Page 3 of How to Bewitch a Duke
“I had my reasons,” he said hoarsely. “Reasons I could not tell you then.”
“And what of now?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Does it even matter what those reasons were? You made a decision. Now you must live with that decision. Much the same way I do.” Isla lifted her chin defiantly. “I am not yours any longer.” If she ever had been… No that wasn’t true. Her heart still did belong to him. The truth was that he was never truly hers. That was where her bitterness stemmed from.
He was silent. She couldn’t help herself. She glanced up and stared into those golden eyes. Some sort of emotion flicked there. It almost gave her hope. That fleeting elusive emotion that she should ignore. There was no hope, and she should not let herself foolishly believe it. She stepped back, her voice shaking. “You still won’t say, will you?” It should not matter why he had broken her heart, but she wanted to understand. Wanted to know that it had not all been for nothing. Perhaps then she could move forward with her life instead of living a half-life.
“I would give everything to undo what I did,” he said, and in that moment, she saw the truth in his eyes—the agony, the longing, the emotions that had never truly died. Isla wanted to believe that was love she saw reflected back at her, but she had been wrong before. She turned away before he could say more. Before she could let herself believe.
She would forget this moment. She had to.
But later, as the music swelled and laughter echoed down the candlelit halls, Isla stood alone by a window leading out to the balcony and pressed a hand to her chest—a small, fierce flicker of hope refused to be extinguished, and then she had an idea. Perhaps it would help if she revisited the place where she had lost everything. The willow tree…she’d go there. Remind herself why she could not give into the dangerous emotion. Because there was no hope to be had.
She walked to the doors and stepped out onto the balcony, the summer night cloaking her in warm, fragrant air. The distant scent of flowers mingled with the sharper tang of the clipped hedges below, and for a moment, Isla closed her eyes and let the wind caress her face, as though it might carry away the ache that had settled within her chest. But it didn’t. It never did.
The laughter and music faded behind her as she leaned her hands upon the stone balustrade. Beyond the gardens, the path curved—just as it always had—toward the line of trees that led to the pond, where moonlight touched the earth like spun silver—and to the willow tree.
There, just beyond her view, waited memories she had tried for years to bury. The place where he had turned from her. Where he had uttered words, she could never forget, nor forgive. The echo of them still lived within her, like a scar that refused to fade.
And yet... she had come back.
Perhaps it was foolish. Perhaps it would only wound her further. But Isla had lived in shadow long enough. If she was ever to be free of the past, she needed to confront it. To walk that path again and prove to herself that it no longer held power over her. She turned toward her destination, her jaw set, her pulse steady now. She would go to the willow tree. Not to find closure—there could be no such thing for a love that had once burned so bright—but to remind herself that she had survived its ending.
And if he followed… Well—let him. Let him see that the girl he had broken was no longer broken at all. Let him see the woman she had become despite him. And if her heart still beat for him, if it still held some desperate, flickering hope that love might yet be rekindled… She would bury it beneath the roots of that ancient tree. Just as she had once buried her innocence. Because she would find a way to let go of this pain and let her love go. It was past time that she did.
Two
The morning light crept gently through the tall windows of Harwood Hall, casting a pale shimmer over the marble floors and catching on the edges of silk draperies still drawn closed against the warmth of the sun. Lady Isla Thompson sat at the breakfast table, her tea untouched, her thoughts tangled in a haze of emotions she had yet to fully name.
The events of the masquerade haunted her. Thoughts of him would not leave her mind—Lucian. Even now, the mere thought of his name sent a ripple through her. His voice, his eyes, the quiet agony he had revealed—unspoken truths wrapped in the cloak of longing. He had looked at her as though she were the only woman in the world. And perhaps, for one impossible moment, she had wanted to believe it again. But belief was dangerous. Hope was perilous. And Isla had nearly drowned in both once before. Still, she could not forget. A part of her did not want to. For if he longed for her than all her pain had not been for naught. There had been something real between them.
She lifted her cup but paused as she noticed her sister, seated across the table, stirring her tea absently. Maeve had barely spoken a word all morning. Her cheeks were pale beneath the dark sweep of her hair, and her eyes, though dry, were too still. Far too guarded for Maeve, who usually carried her emotions close to the surface. It concerned her. Something must have happened between her and her viscount at the masquerade. She had been caught in her own troubled misery to notice before now.
Isla set her cup down quietly. “You are unusually quiet.”
Maeve blinked, then forced a faint smile. She tucked a stray dark curl behind her ear. “Am I? I suppose I am simply tired.” Her voice was casual, too carefully arranged.
“Mm,” Isla murmured, unconvinced. She did not believe for one moment it was that simple. Maeve appeared too distraught for it to be mere fatigue from the night before. “The ball proved to be too exhausting for you then?”
Maeve’s hand stilled on the porcelain and slowly met her gaze. “It was tiresome.”
“Perhaps you should rest then,” Isla said gently. “You are not yourself, dearest sister. I would hate for you to fall ill from last night’s excursions.” Isla did not think that was what was happening to her sister. She was sick, but not from any sort of illness. Her sister was heartsick and that was something Isla knew far more of than she would ever have liked. But that did not mean she needed to goad Maeve into revealing her pain. She would let her be, at least for an hour or so. Then perhaps later she would visit with her and see if she were willing to discuss the night’s events.
Maeve gave a soft, bitter laugh. “As if resting would ease everything.”
There it was. A fracture in her sister’s silence. Still, she did not believe Maeve was ready to discuss it all. Isla rose quietly and came to her sister’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Sometimes it helps far more than you believe it will?”
Maeve shook her head, biting her lip as she looked away. “I don’t know…”
“You do not need to,” Isla began. “But at least consider it.” She paused. “If you do not think you can rest perhaps you should visit your studio?”
Maeve hesitated, then slowly nodded. “Painting has always helped ease whatever bothered me.”
“Then you should go there. The morning light is still good.” She smiled. “I will stop by later and see how you are doing.” There she could perhaps get Maeve to discuss what was bothering her. But painting would ease some of her pain. It was her place to go to relax.
Maeve left the breakfast room leaving Isla alone in the room. She had long forgotten her tea. Not that she had truly wanted it. She had been in her own misery before she had noticed her sister’s pain. She sighed and pushed her cup to the side. She was not like her sisters. Isla did not have something that had always kept her from wallowing her anguish. Athena had her horse and those wild gallops through the fields and Maeve had her painting. She had nothing. She had thought she had the duke, but that had fallen apart before it truly had a chance to begin.
And now she saw something in his gaze that suggested he was as miserable as she had been all these years. What could have changed for him to reveal that to her now? What did he hope to gain by allowing her to witness such naked torment? A part of her, the part that still loved and adored him, wanted to go to him and ask him these questions. But what would that solve?
She left her tea untouched on the table and went to the library. She could find a book to occupy herself with. At least she hoped she would be able to. Slowly she made herself to the one room that was her sanctuary. She supposed she did have this. She did find some comfort in books. It occurred to her then that when her turn came for her mother’s journal, she would have it to read. But it was still Maeve’s, and she did not know for certain when it would be hers. She had agreed to go last after all.
