The biggest lie he’d ever told.
The next couple of hours passed in blur of whisky and regret.
Edmund sat in his study. Watched flames devour oak logs while his mind circled endlessly through what he’d done. What he’d destroyed. What he’d lost through his own cowardice.
Somewhere in the house, Isadora was packing. Making arrangements. Preparing to leave.
The knowledge felt like drowning.
He should go to her and confess everything before she could disappear. He should prove he was capable of courage rather than endless, grinding cowardice.
But Edmund remained in his chair, drinking steadily and watching firelight dance across walls while his life fell apart around him.
Movement in the corridor. Footsteps—quick, almost running. A knock at the door.
“Enter.”
Mrs. Crawford appeared. The housekeeper’s face was pale. Distressed.
“Your Grace. Her Grace is leaving. Right now. She’s ordered the carriage brought round and?—”
Edmund was moving before she finished. Out of his study. Down the corridor toward the entrance hall where lamplight flickered against marble.
He arrived in time to see Henderson supervising footmen loading trunks onto a carriage.
Isadora’s trunks.
She stood near the door, dressed for travel. Her face was composed despite the devastation visible in her eyes.
Mrs. Crawford hovered nearby, clearly distressed. Even Mrs. Pemberton looked troubled, though she maintained her nonchalant, professional composure.
“What is this?” Edmund’s voice was rough—perhaps from whiskey, perhaps the hours of silence.
After a long silence, Isadora turned to face him. Her expression betrayed nothing, though he was certain that her right hand trembled ever so slightly.
“I’m leaving, Your Grace. As I said I would. I will not trouble you further with my inconvenient presence.”
“It’s past midnight. The roads are dangerous in darkness?—”
“I’ll take my chances with the roads.” She pulled on her gloves with precise movements. “They’re considerably safer than remaining here.”
“Isadora, please. We need to discuss?—”
“Discuss what, precisely?” Fire flickered in her eyes now. “How you’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m nothing more than a convenient arrangement? How you kissed me like I mattered, then pushed me away the moment things became real? Howyou’d rather destroy everything good in your life than risk actually feeling something?”
Edmund stepped closer, surprisingly not bothered by the fact that his servants had heard her outburst and promptly returned to pretending to clean or be busy. “That’s not—I didn’t mean?—”
“Yes, you did.” Quiet. Absolute. “You meant every word. And I’m tired of pretending otherwise. Tired of watching you build walls and hide behind that scar and treat everyone who cares about you like they’re enemies to be defended against.”
She moved toward the door. Henderson held it open, winter air rushing in with enough force to make the lamps flicker.
“Where will you go?” Edmund heard himself ask.
“Does it matter?” She paused on the threshold. “You’ve made it quite clear that my presence here is neither wanted nor necessary. I’m merely accepting the reality you’ve been trying to make me understand since our wedding.”
“Isadora—”
But she was already moving. Down the steps. Into the carriage that would carry her away from Rothwell Abbey.
