Page 64 of Married to the Icy Duke
Her expression softened at once, and she shuffled a little closer. “Oh, Isaac, you poor thing.”
“I am not apoor thing, Sybella!”
“Frankly, I think that it is pre-wedding nerves. That is all.”
He snorted. “I disagree.”
She shrugged. “Well, it hardly matters. Charlotte is not pleased with you, but I daresay she’ll forgive you. We are going home. Come soon, won’t you? We have guests to greet.”
She turned away and headed back to where Charlotte stood, hand in hand with Tommy, with poor Mary standing beside them, laden with baskets.
Isaac watched them go, keeping his expression smooth. When they were at last out of sight, he turned and headed towards the distant tree, leading his horse behind him.
He half expected the man to have gone, but no, he was still there, sitting up against the base of the tree. His knees were pulled up towards his chest, his wrists resting limply on his knees. He was staring into the distance and did not look up as Isaac approached.
“Matthew,” Isaac said curtly. “I do hope you weren’t spying on my bride-to-be and my sister.”
“No, I was not. This is a public park, Isaac. You already did your best to turn me out of Gunter’s. Do you plan to ban me from here, too?”
Isaac clenched his jaw. “You are not being fair.”
“Oh, aren’t I? I’m sure you recall telling me that I would regret speaking to your bride-to-be again.”
“You misremember it, Matthew. I told you that if you spoke to her in the way you did again, I’d make you sorry. And by the way, it’s a threat you seem keen to disregard.”
Matthew chuckled. “What’s a threat but a promise? And your promises, Isaac, mean no more to me than a handful of dust.”
He flinched at that. “You are not being fair.”
“You keep saying that. You keep telling me how unfair I am. Let me tell you, Isaac, what is truly unfair.”
Isaac crouched down beside his once-friend and attempted a placating tone.
“Matthew …”
“Hear me out,” Matthew whispered. “There were once three boys. Two brothers and a friend. The friend got on best with the younger brother, but the older spent time with them, too. Hewasn’t jealous. The three were friends, all of them. Then, one day, war came to the country. Well, the friend was a bloodthirsty young man, eager to make a name for himself. He was keen to get out from under his father’s thumb. So, he decided to go to war. The younger brother would not be separated from him, because he saw his friend as a sibling.”
“Stop it, Matthew,” Isaac snapped. “Enough of this. You are drunk.”
“The friend encouraged this. ‘We are second sons, you and I,’ he said. ‘I’ll never be a duke, and you’ll never be a viscount. So, let’s go out in the world and become men. Together.’ Well, the younger brother was entirely taken in. He wouldn’t listen to his brother’s pleading, or his mother’s tears, or his father’s logical arguments. He wanted to be a soldier. He was convinced that he’d come home showered in glory. He promised all of them he’d come home safe. What’s more, the friend promised the older brother that he would take care of the younger one. Hepromised.”
Isaac got jerkily to his feet. “Enough. I don’t want to hear this. Why are you telling me this, Matthew? I know the story. I lived it.”
Matthew surged to his feet with more speed and strength than a man so drunk ought to have. He seized Isaac’s shoulders, bringing them almost nose to nose.
All of Isaac’s instincts told him to bring his fist into the other man’s face. It would be easy enough. Matthew was never a fighter and could be wrestled to the ground quite easily.
But it wasMatthew, with his pale, delicate face and that ever-present, ever-hungry grief in his eyes. Isaac clenched his fists at his sides and did not strike out.
“Let go of me,” he whispered, but Matthew did not seem to hear.
“The friend and the younger brother went to war, and it wasn’t at all what they expected,” he continued doggedly, as if he really were telling a story. “The younger brother wrote letters to his brother, letters streaked with tear stains, talking about blood and mud and constant fear. He begged to come home, but of course, he could not. He was no longer the second son of a viscount, but a soldier. The older brother did his best to reassure him, promising that all would be well, just one more battle, just one more … and then the letters stopped coming. Months went by. The war ended, and the soldiers began to come home.”
Isaac closed his eyes. Matthew continued.
“The first the family knew of what had happened—although I think they had guessed—was when the friend returned, hollow-eyed and grimmer than before. Alone, of course. The younger brother was dead. The friend had not kept his promise. He’d let the younger brother die on some foreign field, soaked in blood, alone.”
“He wasn’t alone,” Isaac whispered. “I was there. I buried him myself. I told you that I could take you to his body, that I could …”
