She was not even certain such love could exist.
Nothing made sense. Rain slashed down on William, seeping into his shirtsleeves, turning the dry bloodstains on his cravat into pink.
He ripped it from his neck and slung it away from him. The horse plodded onward. Hooves plunking along the muddy, rutted road.
The road taking him from Rosenleigh.
From Shelton.
Numbness chased away the pain, chilling its way into the deep caverns of William’s soul. He’d left the body in the darkness. The labyrinth. He should have stayed. He should have buried him. He’d buried Ahearn. Why hadn’t he buried Shelton?
The promise.That wretched, demented promise had made William retreat like a coward. He’d told no one. He’d sprinted to the stables, and without awaking Mr. Nolan or arousing a bark from the dog, William had saddled a chestnut stallion named Duke.
Then he’d ridden through the gates. Into the night.
And done the one thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t do.
Run.
What is happening?William rubbed a wet, shaking hand down his face. Countryside spread out before him, rolling and green and hazy through the afternoon downpour, smelling earthy and sickening.My God, please help me. Help me think.
He needed the fog, the confusion, to leave his head. He needed a plan. A direction. Something tangible he could hold on to and strive for, to keep him from teetering over the abyss of grief.
Leave Rosenleigh. His home.
Find Edward Gresham. His father.My father?
How could that be? Why the lies all these years? Why the danger? The attempts on his life? The murder?
His head pounded with questions, too many to cope with. He had answers for none of them and he could not think.
He was cold.
Colder than the rain. Colder than the wet clothes clinging to his skin. Colder than anything he’d ever known in his life.
What am I going to do?
Across the ballroom, Lord Livingstone was barely visible among the feather plumes and colorful dresses crowding around him.
But Isabella had seen enough to confirm her suspicions. Hewashandsome.
“For you, my dear.” Stepping closer, Father held out a goblet of lemonade with moisture dots frosting the glass. A smile stretched his lips. “On our next chance alone, I must relate to you the details of my visit with Lord Livingstone. He is a most remarkable young man.”
“It seems you are not the only one with such an opinion.” Grinning, Isabella nodded toward the ladies tittering and blushing in Lord Livingstone’s presence, just as the orchestra burst into its first reel.
“Can a man help it if he is desirable?” Father said over the music.
“Undoubtedly not.” But his lordship certainly did not seem to be doing much to dissuade the attention, either. The last thing she wanted was a dandy who had feigned love to a thousand eager young women who were not wise enough to—
“Isabella.” The tone was serious, low, and rare enough to make discomfort push through her.
She met Father’s eyes. “Yes?”
“For once in your life, try.” Emotion skittered across his face and pushed together his greying brows. He brushed a quick hand down her cheek, chucked under her chin, and walked away.
Guilt flickered through her. Had she been selfish? For three years, Father had been adorning her with the finest clothes, presenting her into society with pride, and nudging wealthy suitors into her path.
All of whom she had turned away. She’d scarcely given them a chance. But how could she?
