Page 57 of Her Beast of a Duke
“Indeed. Mama spoke of how the Duke treated her with the utmost regard, and how you so frequently expressed your delight in her company, assuring her of how greatly you had missed her. They, of course, remarked upon the counsel they had given you to comport yourself as a duchess ought, offering the guidance they deemed proper.”
Where Isabella had been angry that day in the drawing room, she now found only loose amusement at the falsity of the visit. “I see. I must not have been in the same room as her.”
At that, her sisters laughed, linking one another tighter as they continued to walk through Hyde Park.
Once they found a bench that overlooked a small lake, Alicia walked off to inspect a low-hanging tree that she was certain had some engraving on it that she was interested in and wanted to use for her studies.
Sibyl turned to Isabella, a small furrow between her brows.
“Sister, are you happy?”
The question echoed one they had asked Hermia so often that it had likely begun to irk her. Isabella now understood why her sister’s eyes would always seek something else to look at: a way to stall, a way to avoid being noticed, a prettier lie she had to tell to protect her sister.
“I shall be happy when I am at the ballet,” she said instead of answering truthfully.
She was content, but her heart had begun to ache for more from her marriage, and she did not know how to voice such a thing. She and Oscar continued to make progress with one another, but she was beginning to yearn.
“The ballet makes me happy, and I believe I may make a plan to go soon.”
“Isabella, that is not a truthful answer,” Sibyl said.
“You needn’t worry about my happiness,” she replied, flicking her gaze to the lake where fireflies danced in patterns that rippled over the surface. “Worry about your own, and that will make me happy. That is where my true contentment lies, Sibyl.”
“That is also not a truthful answer.”
“Yet it is the only one I shall give,” Isabella teased. “Please, honestly, do not worry about me. I do not do things that do not bring me happiness.”
“You and I both know that is not true.”
“It is true enough.”
“Let us see what has enthralled our youngest sister so,” Isabella replied, squeezing Sibyl’s hand and pulling her up to stand.
Sibyl only pursed her lips, and Isabella knew she was going to let this go today, but she’d come back to it.
Isabella hoped that she’d have a better answer when the time came.
At the Varcroft, a gentleman’s club in the heart of London, Oscar dropped into his seat opposite Edmund, who had, as usual, come early and ordered their first round of drinks.
“You arrived early to mock me, I suspect,” he said, tone dark, almost a growl. “I am punctual. Remember that.”
He snapped the lid of his pocket watch with deliberate force, as if to punctuate the warning.
“Or maybe I just enjoy seeing people breathe easy before your towering, brooding presence crushes it,” Edmund retorted.
“No,” Oscar let out a low, sharp huff. “You were always early to every class in Cambridge, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. As if the teacher arriving on time was inconvenient to you.”
“Better early than known for tardiness.” Edmund flashed a smile. “Besides, it unnerves people to think they are running late, even if they are right on time. Does it unnerve you?”
“You do a lot of things to unnerve me, Harcross.”
Edmund cocked his head to the side. “And your wife, does anything about her unnerve you, Rochdale?”
A growl escaped his throat. “No.”
“She is changing you, my friend,” he drawled, voice lilting.
Oscar glared at him, reaching for his drink. “Do not be ludicrous.”
