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Chapter Twelve

J acob’s father and mother sat alongside each other on a gold brocade settee, wearing matching frowns. Jacob sat in a chair across from them, nursing a cup of coffee.

His parents had returned from Hampshire early yesterday evening, ecstatic to find their beloved son home and eager to hear all about his trip. They had decided to rest instead of attending the assembly.

And yet, somehow, magically, they’d heard all about the uproar with Isaiah Redmond before Jacob was even out of bed this morning.

Jacob’s head ached. He’d scarcely slept five hours in the past several days.

“I heard you were astride Redmond. As though he was a horse you were trying break.” This was his father.

There was a silence.

“Only briefly,” Jacob finally allowed, shortly.

A fleeting coldly amused satisfaction glinted in his father's eyes.

“But Jacob…you've never been the...” His mother closed her eyes and issued the word with a shiver. “... brutish sort.”

Jacob dragged in, then released, a long, long breath.

In truth, he'd been pulled off Redmond before he could land another blow.

He had cause to be glad of that now.

Because he thought he would destroy anyone who put that devastated expression on Isolde Sylvaine’s face.

When the crowd of men who’d dragged him away from Redmond finally released his arms, the only Sylvaine he saw was George. And that was because George had been among those holding him back.

George had insisted on seeing Jacob all the way back to the Eversea house. They did not speak, because Jacob wouldn’t. Devil of a way to learn you’re back in town, Eversea , was how George bid him good night.

“How did it start?” Jacob’s father asked almost absently.

“Redmond lunged for me. I defended myself.”

“He lunged ?” His mother’s hand flew to her throat.

“Perhaps my reflexes were a bit too wound up after my journey. I fought pirates.” He’d left this part out of their reunion conversation yesterday. He hoped to distract them.

“Sweet Christ,” his very proper mother muttered faintly after a moment.

Jacob couldn’t suppress a swift grin.

“I was—I am—proud of the way you conducted yourself in the West Indies, Jacob,” his father mused.

Jacob had told his father yesterday about how he’d handled the plantation shares, and his father had gratifyingly approved.

“And you’ve never been a hothead. Which is why I’m struggling to understand this little altercation.

Why did you do it?” his father's voice was almost congenial.

Perhaps even a little mischievously conspiratorial. “Was it about a girl?”

Jacob wasn't fooled. He knew all the strategies his father used to get men to lower their guards. To get men to like him, to confide in him, to trust him. It was such an enveloping, warm pleasure to be liked by an Eversea, after all.

He knew he had made use of the same strategies at times. He’d learned from the best.

He was not in the habit of lying to his parents, though certainly they were not, and had never been, the recipient of all of his confidences.

No doubt his parents already suspected the reason. His father in particular had his ways of learning things. And besides, what else could cause a man to lose his mind, if not a woman?

But he didn’t think he would ever shake the habit of protecting Isolde, whether or not she’d betrayed him. He didn’t know what that made him, or what that meant. It was merely true.

“I'm afraid it must remain a matter between myself and Redmond,” he said calmly. “And while I deeply regret embarrassing you, rest assured he deserved it.”

Four parental eyebrows flew up.

“If I may be excused?” Jacob concluded politely.

But he had already risen from his seat, and they let him go.

Isaiah finally rose, got into fresh clothing and splashed water on his face. The house was still very quiet when he found his way downstairs. Only servants were stirring. Breakfast smells wafted up from the kitchen.

He was surprised to discover Fanchette alone in the morning room, sitting on one of the settees near the fire, a pot of tea resting on the little table next to her. She wasn’t doing a thing but gazing out the window. Her complexion was luminous in the rosy morning light.

He knew a sudden, knee-weakening surge of gratitude for her uncomplicated, incurious nature, and a rush of tenderness born of pity. For she would likely never know, never even suspect, that he hopelessly loved another woman.

The pity was all entwined with guilt. He knew this guilt would bind him to Fanchette forever, if he married her.

But he understood then that she was the answer to everything.

Perhaps she always had been. For how blessed he would be to ease into this life of ease and luxury and graciousness as it were a warm bath.

Only a madman would forsake that kind of opportunity, regardless of whether it was carved out by family and duty and ambition.

Her head turned swiftly toward him as he entered the room, but she didn’t rise. He moved over to her slowly, and gingerly sat down on the settee across from her. His body felt exactly as if he’d been slammed to the floor and punched in the face the night before.

She seemed shy and uncertain for the first time since he’d met her. Her eyes were faintly lavender beneath. As if perhaps she hadn’t slept well, either.

This ripple in her usually unwavering confidence sent a fresh wave of tenderness and self-recrimination through him.

