Wherefore Art Thou.

by Melanie Thurlow

  She could see why he was touted on about. He was not merely a duke. Lord Brighton was young, handsome and charismatic. He possessed all the charms that ladies fell in love with at a glance. Any lady would be lucky to find herself attached to him. She certainly would have been. But that ship had sailed long ago. And besides, Robert was so much more than just what met the eye.

  “I don’t think it would be wise,” Isabelle whispered. “He should find someone else, someone who will make him happy and not merely be a burden he married out of a sense of obligation,” she said, finally putting into words her motives for running away—the ones that she could voice, that is. She had to tell Lord Brighton the truth, not merely to make him understand but because she found she could lie to him about as well as she could lie to Desmond. It was too hard and too painful to lie. They were both good men—in different ways, to be sure, but good nonetheless. It was why she’d run off in the first place—so that her marriage to Lord Brighton wouldn’t be a lie.

  Now she’d be lucky if Desmond ever even looked at her again, much less married her at all. She wanted to marry him, but he’d be a fool to. Even Isabelle could recognize that.

  “He won’t have me. And even if he would, I would not accept. I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t burden him with me, burden him with the child of another.”

  “You are not a burden,” said a quiet voice. “Not to me.”

  Isabelle’s head followed the sound of footsteps as they made their way into the room. Sleep was still heavy upon her, like a heavy blanket had been drawn over her face, but she struggled against it to stay awake.

  “Desmond?” Her brow creased.

  “Yes,” he said, coming to stand beside her and taking one of her hands in his.

  She couldn’t stop the tears from draining down her face. He’d come after her. It would be a terribly lovely and romantic gesture had they not reality to cloud it.

  Clouds. They were filling her vision again. Her mind tried to hold on, but her tongue seemed to swell and her eyes were finally far too heavy to attempt to hold open. She gave unwillingly into sleep, knowing that Desmond had come for her, but uncertain as to how long he would stay.

  Chapter 34

  Desmond cradled her body in his arms. She was dainty, even despite her limp state of unconsciousness. He had one arm wrapped around the back of her shoulders, causing her head to bob back—her golden hair had broken loose from the pins that had once trapped it, making it appear as a waterfall of gold. His other arm was secured under the knees, and he easily stepped up into the waiting carriage with her still in his arms, nodding to the young man on the block as he did.

  Desmond braced his feet on the seat opposite as the carriage jostled to a start, Isabelle still sedate on his lap. He ignored the steady, knowing stare of Lord Brighton, having only eyes for the lady who practically glistened even by the pale light of the moon.

  The lady that he loved.

  It was mere moments later that they were back at the inn, the steps put down, and Desmond was carrying her body through the door and into the room he had secured for her, Robert directly on his heels. He set her down on the bed, and stood there, waiting. She had been given, as he was to understand, a healthy dose of laudanum—she would likely sleep through the night, and yet he couldn’t leave her alone, couldn’t stand the thought of her waking up by herself.

  It was an awkward situation, he standing over her bed, staring down at her prone body, Lord Brighton just a few paces behind him. But he couldn’t bring himself to move.

  One gloved hand passed over his face. It had been a long day, made to seem even longer by the events of the evening. Was it really just this morning that he had awoke in such high spirits, determined to brighten hers? How did they get here? But of course, he knew.

  “You should probably get some rest.”

  Desmond shook his head.

  “No. I’m not leaving her.” His voice rattled in his chest, a clear sign of his exhaustion.

  He heard Robert step closer. “I’ll sit with her for awhile. And I’ll wake you if there is any change.”

  Desmond shook his head again and turned to look at Robert. He wasn’t sure if his own stare read anger or mere determination, but he was exhausted and it couldn’t be helped.

  “No,” he said, “I cannot leave her.”

  Robert nodded knowingly, then whispered, “You’ll have to marry her, you know. Are you still prepared for that?”

  He’d have to marry her anyway. Well, perhaps not… Society’s rules were a little grey in this situation. He certainly had no experience with it. But a lady ruined by improprieties outside the wedding bed was not considered marriageable. She was cast off as a black sheep unless the father could be coerced into marrying her. And hers could not. Beyond all that, any amount of time spent in closed company with a lady would ordinarily demand a proposal. He’d already known this of course, already offered, and she’d already accepted. But surely Desmond could not be forced to take to wife one who was with child by another.

  Desmond let out a beleaguered sigh, running a hand through his hair.

  It was increasingly confusing.

  He’d already made his decision. Multiple times. And yet… And yet, he had an out. Isabelle had given him the opportunity. She could disappear, and he could move on. He didn’t want to move on, of course, but he’d never wanted love either, or a wife. With all his invisible wounds, he would never make a good husband.

  Was it best to just let her go? It wasn’t what was best for him, but was it best for her?

  “You may leave us, Brighton,” he said, leaving the man’s question unanswered.

  Robert didn’t protest further or raise any further concerns. He merely left, the sound of shuffling feet and the snap of a closed door his parting.

  Desmond crossed to the window.

