Edmund slammed into his townhouse like a summer storm, panting hard as if he had sprinted all the way from the Grayling residence when, in truth, he had walked at an ordinary pace. Hismind, on the other hand, was a different story: it was running several marathons at once, every race peppered with hurdles in the shape of Isolde Wilds.
“Your Grace?” a hoarse voice said, startling Edmund.
He recovered swiftly, tipping his head to his longtime butler, Mr. Phipps. The old man had been an old man in Edmund’s father’s day, and though Edmund knew he ought to seek a younger replacement who did not struggle with stairs and eyesight, he simply could not do it. It was the same with Sinclair, the steward of Davenport Towers, though at least he still had most of his wits about him.
“You should be in bed, Mr. Phipps,” Edmund said, taking hold of the butler’s arm, as thin and frail as a bird bone.
“I can’t retire ‘til the household is abed, Your Grace,” Mr. Phipps replied. “I heard you go out, so I’ve been waiting for you to come back.”
Edmund helped the man down the hallway to the old study that had been repurposed as a bedchamber for the butler, to save him the trouble of having to master the stairs every day. Mr. Phipps had been horrified by the study’s transformation at first, as Edmund had done it without mentioning it, but the butler had come to appreciate the gesture.
“Will Her Grace be wanting her sleeping tonic before she retires?” Mr. Phipps asked. “I was trying to find a maid, but I suppose they’ve all left their posts already.”
Edmund’s breath caught, the wind knocked out of him for the second time in one evening. The third, in truth. The first had been when he heard Isolde declare that she did not “have the faintest affection” for him; the second when she had come running out to ask about what nearly happened in the drawing room; the third was realizing that Mr. Phipps was having one of his ‘moments,’ where he was somewhere in the past, living it as if it was the present.
“Her Grace is not here,” Edmund said, swallowing past the lump that had formed in his throat.
Mr. Phipps frowned. “What do you mean? The family are leaving for the seaside tomorrow morning. Where else would Her Grace be but here?”
“You should rest, Mr. Phipps,” Edmund urged, his head spinning with memories.
But there was a new layer to them now, an undercurrent of loneliness that tugged on him like a riptide. Isolde had done that. Isolde had thrown him off course, bringing things to the surface that had been shoved down so deep that he had assumed he would never have to feel them again. By distracting him, she had allowed old pains and agonizing solitude to slither past his guard.
I cannot be near her again. I ought to return to Davenport without delay and leave her to her mother’s protection.
On the steps, he had almost kissed her cheek. He had wanted to, had wanted to discuss back and forth what might or might not have been about to happen in the drawing room, had wanted to force her to untangle the knots she had twisted in his head.
“I am muddled again, aren’t I?” Mr. Phipps asked, diverting Edmund’s attention.
“A little, but it is nothing sleep cannot fix,” Edmund replied.
The butler made his own way into the repurposed study, hobbling over to the desk where he leaned for a moment. “They’re gone, aren’t they?”
“They are.” Edmund clenched his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms to distract himself from the influx of memories.
That, in turn, merely led him back to the distraction of Isolde. How soft and warm her hand had been in his, so fleetingly. How she had peered at him with shy intrigue, how she had asked about the ‘dancing lessons’ so brazenly, how desperately he had longed to tell her that, yes, he would have kissed her if her mother had not returned.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Phipps said. “I’m sorry you only had us. We weren’t much of a substitute, I know, but it’ll not be long until there are younglings in this house again, and you’ll have a family of your own to replace what you lost. I think I’d like to see that before my days come to an end.”
Edmund mustered a smile. “Goodnight, Mr. Phipps.”
“And to you, Your Grace.”
Edmund closed the door and padded back into the entrance hall, too weary to do anything but lie down on the chaise-longue by the staircase. He lay there until his breathing slowed and his mind calmed somewhat, but it was not enough to shuffle off the twinge of guilt in his chest.
The staff at his London residence and at Davenport Towers had often, none-too-discreetly, asked when there might be a Duchess and children to look forward to. They missed the noise and vitality as much as he did, especially those who had been there when itwasa happy place, and he regretted having to tell themnotto look forward to such things.
Still, that prickle of guilt would never overcome the sweeping flood of certainty that he would not have a Duchess or children at all. He did not deserve a legacy, when he had not been able to save the people that he loved the most. If they did not get to grow old and gray, surrounded by grandchildren to dote on, then he would not either.
“Thank you, Isolde,” he murmured to the ceiling, for she had made it that much easier for him to keep his distance. Indeed, though it had not been pleasant to hear in the moment, he was glad he had walked into the dining room when he had. Nothing cooled a man’s ardor faster than receiving an icy bucket of reality.
“Nor do I have the faintest affection for the man!”He played the words over and over in his mind, remembering every detail of the fervent fury in her voice.
Whateverhadalmost happened between him and Isolde, it would never happen again. In truth, it would be better for everyone if they went back to being enemies, as quickly as possible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Isolde stared at the breathtaking gown that lay folded inside the box, the attached note detailing her exact measurements, letting her know that it would be a perfect fit. There was nothing else written on the note, other than her name, so there could be no mistaking who it was intended for.
