“I do not want to have to duel you,” he said darkly, scratching the shadow of stubble on his jaw. “I thought I wanted you dead, but the journey here cooled my ire somewhat. It has not removed it, but… I would prefer it if we both could live.”
Edmund nodded slowly. “So, you want me to ask for Isolde’s hand? That is your choice?”
“Yes,” Vincent replied. “That is my choice.”
With a groan, Edmund moved to rise out of his chair. “I suppose I ought to stow my belongingsbackonto the carriage then, if this is to be a London wedding.”
Vincent waved an irritated hand. “Sit back down. You can do all of that in the morning. Until then, I need you to sober up, bathe yourself, rest well, and ensure that you look halfway decent when we return tomorrow.” He stretched out a hand. “For now, pass me that bottle of brandy and a spare glass. I think I need a tipple far more than you.”
Edmund did as he was asked, handing over the liquor and a crystal tumbler. He watched as Vincent poured himself a hefty measure, and as his friend put the brandy to his lips, Edmund picked up his own glass and sipped what was left.
Feeling the warmth slip down into his stomach, Edmund returned his gaze to the fireplace, his heart somehow heavier than it had been before Vincent’s arrival. He could just about picture Isolde, sitting in the drawing room as he entered, glaring at him as he sank down on one knee and asked for her hand in marriage. She would hate him more than she had ever hated him for taking away her dream of an epic romance, crushing it with the vows she would not want to make to him.
In many ways, he would have preferred a duel, for at least the risk of that was something he felt he deserved.
But gaining Isolde as his wife, his Duchess, his companion—no, he knew he did not deserve that at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“He is here! He is riding up now!” Prudence cried triumphantly, her face pressed to the drawing room window, leaving a smear behind on the glass.
Isolde sat perched on the edge of the settee, holding a teacup and saucer that would not stop rattling together with the tremor of her nerves. The tea inside the cup had long since cooled, but she sipped it anyway, her throat arid with fear of what news they were all about to receive.
She still had not slept, tossing and turning through endless nightmares of Vincent shooting Edmund dead, or the equally awful opposite. Her fatigue showed, but there was nothing to be done about it. Indeed, if Edmund had been killed in a duel, she doubted she would ever sleep again.
“All will be well,” Isolde’s mother said hoarsely, as if she too had not slept a wink. She took Isolde’s hand and squeezed it. “Your brother is a reasonable man. Yes, he rode off in an abject fury,but I wager that the long ride tempered his anger somewhat. After all, Edmund is his dearest friend.”
Isolde squeezed her mother’s hand in return. “Is it wrong to wish I had never told you?”
“It is not wrong,” her mother replied softly, “but I am still glad that you confided in me. Secrets are a burden, my darling. They can destroy you if you do not share the weight of them, sometimes. And say what you will, but I know that secret was in the midst of destroying you.”
“Do you wish Vincent had not heard?”
Her mother laughed stiffly. “Oh, without doubt.”
Isolde peered into her mother’s eyes, those light blue pools a reflection of Isolde’s own. Over the past few years, they had not been as close as either of them would have liked, with the pressure of debuting taking precedence. But no matter what news came through the door, Isolde was pleased that a warmth and a trust had returned between her and her mother, for she had often missed having a parental confidante.
“Mama, did you… love Papa?” Isolde asked haltingly. “I remember that you argued a lot, and that he was absent often, but… was there ever love between you?”
Her mother’s eyes widened as she drew in a sharp breath of surprise. “There was… respect between us, which is a kind oflove. By the end, he was dear to me, and I like to think that I was dear to him, but it was a… platonic affection. We were friends. Not always, I grant you, but I have missed him more than I ever thought I would. In the quiet moments, when I am preparing for bed, Istillturn to tell him something.”
A smile tugged at the corners of Isolde’s lips, for she could not recall ever hearing her mother speak of her father so fondly. Julianna had grieved, of course, when her husband died, but after he was buried and the mourning period had ended, she had never liked to speak of him much.
Isolde had assumed it was indifference, but maybe she was mistaken.
“Would you have chosen him for yourself, if you could go back to your youth?”
Her mother frowned in contemplation. “If I knew him to the depth and breadth that I did in the end, I think I might. If I knew nothing of him, as I did when I married him, I do not think I would. I would still want to find the kind of love that one dreams about from girlhood.”
What if the man that I was starting to care for very much is gone? What if all I can expect now is a marriage of convenience?Isolde was not nearly brazen enough to askthatquestion, considering her secret had caused her brother to ride off with pistols in his pack and vengeance in his heart.
Fortunately, the front door opened at that moment, squashing her thoughts into a tangled ball of terror. She knew from Prudence’s declaration that Vincent had returned, but what had befallen Edmund? She was not at all certain that she wanted to find out.
As footfalls headed down the hallway, Isolde held her breath… and expelled it in a rasping gasp of desperate relief astwofigures stepped into the drawing room.
“I told you,” Isolde’s mother whispered, nudging her daughter in the arm.
Isolde gripped the edge of the brocade settee, struggling to suppress the urge to yelp at the heartening sight of her brotherandEdmund, both in one piece. However, no one seemed to have told the men that they should be gladdened, their faces as solemn as a priest.