  He liked problems that were simple and easy to answer. Black and white. He generally liked the night, for it made all problems seem less daunting than they did by the light of the day. But tonight was determined to vex him.

  What was he to do?

  He leaned heavily on the windowsill.

  He loved her, that much could not be denied. But did he want to marry her?

  Desmond turned around to face her, his hands gripping the sill tightly behind him as if trying to ground himself in reality, and perhaps squeeze an answer out of the wood.

  He had his own room he could go to. He could do as Lord Brighton suggested, he could strip down to his underclothes and sleep fitfully through the night in his own bed. Or he could put back on his cloak and go outside and try to find meaning in the shadows of the night. But he wasn’t lying when he said couldn’t leave her.

  His breath shuddered into his lungs at the realization he had already voiced to Lord Brighton but had just now hit home.

  He couldn’t leave her. The situation was far more complicated than just that, of course. There was far more that had to be considered. But what was important was that one simple fact. He couldn’t leave her, and he never would.

  *****

  She felt the presence of someone. They were not beside her, but she could feel that someone was there. Her eyelids were still too heavy to open, held closed by a sleep that was barely beginning to subside, but her mind was starting to awaken.

  She licked her lips. Her throat was unbelievably dry, and she happened to wonder whether she’d had anything at all to drink that day. She rather suspected that she hadn’t.

  She felt herself murmur something, but by Jove she couldn’t understand what she said.

  There was a rustling of clear movement and her head turned sluggishly in the direction of the sound.

  It was nighttime. She could feel it. The light in the room was not the bright warmth of the sun, but rather the hominess of lanterns and candlesticks.

  She felt another murmur vibrate across her lips. They felt swollen. Oh, how she longed for a drink, just one mere drop of water upon her tongue.

  “Isabe
lle?”

  She heard the liquidity of the voice that spoke her name, felt the hand that swallowed hers whole. She tried to pull herself toward the sound, but she couldn’t get her consciousness to budge. Her body refused to wake.

  She mumbled again.

  “Are you awake? Are you all right?”

  She inhaled and tried to focus all her strength on exhaling a single word. “Yes.”

  She practically felt the heavy exhale beside her, felt the relief charge the air.

  “Oh, thank God.”

  Her eyes drifted slowly open, taking much effort to do. Desmond was leaning over the bed on which she lay. He was neither kneeling on the floor, nor making any contact with the bed. He was merely leaning awkwardly over her, one of his hands squeezing one of hers. If she had the energy she would have smiled at the sight.

  “No, thank you.”

  She felt the sleep beginning wane. Each moment that she struggled against it, the faster it seemed to wither into the recesses of her mind.

  “Can I have some water?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Desmond said, punctuating his words by moving away and coming back with a glass of water in hand. “Here, let me help you sit.”

  One of his corded arms slithered itself behind her back and pulled her up to a sitting position, where he held her as he put the glass to her lips. She closed her eyes and drank greedily, thinking that she could have consumed an entire ocean in that moment.

  “Thank you,” she repeated when the glass was drawn away and Desmond propped pillows behind her so that she could sit by her own accord.

  The silence didn’t last long. The atmosphere changed from blissful and lazy to anxious, and she appeared to be the only one intent on ignoring it.

  “Why did you run away?”

  “This morning?” she asked. It was a fright embarrassing to acknowledge that she’d run away enough times to have to confirm of which incident he spoke of.

  “Yes.”

  “I had to.” She felt the explanation—really not an explanation at all—was not enough to suit his justifiable curiosity, so she added, “The way you looked at me this morning, that is how everyone would look at me if they knew. And I can’t be looked at like that forever.”

  “I was in shock.”

  “As well you should have been.”

  “But you didn’t give me time to come to terms with it, for the truth to sink in. You merely left, ran away.”

  Desmond was back by the window now, and his presence seemed considerably less imposing at a distance.

  “I had to,” she said again, once more feeling the inadequacy in the words. “You’re a good man, Desmond, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stand your rejection.” Desmond stepped forward, opening his mouth with what was obviously his objection. Isabelle spoke louder, “And if you didn’t, if you kept your promise of marriage, it would hurt me even more. The guilt would eat away at me. Because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to turn away from your kindness. I also know that it is the right thing to do. You deserve better, more. You deserve someone pure, not a scandal that will make you notorious.”

  There was a short pause that felt an eternity long, as they naturally always do when anticipation builds up the moment. Desmond’s expression didn’t change from the solid pillar of strength it was forever frozen as.

  She accepted it. She’d already accepted it. And perhaps she had not quite come to terms with her decision, but she understood that it was the right thing to do. It was right to leave him, to allow him to find the sort of love he deserved. It didn’t, however, mean that she liked it. In fact, it was quite painful. He was a strong man, and yet still soft and loving despite his exterior and his past that would be enough to permanently traumatize even the fiercest of warriors. And she loved him. She didn’t want to lose him. But neither could she cope with the guilt of what her love would take away from him.

