Page 71 of Duke of Diamonds
Isaac.
He sat on a thick carpet near the edge, his back against the stone wall, legs crossed at the ankle. A book rested in one hand, his index finger lodged between the pages.
“Isaac,” she breathed, heart still thudding. “You frightened me.”
He gestured to the empty space beside him. “Sit.”
For a moment, she hesitated, watching him. There was no tension in his posture now. No armor in place. So she stepped forward and sat beside him.
She sat, smoothing her robe beneath her as she drew her knees close and folded her hands neatly atop them. The stone beneath the carpet still carried the chill of night, but she found it oddly grounding.
Isaac had not moved. He sat as he had before, legs crossed and back against the wall, the book still in one hand, forgotten.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye.Does he do this often? Sit here alone while the rest of the house sleeps?
“What are you doing up this late?” he asked again.
His expression held no edge, no warmth either. Placid. Unreadable.
“I could not sleep,” she answered, though the truth sat heavier than the words.
She opened her mouth—then closed it again. The name pressed at the back of her throat, begging to be spoken.Mary.But she remembered the way he had turned to stone earlier. The look in his eyes. It had not been pain so much as a shutting down, a door slamming shut with practiced precision.
Now was not the time to pry it open.
She let the silence settle between them, hoping it might soothe her thoughts. But instead, they turned darker.
What if Mary was a wife? A dead one. One he had loved?
The idea bloomed fully formed and thoroughly unwelcome. Her chest tightened.
Or a lover. One he still pines for. One who had the parts of him he now keeps hidden from me.
She pressed her fingers into her lap.
“That familiar bitterness again,” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” he asked, glancing at her.
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “What is this place?” She tilted her head to take in the stretch of terrace—the carved stone balustrade, the ivy that trailed along one corner, the sweeping view of the moonlit grounds.
He looked at her with an arch of a brow. “It’s a terrace, Fiona.”
She rolled her eyes, thankful for the shift in conversation. “Yes, Isaac. I am aware. I meant?—”
“How often I hide away here?” he finished for her.
She looked at him, waiting.
“Quite often,” he said after a pause. His eyes drifted out into the night, and something in them shifted—softer, more distant. “It’s always been my favorite hiding spot. Since the days I was confined to the schoolroom. I used to slip away from the governesses when I could. No one ever thought to look for me here.”
She blinked at the image. Young Isaac, brooding even then, skirting lessons and tutors to escape into the night air.
She laughed softly, the sound catching her by surprise.
He turned to her, puzzled.
“I’m imagining you as a boy,” she said. “Sulking out here to avoid French verbs.”
