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thirty-one

A nthony read again the letter Patrick had sent him from Cabo Verde. Usual chatter about the weather, business, and the beautiful Sophia. Patrick claimed to be utterly smitten with her. Not a word about Isabella. Of course, he didn’t know about her condition yet.

Anthony lowered the letter on his desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Patrick—a gentleman who thought only about pleasure, didn’t seek marriage, and was out of London. The description of Isabella’s mysterious lover fit his brother like a glove. Even the rules…Patrick had spoken about his rake’s rules. Something about no gossip, no marriage, but only pleasure.

Not to mention that Isabella and Patrick had spent a lot of time together before he left for Cabo Verde. And she was looking for him that day when she’d fainted.

He exhaled. Patrick. Damn Patrick. Curse his bloody urges.

Fatigue more than anger flared up in Anthony’s chest. The sleepless night had dampened his mood, and Patrick was lucky an ocean separated them.

He thumped the desk, causing the pencils to rattle. There was little he could do now, and Isabella was his wife. Patrick would be dealt with when he returned. This time, Anthony would not protect him.

He went to Isabella’s room, his footsteps the only sound in the corridor. Since the incident, the house had been eerily quiet. The servants did their best not to make noises that might disturb her.

“Isabella?” He knocked on the door.

Lawson, who was now Isabella’s guard dog, opened the door. “Your Grace.”

“You may leave now. I wish to be alone with my wife.” He walked past her.

For once, the maid didn’t hesitate.

Isabella’s pallor hadn’t improved. Her lips were bloodless as well. He didn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smiling. No, he couldn’t confront her about Patrick. Not now. She needed to be fully recovered.

He sat on the bed next to her. “Are you bleeding again?”

“No.” She tried to sit up, but winced.

“Let me.” He slid an arm around her waist and gently pulled her up. She was as frail as a sparrow.

When she was up and resting against the pillows, he released her.

“Did you want to talk to me about something?” she asked after a moment of silence.

“No. I just wanted to see how you were faring.”

“I’m improving. It doesn’t look like I am, but I am.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Yes.” She shifted on the pillows. “I would like to know what you think. Have you changed your mind about your marriage to me? Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” The answer came out quickly without him thinking. But it was true.

He didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want an annulment, and not because an annulment or a divorce would tarnish the House of Beaufort’s reputation. She was his wife, and he’d sworn to protect her.

And he cared about her.

He closed his hand around hers as a new riot of opposing emotions waged war inside him. There was anger at having been deceived, disappointment at her lies, and a sense of defeat. But despite all that, he wanted her to stay with him because there was tenderness and care as well.

A knock came from the door. “Your Grace?” the maid said.

He removed his hand. “Come in.”

The maid carried a tray with a steaming cup. “For Your Grace.” She placed the tray on the nightstand.

Isabella sniffled. “Coffee.”

“Just as you like it.” He waved a hand. “With all the cream, milk, cinnamon…I hope I didn’t forget anything. The list was quite long. But Dr. Norris said you could drink it.”

Unshed tears glistened in her eyes. “Thank you.” She inched towards him and hugged him.

The hug lacked strength, a reminder of how frail she was, but he had to swallow a couple of times. He held her, wondering how they could have a normal life after what had happened.

* * *

Three weeks had passed since the incident, and Anthony was no less worried about Isabella.

While she’d left the bed and her health had improved, her mood remained gloomy. She was pale, quiet, and ate very little. Spoke even less. She worked in the glasshouse for an hour each day before getting too tired and sleeping for hours.

He’d caught her with puffy red eyes more than once, and he hadn’t had the heart to talk to her about Patrick. Patrick could wait. Her health couldn’t.

He observed her as she was sitting in front of him at dinner. Her beautiful pale-yellow gown with its delicate satin sleeves left her shoulders half bare, but the dress did nothing to brighten her gaunt face. She fiddled with her white soup, twirling her spoon without using it. Her collarbone protruded too much for his liking.

“Would you like something different?” he asked. “Grandmama took care of the menu in the past weeks, but if you feel better, you can order everything you like from Cook.”

“Absolutely.” Grandmama nodded encouragingly.

She nearly jolted. “No, the menu is fine. The soup is delicious.”

“You’re eating like a bird.” Grandmama’s disapproving tone was sweeter than usual.

“I don’t have a lot of appetite. I get easily tired.”

“I think it’s the lack of activity.” Anthony didn’t believe her tiredness had to do with the incident, not physically, at least. “Mrs. Fawcett is organising a public speech to raise support for the women suffrage. Would you like to go?”

“Heavens, no.” Isabella rubbed her forehead. “Too tiring, and I haven’t done anything for the movement in a while. I need to lie down. I’d better go to my room.”

A footman helped her out of her chair.

“I’ll have your dinner delivered to your room.” Grandmama nodded at a footman.

“It’s not necessary.”

“You must eat, darling.” Grandmama gave her a stern look.

She bowed her head. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He stood up as well and followed her with his gaze as she left, shoulders hunched.

“Melancholia.” Grandmother shook her head. “Nasty condition of the soul. I caught her crying in the glasshouse the other day, clenching her belly. She didn’t work at the plants at all. She sat on the bench and watched the fountain.”