“Isaiah, you look exhausted.” To his relief, her tone was all sympathy and no recrimination. “Oh, dear. Your poor face!”

His lips quirked into a rueful half smile. “What can I say? They can be animals, the Everseas.”

She studied him. “I’m not sure I understand why he hit you.”

They regarded each other for an odd tick of silence. Her eyes were clear, but he thought he detected, for perhaps the first time ever, a hint of searching in them.

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I think he hit me because he was drunk, he is an Eversea, I’m a Redmond, and he envied me my exquisite guest, as did every man present.”

This made her smile. Her posture visibly eased.

He leaned forward confidingly, his voice gentle. “And I’m so terribly, terribly sorry you had to witness it. I so hoped it would be a special evening for…for us. And I’d so hoped to do this better. But I find I cannot bear to wait any longer. I...” He drew in a breath. “Fanchette.”

He’d said her name so abruptly she blinked, startled.

“Fanchette,” he continued, more softly. “I… I cannot imagine my life without you.”

To his horror, his voice broke.

What the bloody hell was the matter with him?

Her hand covered her heart. “ Isaiah ,” she breathed. Clearly stunned.

He reached gently for her other hand and clasped it. “And I would be so honored if you would be my wife. Will you marry me?”

Her eyes were now limpid with emotion. She cupped his bruised face with her other cool, smooth hand. “Oh, Isaiah.” Her voice trembled. “Yes. Thank you. I would of course be honored to be your wife.”

She softly kissed his wounded jaw. He touched the petal-soft curve of her cheek. And then he turned his face and his lips touched hers, slowly, delicately, then more assertively. Yes, he could do this, he thought with relief.

Their children would be beautiful. Their life would be peaceful and grand, significant and influential, precisely the way he’d always planned.

He was not good, he'd told Isolde.

But he was loyal.

He would give Fanchette his loyalty until the day he died.

His heart felt quieter than it had in weeks, because it knew it was in no real danger from this woman. It was as safe from hurt as all those townspeople buried in the churchyard.

“We are going to be very happy,” he promised her.

Fanchette tipped her head against her new fiancé’s shoulder; he had moved across to sit next to her, and they kissed a few more times; it was very pleasant.

She listened to him talk about his investment group as though it was a fine song: the melody entranced her but the lyrics were unimportant.

She loved hearing his absolute conviction in his ability to grow wealth.

She loved the abrupt little silences that fell when they entered a room together, because they were such a stunning pair; the admiration and envy intoxicated her.

She was going to marry the handsomest, cleverest, finest young man in all of England.

His family was already one of the richest, and he would likely be richer still and as powerful as her father one day.

She adored what all of this implied about her.

“Love will come, if you marry the right man,” her mother had assured her in the midst of her blushingly circumspect explanation of wifely duties a few weeks ago. “And…well, children can be a blessing.”

Fanchette was confident she had the right man. And Isaiah was so well-made—all the young ladies she knew were so envious of her!—she actually looked forward to whatever took place in the marriage bed.

His surprisingly sentimental proposal a few minutes ago—that little break in his voice!

— made her suspect he might perhaps be even just a little fonder of her than she was of him.

This suited her, and made her feel even more tender toward him.

And she knew that the pressures of being clever and ambitious could make even calm, level-headed men emotional sometimes—hadn’t she heard her father rant about some masculine business or another on occasion? Such men needed even-tempered wives.

Last night at the assembly, when she’d briefly lost sight of Isaiah in the crowd, her gaze had momentarily snagged on the girl she’d met at the picnic yesterday—Miss Isolde Sylvaine.

She’d looked pale and wild-eyed, thoroughly distraught.

The sight had pricked Fanchette like an unexpected thorn on a rose, and the image had returned to her a few more times since.

She felt sympathy, but also a peculiar fear and distaste.

Fanchette had mostly been spared witnessing raw emotional suffering in her lifetime.

It seemed to her a thing that ought to take place in private, not at an assembly.

The nonsense with Mr. Eversea had occurred after that. Thank God Isaiah was so steady! He had endured it with grace.

She gazed happily about as Isaiah talked, deciding how she would redecorate this grand pile of a home when she and Isaiah inherited it.

Isaiah had been affianced for a few hours when he passed his sister Diana in the hallway on the way to his bedroom.

He blocked her path. She looked up at him, startled.

“Were you the one who told her?” he said shortly.

Diana blanched at once. “I’m not sure what you?—”

Isaiah repeated slowly, evenly, “Were you the person who told Miss Sylvaine I was planning to become engaged to Fanchette?”

Diana’s voice evaporated in the face of his cold, green gaze.

Her frightened, pleading silence was his answer.

His head went back, then came down in a nod. “You are dead to me.”

He continued on to his room.