Page 93 of Duke of Diamonds
“Oh…” The word slipped from her lips, soft and stricken. Her hand remained on his sleeve. “Oh, Isaac.”
The pieces clicked into place all at once. The silence. The painting. Elaine’s fury. His stillness.
It wasn’t reluctance that had kept him from speaking. It was grief.
His eyes remained locked on the painting. And though his lips parted once more, no words followed.
He wants to speak. But he cannot.
She saw the anguish etched in the line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He looked like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether the wind might carry him or destroy him.
Fiona’s throat ached with the urge to ask more—Who was she? How did it happen? Why does it haunt you so?—but the questions withered before they reached her lips.
Not now. Not tonight.
Instead, she slipped her hand into his. “I’m sorry, Isaac. I truly am.”
His hand flinched at her touch. “Don’t be.”
The words were low, abrupt. Bitter—not with her, but with what was buried far deeper.
Then, without another glance, he turned and walked away. Fiona stood in the hallway, alone, the painting watching her in silence.
CHAPTER 29
“You do realize this is the third morning in a row you’ve neglected your cravat?” Fiona asked as she poured the tea, glancing at her husband over the rim of the pot.
Isaac, seated across from her at the breakfast table, looked down at his collar with mild surprise. “It seems I have.”
“Are we in mourning for fashion, or simply rebelling against starch?” she teased, sliding the sugar bowl toward him.
His lips twitched, though he said nothing at first.
Fiona busied herself buttering a scone, though her eyes kept flicking toward him. He was here. That in itself felt remarkable. After last night, she had expected a retreat—one of his usual, quiet disappearances into books or duties or anywhere she wasn’t.
But here he sat. Distant, perhaps. Thoughtful. But present.
That must count for something.
Still, the cloud hovering over him tugged at her.
“You’ve not touched your eggs,” she remarked.
He picked up his fork obligingly but seemed more interested in pushing the food than eating it.
After breakfast, she slipped into the kitchens, her decision made. “A full picnic basket, please,” she instructed the cook. “Fruit, bread, a bit of ham, and something sweet. Oh, and tell Miss Jameson and one of the footmen they’ll be coming too.”
With that in order, Fiona made her way to Isaac’s study. She found him hunched over a ledger, though the pen in his hand hadn’t moved in some time.
She lingered at the door for a moment, then stepped in. “Would you like to get some air at the park?”
Isaac looked up. His expression was blank at first, as though the words had taken a moment to reach him.
“It’s a lovely afternoon,” Fiona added, crossing the room. “Let’s take advantage of it. You’ll ruin your eyes squinting at numbers in here.”
She watched him carefully, readying herself for refusal.
It’s all right if he says no. Truly, it is.
