Page 25

CHAPTER 25

W ith a gentle turn of the handle, she let herself in.

What met her eyes was not the musty chaos of an overstocked storeroom. No—this was a bedchamber. A beautiful one, though time had clearly touched it. The furnishings were refined, elegant in a way that spoke of care rather than display, but the fabric on the chairs had faded, and dust clung to the corners of the mantle.

It was the paintings that stole her breath.

Canvases of all sizes rested along the walls. Some leaned on the floor, some were stacked on chairs. Several were draped in white linen cloths, but others were exposed—vivid, arresting, alive with color and emotion.

She moved slowly through the room, her fingertips grazing a painted frame. There were landscapes and, portraits and abstracts. Some incomplete, others so precise they could almost speak.

In the corner, fresh canvases waited patiently. A palette stained with dried hues sat beside jars of stiffened brushes.

Did Isaac paint? she wondered, her heart leaping with the idea. Could these be his?

A rush of excitement swept through her. The thought of him—so closed, so impenetrable—possessing such secret beauty made her chest tighten.

She turned, drawn toward a portrait half-covered by muslin, when a voice broke the silence behind her.

“Your Grace.”

Fiona spun, heart jumping. Mrs. Burton stood in the doorway, her expression stricken with something not quite disapproval—but close.

Fiona blinked, then turned back toward the nearest canvas. “I want these hung throughout the house after the renovations,” she said.

“But Your Grace...”

“I think it would be a shame to keep them here collecting dust,” Fiona cut in, not unkindly. “They deserve light. Walls. Admiration.”

She stepped back again, her eyes roaming across the colors and shapes and souls immortalized in paint. There was a thrill in her chest, strange and giddy. Like a pirate stumbling across a hoard of gold, and she had a parrot now too.

Her lips curved into a slow smile. Let the Duke return to his new world. Let him ask questions. I shall be waiting.

Isaac poured a measure of brandy into his tumbler, watching the amber liquid settle with a sort of grim satisfaction. The burn in his chest matched the one in his thoughts.

He had not been able to forget the way Fiona had looked at him on the terrace. The way her breath had caught. The way her hand had lingered over his.

It would have been so easy to close the distance between them.

Too easy.

And so he’d fled. He lifted the glass to his lips just as the butler entered.

“Mr. Samuel to see you, Your Grace.”

Isaac gave a brief nod, then turned back to the sideboard, refilling his glass.

“You suggest we travel together, and then vanish a full week ahead of schedule?” Samuel strode in with his usual lack of ceremony. “Are we calling that foresight now?”

“I had an abrupt change of plans,” Isaac replied, gesturing toward the decanter.

Samuel helped himself. “No. What you had was an abrupt flight. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Isaac didn’t respond. The rim of his glass met his mouth again.

“If not for your obstinacy, you shouldn’t be in Scotland at all. Honeymoon, remember?” Samuel handed him a glass. “And before you mention the mill again—I told you I would oversee the site.”

Isaac gave a shrug. “My Duchess does not mind.”

Samuel tilted his head. “She told you that, did she?”

Isaac paused. His fingers curled tighter around the tumbler.

“She didn’t know about the trip.”

Samuel, who had just reached for the brandy, stopped mid-motion.

“You left for a fortnight,” he said slowly, “without informing your wife.”

Isaac adjusted the cuffs of his coat, though they had no need of adjusting. He disliked how idle his hands felt when Samuel was looking at him like that—as if he were a boy caught stealing jam from the larder.

“Initially, she did not know, of course,” Isaac said, rolling his shoulder in a way that did little to dispel the tightness gathering there. “But I daresay she does now, having read the note I left her.”

Samuel blinked. Once. Twice.

Then his brows rose with such force, Isaac half expected them to lift clean off his forehead.

“You truly have not the faintest idea what marriage entails, do you, Craton?”

Isaac turned from the window, arms folding across his chest. “You make it sound rather like a grand chore.”