  The silence was tangible. And she wished it would break almost as much as she longed for it never to end. Despite the pain, she hoped the moment would never end. She wished that she could sit here with him forever and never have anything change. But she was increasing, and life was forever moving forward at precarious speed. She could not stop it. She needed to face the reality that was her future, and his.

  She blinked back the tears she refused to cry. They’d only make it all so much more difficult.

  Desmond shifted.

  “Did you love him?” he asked softly, softer than she could picture such a large man sounding.

  Isabelle swallowed, wrinkled her brow and titled her head sadly to the side at the memories of Andrew. She couldn’t look at Desmond, so she stared at the quilt covering her.

  “I did.” Her answer was simple and quiet and the truth.

  She loved Andrew. But Andrew was gone, and Desmond was here.

  She loved Andrew.

  But she was in love with Desmond.

  “I thought as much,” he said, nodding. Another short pause stretched between them before Desmond shuffled closer, his movement drawing her eyes to him. “It is difficult to lose someone you so care about. Particularly, I believe, when it is due to something so out of your control and there is no hope for your love to be returned to you.”

  Isabelle could hardly contain the tears welling up in her eyes. It was physically painful to do so. She allowed the pads of one hand to wipe away the few shed tears.

  Desmond stepped closer still, until he was directly before her—she seated on the bed, and he…

  She stared up at him, her eyes as large as saucers and framed in gold lashes. And then he dipped, lowering further and further down until he was before her on one knee and her eyes felt as though they had doubled again in size.

  “I cannot imagine how it feels to lose someone so close. And I do not presume to believe that I can be a substitute for the love that you have lost. But I love you. Perhaps you do not and will never feel the same, but my feelings are true. And if you could find it in your heart to allow me to love you, I promise that I will devote my life to you. I cannot promise that your pain will ever subside, but I will try with everything I have, and all that I am, to make you happy.”

  Her heart hurt with the perfection of the words he spoke.

  He was a large man, taller than most, and built as a wall. He was a tough man, scarred and calloused. His deep voice and rough exterior gave the belief that he was a brute. How was it that he had romance coursing through his veins? How did he know exactly what to say?

  “Will you allow it? Will you marry me?”

  “Oh Desmond,” she wheezed, her tears now full and flowing.

  “Is that a yes?” he asked, hopeful.

  Isabelle shook her head slowly.

  “I can’t.”

  She read the unmistakable pain in his eyes.

  “I cannot so burden you,” Isabelle said, drawing in the most painful breath of her life. “I am increasing with another man’s child. I cannot ask you to turn a blind eye to that fact. And I cannot part with my child for your sake, either. Oh, I do love you. I didn’t think it was possible to love another. And yet, I love you. I really do. But I cannot marry you.”

  Desmond’s hands came to clasp hers in her lap, his eyes and words pleading. “I was shocked at first. Angry, even. I felt lied to, and I was. But it didn’t take long for me to realize that, despite my disappointment in learning of your confinement, I cannot live without you, and I do not want to.” He leaned closer, so that there were just inches between their noses, their lips. “I love you, Isabelle.”

  Her breath hitched. His warmth, his closeness, his words, it was all so much, all so alluring. She could feel herself being persuaded. She wanted to be resolved against him, but she found it so difficult when he was so near and saying all the right things.

  “It wouldn’t be right of me,” she said, breaking eye contact.

  His forefinger and thumb gently gripped her chin and rose her face so that she had no choice but to look at him. “Do you love m
e?”

  “It is about so much more than that.”

  “Do you love me?” he asked again, each word punctuated.

  She nodded her head, still in his grasp.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “That is all I want. It is all I need. I know that I can never be enough. I can never be the man you first fell for, the love that was taken away far too soon, but I do promise to be a good substitute. I will love you, no matter what. I will allow you to win every quarrel. I will—I will—I don’t even know, I can hardly think straight,” he laughed absurdly as his voice broke with emotion. “All I can do is promise to love you every moment of every day. And I know I will never be this child’s father, but I promise just that. I promise to be as good to this child as I would if it were one of my own, because they came from you, and I love everything about you. Please tell me you will let me love you. Please tell me you will marry me.”

  Isabelle pinched her face in the hopes it would cut off her emotion, seal the direct path his words made from her tears to her heart.

  “It would be mad.”

  “But will you do it? You will be marrying a veritable pauper, as I will soon be. But I will be a pauper who is completely and totally in love with you. And while we might not live grandly, you will never want for anything, I will make sure of it. I am skilled with my hands, I will support us no matter what.”

  Isabelle shook her head, and heard Desmond audibly exhale the hope that had been driving his speech, his proposal, his declaration of love that made her heart sing and sink simultaneously.

  “I have money.”

  “What?” His confusion was apparent in his tone and on his face.

  She repeated, looking directly into his eyes. She wasn’t the type to cower away, and it was time for her to stop acting the part she had fallen easily into because it was, well, easier. “I have money. My dowry is quite large, and I’m sure my Papa will be grateful for you to take me off his hands, grateful to make an honest lady of me, grateful to bring some measure of respectability back to our family. He will no doubt grant you the dowry that marriage to me promises.” She shook her head again. “We won’t want for anything.”