Page 54 of The Beastly Duke's Christmas Bride
This was her life and her home. She was growing tiresome of everyone getting in her way, particularly Sebastian, and wanted to prove to herself that no one really commanded her heart or her mind.
“You wish to break your fast while you paint?” Amber clarified when Isabel dressed and made her decision. “Won’t you leave crumbs in your paint supplies?”
That made her chuckle. “Not if I’m careful. Just a light tray, please. Some hot tea and oat cakes would be more than enough.”
“We do have good oat cakes here. Very well, Your Grace, I shall have your tray delivered to you shortly. Is there anything more I can do for you?” she added after delivering a pair of slippers.
“Just a shawl, please. It’s a very chilly morning.”
Amber nodded. “More snow fell last night. I was certain it would become a blizzard, but the household reassured me that such a thing rarely happens. Don’t you worry, there’s already a fire set in your art room.”
“Oh? Who knew I would spend the morning there?” Isabel fixed her shawl provided by her maid around her shoulders. “That was thoughtful.”
“The duke requested fires are lit in every room you spend more than a minute in,” her maid explained.
Isabel stumbled on her way to the door. Grasping the doorframe, she ignored the skip of her heartbeat. The brooding gaze of her husband came to mind until she shook the image away.
“Your Grace?”
“I’m all right. The tray when you can,” Isabel added before hastening out of the room. She rubbed her face as she walked down the hall. While she had noticed the house had seen even more improvements than what she had requested, and she had known the holiday touches came from Sebastian, she hadn’t realized just how much he was doing for her.
And yet he insists on keeping a barrier between us. The man must be out of his mind, or attempting to send me out of mine.I will need to talk to him. After yesterday… I will talk to him. I just need to gather my thoughts.
Painting had a way of easing Isabel’s worries, so she started down the main hall to make her way to the stairs. It wasn’t any faster going down the center of the house, but it was certainly warmer. She turned the corner toward the stairs that faced the front doorway.
They had a guest.
Isabel slowed down, noting the figures in the entry way. It couldn’t be past nine or ten, far too early for visitors. They were clearly unwelcome, too, by the way her butler and husband stood around them.
It was the butler she noticed first, the way Wesley appeared even grimmer than usual. Nervous, too. He wouldn’t stop fidgeting and shifting his feet all while his brow lowered down.
He noticed her, audibly inhaling. “Your Grace?”
But Sebastian was busy. His back was to Isabel as he stood tall with his arms crossed. He was dressed for riding. On a day like this, she hoped he had changed his mind. It didn’t appear that he’d had a chance to leave the house. She noted the dark silky curls before he spoke loud enough for her to hear.
“No. You are not welcome here. Leave now.”
“Your Grace?” Wesley whispered.
Something is wrong. But what?
Confused at the tension she could feel from the other end of the entry hall, Isabel couldn’t resist creeping closer. There was their guest standing behind her husband, so there was little for her to see. A tall figure covered in a drab dark cloak stood slumped. The cloth was covered in frost.
They’ve come out of the cold and that’s how Sebastian wants to treat them? We could at least offer a cup of hot tea. Why he would refuse someone so sternly, I cannot imagine.
“Please,” came a roughened tenor voice. “I don’t ask for much.”
The familiarity of the voice made Isabel slow down, wondering if she was imagining this. It couldn’t be who it sounded like. That wasn’t possible. Even if the height looked about right, she couldn’t imagine that man being here. Traveling here. And for what, to see her?
Feeling the world slow down around her, she struggled to hear the words of the argument between her husband and the cloaked figured. It felt as though she were underwater in the bath, hearing her maid calling for her. She remembered how she liked to do that as a child. Back when the world was much simpler, much nicer, and much less messy for her.
“You cannot deny me,” came the wounded protest. Then down the came the cloak.
Isabel froze in her tracks.
It cannot be.
And yet, somehow, it was indeed her brother. Thomas Ravenshaw stood there in her line of vision with his golden hair darkened and damp against his skull. He was even thinner than when she last saw him, a gaunt shadow claiming part of her elder brother. There was a dimness to his eyes and his mouth was a sharp twist.