“Yes, the gardener told me he’s doing the whole work.” He lowered his spoon, his appetite was gone as well. “I should take her somewhere. Go on a holiday. A change of scenery would do her good.”

“Excellent idea. Where?”

“Our property on Bj?rn Island. Plenty of green landscapes, and the sea is beautiful.”

Grandmama gave him one of her incendiary stares. “You must be joking. That forsaken, rainy, gloomy island where the ground is frosted eleven months per year and it’s so close to the North Pole you need five layers of clothes in August? Absolutely not. Perfectly happy people start to suffer from melancholia after spending a couple of hours there. Not to mention the uncomfortable sailing on a boat to reach it. A dark mansion isn’t what Isabella needs.”

“The cliffs are beautiful, and the northern lights are visible from the balcony.”

“Pish. A sickening green glow that lasts fifteen minutes while you freeze to death. Some show. You can get the same effect by drinking absinthe while staring at a fire. At least you’ll be warm.” She wiped her mouth. “Take her to Mytos. The Ionian Sea, the hot weather, and the sunlight will be good for her.”

He hadn’t been on that sweltering, salty island in years. Not his favourite place. “We’ll get ready to leave as soon as possible. You may start packing as well.”

She paused eating her soup. Her pearl earrings stopped swinging. “I’m not going. The sun is too strong, the food is too spicy, and the locals are too friendly.”

“Well, it was your idea, Grandmama. Isabella will appreciate your presence. I’ll send Rogers ahead to get the house ready.”

“But…I didn’t mean to come.” Her stunned expression would be comical if he weren’t worried about Isabella.

“Thank you, Grandmama.” He kissed her cheek. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to see my wife.”

Grandmama muttered something he didn’t catch.

He went to Isabella’s bedroom through the door in his room. She was sitting on the bed in a pool of yellow satin, her shoulders shaking with sobs. The awful sounds tore at his soul.

“Isabella.”

She wiped her face quickly, smearing the rouge on her cheeks. “I didn’t hear you.”

He took her face and searched her black eyes. They’d always been shining with mirth, but now they were two dark abysses. He could protect her from gossip but not from the sadness poisoning her.

“It’s nothing.” She sniffled. “I’m being silly.”

“No, you aren’t.” He sat next to her. “You should admit you’re mourning your child. That’s the first step towards healing.”

“I want to be strong. After all the lies I told you, I don’t think I have the right to be sad. I want to do something to repay your kindness, but the more I try, the more tired I feel. Each day it seems the burden on my chest becomes heavier.”

“You have the right to be sad. But the more you wallow in your sadness, the more difficult getting rid of it becomes.” He held her hand. “I want to take you away from London. We have a house on the Ionian island of Mytos. The sunlight will cheer you up.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“This house is filled with bad memories. You need a change.”

“What about your work?”

“I trust my secretary, and I can work from there.” He kissed her knuckles. “I want to start over. A new beginning for us. And I hope you’ll agree.”

“I don’t want to cause you more trouble.”

“No troubles. Think about all the new plants you might bring here for the glasshouse.”

Her eyebrow spiked. “That’s interesting.”

He exhaled, and she rested her head on his chest.

“I’ll do my best to be better,” she whispered. “You deserve that.”

“You must get better for yourself first.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “My father suffered from melancholia, grieving for my mother. He never recovered. No matter what we did for him, he never got better. I think he didn’t want to.”

She shivered. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your melancholia to get worse.”

She snuggled closer. “May I ask you a favour?”

“Anything.”

“It’s selfish of me, but will you sleep with me tonight? I feel better when you hold me.”

He couldn’t refuse. “Of course.”

She removed her silk slippers. “I don’t want to call Lawson. She’ll understand I cried and be worried. I just want to get under the covers and sleep.” She stood up. “Do you mind helping me with the buttons? I’ll do the rest.”

He undid the back of her dress, noticing how her bones protruded from the skin on her back. No one knew how to treat melancholia with success, but staying in London and doing nothing but think about what had happened wouldn’t improve her condition.

“Done. I’ll get changed and be back.”

“Thank you.” Holding up her bodice with an arm, she stared at him. Her large black eyes had lost the sparkle that had attracted him to her. Now they were filled with pain—a sign of her ripped innocence.

After he undressed with Wilson’s help, he went to Isabella’s bedroom again. Wrapped in her dressing gown, she stared at the log fire in the hearth. The glow cast deep shadows on her gaunt face. She looked like a tormented soul Hell wanted to claim. She flashed an unconvincing smile when he stepped inside.

He waited for her to slide under the covers before tucking her in. She shifted closer to him when he lay next to her.

“Thank you, Anthony. I know I don’t deserve your kindness, but thank you.”

“Shush.” He held her and kissed her forehead. “I care about you. You’re my ray of sunlight.”

“Some sunlight.”

“Just passing clouds. It’ll be sunny again.”

She shivered and rested her cheek on his chest. He caressed her back, feeling her tense muscles. When her breathing became soft and regular, he kept caressing her, wondering if she’d ever care about him as he cared about her.