Page 8 of How to Bewitch a Duke
“I am trying to mend them,” he said quietly.
There was heartbreak evident in those gold depths. So much so it almost shattered her anew. Isla did not give into the need to fall into his arms again. That kiss had brought much back, but it has also been a different sort of reminder. She knew how easy it would be to give in to him. She had done so in the past hadn’t she? Isla would not be his fool ever again.
She turned her face away. “Leave and do not return”
He hesitated, pain flashing across his features. “Isla…”
“Go,” she whispered.
And this time, he obeyed. As the door clicked softly behind him, Isla pressed a hand to her chest. Her lips still burned. Her heart still thundered. But she had survived the first break. She would survive this one too. She could not relive the past. It was time to move forward once and for all, and that was when she knew. It was time to read her mother’s journal and see if it offered her something that would help her let go of Lucian once and for all.
Six
The sky hung low with grey clouds that threatened rain, but the drawing room at Harwood Hall was aglow with soft firelight. Lady Isla Thompson sat near the window, her embroidery lying untouched in her lap, though the needle was still threaded and ready. She hadn’t stitched a single loop in over an hour. Her thoughts were not on her needlework. They were on Lucian and what she had read thus far in her mother’s journal.
She had not seen him since that day he had come to visit her, to beg her to forgive him—she had done everything in her power to avoid any place he might be because she was not ready to revisit that day, or any aspect of their past. But still, he lingered in her thoughts like the echo of a melody she could not silence. The pain of the past still clung to her, but so too did the memory of how it had felt to be held in his arms, to hear the low rumble of his voice speaking only to her. To see the ache in his eyes and know it was for her. She ought to hate him. She had told herself she did. But her heart was not so obedient.
Her mother’s journal had only made her question her decisions. What if she had been wrong by pushing him away? Should she have at least listened to what he had to say. He claimed that she would be in danger if he had remained steadfast in their love. Had it been that simple? He had broken her heart to protect her. Could she believe that? Her mother had believed in the power of love and had expressed that in clear concise words. Isla had taken those words to heart.
She reached once more for the small, leather-bound journal resting open on the table beside her. Her fingers lingered over the worn edge of the page—the same page she had read over a dozen times since last night.
Fear of the future will delay the first…
She did not know if her mother had truly possessed the gift of foresight as some in the village whispered, or if it had merely been a mother’s instinct to understand her daughters more than they understood themselves. But those words… they felt like a balm and a burden all at once. Had her fear—of pain, of loss, of loving a man who might hurt her again—kept her from something that could bring her joy?
She pressed her fingers to her lips, her eyes drifting once more to the fire crackling in the hearth. If she allowed herself to believe him… if what Lucian said was true, then his sacrifice had been born of love, not cruelty. And if he had faced some great danger—if he had borne it alone, in silence, in order to keep her safe—then every angry word she had thrown at him, every ounce of her scorn, had been unjust.
A knock sounded at the door, firm but polite. Isla startled from her thoughts, the journal slipping closed in her lap. “Come in,” she called softly, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands.
The butler entered with a slight bow. “Your ladyship. A letter has arrived for you. Marked urgent.”
She accepted the missive, her pulse fluttering as she read the seal. It was from London—no crest, but the handwriting was unmistakable. Lucian’s. Once the door had closed behind the butler, she broke the seal and unfolded the letter with careful fingers.
Isla, my love,
I do not presume to ask for your forgiveness. But I do ask for a chance to speak. There are things I have kept from you—truths I thought would protect you, but now I see they only drove you away. I cannot live with that mistake any longer.
My past is no longer a threat to us. It has been resolved. My heart, however, still belongs to you. It has always belonged to you.
If there is even the smallest part of you that wishes to understand—please, meet me one last time. Tonight, beneath the willow where we first spoke of forever, and where I made the gravest mistake of my life. The place I hope, most fervently, will once again be a place of joy if the fates, and your gentle heart, allows it.
I will wait until sunset. If you do not come, I will understand. But I shall not give up hope.
Yours, Always,
—Lucian
Isla stared at the page for a long time. Her hand shook as she folded it closed and pressed it to her chest. The willow, their sacred meeting place. He remembered, of course, and so did she how much that location meant. The promises they had made each other there, and yes, the place he had broken her heart. They had had a conversation, a brief meeting, there recently—the night of the masquerade. That night had not gone well, but that was mostly because of her own fears.
She looked toward the window, where the clouds continued to gather over the hills. Rain would come soon. But still she knew, without doubt, that she would likely go meet him. Mayhap her mother had been right—perhaps love no matter how haunted by fear, could be enough. And maybe, just maybe, it was time to find out. She nibbled on her lips in contemplation, but she did not move from where she sat. There was much to consider, and she could not go to him without being certain of her own feelings.
A soft knock pulled her from her reverie, and moments later, her sisters swept into the room—Athena, radiant and flushed with happiness, and Maeve, equally glowing, though there was always something a little more solemn in Maeve’s smile.
“Oh Isla,” Athena said with a bright laugh, “I declare, this house is entirely too quiet without us.”
They were so alike in many ways, her sisters, and not just because they were twins. They both had an exuberance that stole her breath. She had never been that carefree. Almost as if she had been born with an old soul to restrained for something joyous to intrude upon her environment.
Maeve grinned. “Do not let Father hear you say that. He’s likely relishing the silence.”
