away from the small cottage that was even more severely in need of repair than his own.
The flashes started. The ringing in his ears doubled. The pressure built. He was losing control. Bit by bit, he felt his body slipping away from him as his mind struggled to stay present.
He knelt down on the ground and put his head between his knees. Would it never end?
He tried to count, tried to breathe, but it was a struggle. Surviving was incredibly worse than dying in the fray of battle. Because surviving felt like nothing more than a slow and excruciating death.
Murmurs rose above the din of his inner monologue and he turned his head to see Lord Brighton engaged in conversation with the woman. He stood, forcing down the feelings he was desperate to control and, straightening his waist coat, walked back to the duo.
“I apologize, my lord. Most sincerely, I do. But I cannot help you,” the woman was saying. “We have had no new arrivals in several days. I wish I could help you, but I cannot.”
Desmond turned his back on her and felt Robert at his side. He didn’t want anyone to see him cry, but he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t control the tears that came pouring down or the sobs that accompanied them.
“Where could she be?” he asked, turning hopelessly to Robert. “She’s supposed to be here. Where could she be?”
Lord Brighton merely stared back pityingly. There was no adequate answer, Desmond knew that. Only God knew where she was, and He certainly wasn’t speaking to him.
Chapter 32
There was only so much that could be done. And it felt like so little. Once Desmond’s temper had finally somewhat settled, the duo set to town to find her. For, surely, she must be there. Only, she wasn’t. And no one remembered her ever having been. So they were left with nothing to do but trace their steps backwards. It was logical. If she’d never arrived there, then she must have stopped in the last town. But she wasn’t there either. Though Desmond questioned every face that turned towards him—and even a few that hadn’t.
Wherefore Art Thou. Page 23