“It is ,” Samuel returned without missing a beat. “Hardly a chore, mind you—but everything about it is as grand as it is sacred. And informing your wife of your travel plans— personally —sits rather near the top of your responsibilities, I should think. One does not simply disappear and leave a note as if absconding from a house party.”

Isaac snorted. “Good Lord. You sound precisely like Elaine.”

Samuel gave a shrug and reached for his gloves, slapping them lightly against his palm. “Well, I am married to her. One cannot help but absorb a few of her more pointed opinions after twelve years.”

Isaac turned away again, his gaze drifting toward the fire, though the flames offered little warmth. He hadn’t thought it would be such an offense, leaving Fiona a note.

“Opinions?” Isaac echoed, shooting Samuel a sidelong glance. “You’re not merely influenced by my sister—you’ve become her mirror.”

He gave a sharp snort, and they both laughed, the sound echoing in the study like boys escaping discipline.

Samuel leaned back in his chair, but the mirth slipped from his face as easily as one might fold away a letter.

“So,” he said, “how have you been, man?”

Isaac gave a long breath, shoulders dipping under the weight of something he could not name. “Navigating the waters.”

Samuel studied him. “You’re nervous.”

“I am not,” Isaac said quickly, too quickly. His back straightened, arms folding in a way that suggested a man warding off both cold and scrutiny.

Samuel raised a brow but said nothing at first. He simply took a slow sip from his glass, letting the silence stretch until it nearly touched awkwardness.

“It’s only natural, Craton. There’s no shame in it. We all begin marriage with more questions than answers. But in time, and with a bit of patience, it clears. Mostly.”

Isaac looked away, jaw clenched. What if I do not wish to wait for clarity? What if I simply want... her?

His thoughts turned to Fiona. Not just her face, or her laughter that night on the terrace, but the way her hand had fit in his. The way she had looked at him, not as a duke, not even as a man of means—but as if he were just Isaac. And somehow, that had felt heavier than all the titles in England.

He shifted his weight, uncomfortable.

“Shall we go inspect the new shipment?” he asked abruptly, already reaching for his coat.

Samuel gave a long-suffering sigh. “My dear fellow, I have scarcely had two sips of my drink.”

Isaac’s mouth curved, despite himself. “Then take it with you. It’s not as if we’re crossing the Channel.”

Samuel grumbled something under his breath but stood, and the two men left the estate for the warehouse.

Later, after making the rounds and nodding his approval at crates and ledgers that barely held his attention, Isaac wandered alone through the village. The late afternoon sun had begun to slide toward evening, and the streets were quieter than usual.

He caught sight of a modest tea shop tucked between a milliner and a tobacconist. Its windows were clean, lace curtains tied back neatly. It looked... charming.

He thought of Fiona.

His feet carried him across the street before he’d even decided what he was doing. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside.

A woman in a smart apron appeared from behind the counter with practiced cheer. “Good day to you, sir. What may I help you with on this lovely afternoon?”

Isaac scanned the tidy shelves, his eyes trailing over tins labeled in fine, curling script. Spices and flowers, herbs and dried fruits.

“What is the most exotic tea you have?”

“Excellent! I shall show you.” The shopkeeper clapped his hands together and fairly bounded toward a row of well-kept cabinets near the back.

From one of them, he withdrew a lacquered chest carved with intricate patterns, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke of faraway hands and careful hours. He placed it on the counter as though presenting a treasure.

“This is a complete set from the Levantine markets,” the man began, already launching into a tale of origin, trade routes, and rarity.

But Isaac was scarcely listening.

The moment he laid eyes on the chest, he knew.

She will love this.

He did not know whether it was the scent—warm and spiced with something floral—or simply the thought of her delighting in it. But he pictured her fingers brushing the polished wood, her nose crinkling with curiosity as she examined each blend.

It felt... right.

A wedding gift. Yes. Something meant only for her. The idea sat squarely in his chest, unfamiliar and steady.

Then, quite without warning, it struck him.

He missed her.

I want to see her. I want to hear her voice again. God help me, I want to kiss her.