Page 30 of The Dreamer and the Deep Space Warrior (Xaal Alien Romance #1)

Isobel

Isobel was disappointed, but not surprised, to find herself in her bed.

If not for the ghost of Ved’s touch lingering all over, or the deep warm ache between her legs, she’d have thought she dreamed last night. It had been perfect—something that no story could ever rival.

She found she couldn’t rise for breakfast, though.

In fact, she barely had enough energy to clean herself and don appropriate sleepwear before she collapsed back in bed.

She was heartbroken and listless, but she’d also come down with some ailment that left her completely drained.

Anna brought her broth and tea, and she was barely able to touch it.

Instead, after being checked on briefly by Clara, she slept.

It was a feverish type of sleep, full of distant planets and oceans made of stars.

And a certain Xaal she’d never see again.

By noon, though, Henry was at her door.

Anna helped her look as presentable as possible and propped up pillows behind her.

Her brother, pulling the chair from her vanity to her bedside, wasted no time getting to the point. “How was the opera? ”

“Has Lord Richard not been by?” she countered. She thought he’d have surely come to tell her brother all about her misdeeds and how she’d ruined the evening. Especially if he thought he could speak to Henry before she did.

Henry frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “He has. Just now, before I came here. He seemed out of sorts—bloodshot eyes and pale. Perhaps you are both plagued with the same affliction.”

Doubtful.

“He brought by your cloak that you left behind, though. What happened? What did you do?”

Isobel wanted to be angry that Henry blamed her straight away, but she didn’t fault him for thinking it.

She had done something, after all, and Henry was just worried about the possible scandal, though he hid his worries safely beneath his stern demeanor.

She cleared her throat. “I was feeling quite ill. Faint and feverish, even. I tried to explain that to him, but they are very serious patrons and didn’t want me to talk.

So, I stepped out. Lord Richard was very angry,” she tested, “and tried to keep me from causing him further embarrassment, but before I knew it, I was outside. The rain ruined my dress and hair. I didn’t want to cause a bigger mess of their evening, so I bid the driver to bring me home with the intention of explaining everything to him today. ”

She had no such objective, but something on Henry’s face told her he wasn’t ready for the full truth.

Henry studied her, then sighed. He suddenly looked exhausted, aged beyond his years.

She tried to remember a time when he hadn’t looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders and was sad to realize she had very few memories thus.

Though Isobel knew her own plight, and that of any woman, she rarely thought about what it must be like to carry all the responsibility.

She imagined herself in her brother’s place.

Between maintaining his social standing, running an estate with a country home or two added in, and caring for his strong-willed daughter alone, he barely had time to read a book of poems. Did he ever have an attack like she had last night?

Did he ever wish he was somewhere and someone else?

She opened her mouth to ask just that but thought much better of it.

Instead, she asked, “Did he inquire about my well-being?” If she had been born a gentleman and in a similar situation, she’d have left the theater immediately with her betrothed.

And if not, she’d have at least come to the house as soon as the carriage returned.

She was grateful that he hadn’t, of course, as she wouldn’t have been at home anyway, which would have caused a much larger fuss.

But that was the thing. He wouldn’t. Even last night, she’d known there was no danger of him coming to check on her.

Perhaps because he was no gentleman at all.

Henry sighed. “He does care for you, Isobel. Richard isn’t always open with his emotions, especially after the passing of his wife, but I assure you he cares. Men often—”

“I do not want a lecture on men and their mysterious ways,” she exclaimed. What it really boiled down to was the fact that most were emotionally stunted and overly arrogant while walking around claiming they were the superior sex. One such lecture was enough to last her a lifetime.

Henry’s mouth hung open on his unfinished remark before his lips pressed into a frown she knew well.

“When the Duchess asked why me,” she continued before he recovered, “Lord Richard’s response had nothing to do with the fact that he cared about me. Rather, he made it sound like it had been nothing more than a business deal between you two. ”

“What? That’s preposterous.” Henry seemed unable to fathom the idea. “Isobel, he asked what happened, is all. I told him you weren’t feeling well, and that I had yet to see you this morning.”

For some reason, that was the key to unlocking her emotion. Anger was a twisted thing in her chest. “Of course. I embarrassed him in front of the Duke and Duchess.”

Henry raised a finger, his mouth opening, but she drove on.

“And when exactly did you know about him asking for a special license for us to marry sooner? I know I’m a burden to you and you want to be rid of me, but it would have been nice to know my own fate before finding it out from Sarah Barney.

I’ve let you and Lord Richard orchestrate everything about this wedding.

I’ve gone along with it all, thinking I had until late spring before I lost any semblance of the already measly freedoms I have or happiness I feel. ”

“Want to be rid of you?” Henry asked incredulously. “That’s not…” He seemed stuck in a state of perplexity, shaking his head. “I thought you wanted to marry him?”

“I don’t want to marry anyone!” she snapped. “At least not just to be married. I would for true love. But if I wanted to wed someone, I’d have done it in my youth, when I had a much better selection of gentlemen.”

Henry threw his hands up. “A love match? When you don’t even let anyone try to get to know you?

You live in this fantasy world within your head while you float through reality.

And, well, you can’t very well not marry, Isobel!

That’s madness! By the devil, I’ve tried to make things good for you, I really have.

Father spoiled you too much and I never cared, but now that he’s gone, I thought you—” He cut himself off with a huff, stood, and began to pace.

Isobel felt like she had been punched in the stomach, all the air pushing out of her lungs at once. She had let someone see her. And then she’d let him go.

“And about the license, he said he would discuss it with you straight away,” Henry offered.

She wanted to roar and rage. Scream at the top of her lungs what Lord Richard had done to her at the opera, what he would no doubt continue to do well into their marriage until she was nothing but a shell of herself.

Would Henry care? Was this the secret of gentlemen?

That they all took and took whatever they wanted in the name of customs and morals and called it honor?

Women truly were nothing but property, and soon, she would be Richard’s.

The tension that had built in her body then gave way to exhaustion. She wanted to show him the bruises on her arm, tell him she refused to marry his friend, but she didn’t have energy for the fight. Not right then. “I’m tired. Please leave me so I can rest.”

“Fine,” he snapped.

“Good,” she grumbled.

The door was halfway shut on him when he looked over his shoulder and said, “We all have duties to perform. I have trouble feeling sorry for you that yours is one as easy as this, Isobel.”