She nodded and dropped to pick up the pieces of the broken vase. “Quite well. He did not hurt me.”
“He should not have touched you.” He brushed her hands away from the shards. “Don’t. You’ll cut yourself.”
“And you won’t?” Her gaze met his, her face mere inches from his.
He could see the dark flecks in her hazel eyes and a few faint freckles on her nose. Turning his head swiftly, he picked up some of the larger shards and slipped them into the remaining base of the vase. “It does not matter if I do.”
“Of course it does.” She took his hand and the touch made the hairs on the back of his arms stand on end. “I would hate to see you hurt.”
She would be the only one then. Save from Timms, Mrs. Potter and Lighthall, he supposed. The problem was, it was a far too pleasant feeling to have Isabel care for him.
Chapter Eleven
Though an entire night had passed since Garth visited—if that was what one called storming in and demanding one return home—Isabel could still not forget the incident.
As she washed for dinner, she touched her arm where Garth had gripped it. Tiny marks remained where his fingers had dug in. No, he had not really hurt her but any man willing to touch her like that was no friend of hers.
And certainly not marriage material, but she had known that for some time.
If Garth had intended to persuade her to return and marry him, his plan failed. His actions had only made her more determined to ensure he knew she would never, ever marry him, and she was sorely tempted to stay at Blackmoor out of spite.
But what would the duke think of that?
She eyed the dress Mrs. Potter had laid out for her. It did not look like one of the borrowed ones. Firstly, it was closer to her size and the material was more delicate, in a pale yellow color. Perfect for her complexion. It was as though this dress had been made for her.
“How odd,” she murmured to herself.
The gown did indeed fit perfectly. She allowed herself a little time to admire herself in the mirror. Though she had a few fine gowns, none were quite like this. Wherever Mrs. Potter had dug it up from, she would have to thank her.
Isabel took extra care over her hair and butterflies danced in her stomach. She told herself she had no idea why but the truth was, she was looking forward to seeing the duke and she wanted to impress him. After he had run Garth off, they had spent the rest of the afternoon in the gardens and the library. She still did not know everything about him—he certainly avoided any talk of his past—but she was beginning to see him for who he really was.
She sighed. A sweet, kind, uncertain man with a love of books and a towering intellect that could keep any woman interested for years.
Checking her reflection once more, she made her way downstairs. Mr. Lighthall paused as she came to the bottom step and beamed at her.
“Ah, de toute beauté. Magnificent. Mrs. Potter said that gown would fit you perfectly and she was right.”
“It does. Do you know where it came from? It is different to the rest.”
Mr. Lighthall leaned in. “She adjusted a gown that the duchess did not like. It was never worn as it did not suit her but I think it suits you perfectly.”
Isabel felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Lighthall. And please thank Mrs. Potter if you see her before I do.”
“I am sure she will come upstairs shortly, simply to admire her handiwork.”
“You have all been extremely kind to me.”
“It is an absolute pleasure. We have enjoyed having you here.” He glanced around. “Am I to take it you will be staying a little longer? That your gentleman friend did not persuade you to return home?”
Isabel grinned. “Well, the river is flooded is it not? And Mrs. Potter has been working so hard on preparing tonight’s dinner. Not to mention the state of my leg. I must stay for a little while longer I’m afraid.”
Mr. Lighthall’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed, indeed. So many things to keep you here. I am glad that friend did not persuade you otherwise.”
“That man is not my friend, Mr. Lighthall, I can assure you of that. His arrogance is incomparable and his manners are utterly beastly. The sooner he forgets about me the better.”
Mr. Lighthall stiffened and Isabel glanced around at what had caught his eye. “Oh, Your Grace.”
Mr. Lighthall offered a bow. “Your Grace.”
He hastened away leaving her alone with the duke in the hallway. A great scowl marred his face—a face she was now able to see better as he had trimmed his beard and combed his hair back.
“If you do not wish to stay, you do not have to. I have no wish to keep you prisoner and you are no fool, Isabel. You could travel home quite safely now.”
She frowned. “But I do not wish to go.”
“I am sure you do. Why should you want to stay around someone who has beastly manners?”
“Oh. Goodness, no. You thought I was speaking of you?”
The duke’s scowl deepened. “Who else would you be speaking of?”
“Garth, of course.” She took a step forward and rested a hand upon his arm. “I do not think you beastly at all. In truth, I deeply regret those words that I uttered that first night. I think…I think that I was quite wrong.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. I think you are the kindest and most gentle man I have ever met. Far from beastly.”
He offered his hand suddenly. “Come with me.”
She blinked but took his hand. The great warmth of it closing in around hers could be felt even through her gloves. That same warmth spread through her chest, making her tingly inside.
The duke led her through to the library. As always, the fire was lit and lamps were made ready for when the duke retired to the room. He let go of her hand to shut the door then took it once more to lead her to the spot in which he always sat. The chair that he had pulled up for her remained, empty and waiting. An ache grew in her chest when she considered that this could not last forever. She would have to return home soon and there would be no more days spent in this library next to this intriguing man.
He released her hand and turned to peer up at the shelves. She waited as he took a deep breath and eyed her. “I have something for you.”
“For me?”
He nodded, strode over to one shelf and removed a book. His hands trembled a little when he handed it over to her. Isabel flicked her gaze over the title and gasped.
“Eveline. You found it!”
“It took me, Timms and Lighthall quite some time.”
“I cannot believe you found it.” She opened it to the first chapter and read the opening lines, recalling her father’s deep voice rumbling over the words. “How wonderful. Perhaps I can read some of it later tonight.”
“I want you to keep it.”
“You do?”
The duke nodded.
Clasping the book to her chest, she grinned. “Thank you. This is wonderful. Now I will have something—
“Something?”
“Something to remember you by,” she spilled out before her courage could fail.
Sadness flickered in his gaze. She could not be sure what she had said wrong. Perhaps he did not really wish to give her the book. “You know you do not have to give me this. I know how you feel about your books.”
“Do you?”
“I think so.” She lifted her gaze to the top row of books and followed the line around the room. “This is your sanctuary. Though I am not sure what you are escaping from.”
He shrugged. “Life. People. These books…they are my protection.”
“And so I understand why you would not wish to give me one.”
He pressed the book to her chest. “No, I wish for you to keep it.”
She swallowed hard as she searched the depths of his one good eye. The pain that always seemed to exist in his face lingered but it was different now. More raw. Why was he offering her a book if it caused him so much pain?
“Yo
u come here to escape the memory of your wife, do you not?”
He twisted away from her and spoke to the fire. “In a way.”
“What happened?” she asked softly. “I have heard rumors but nothing much.” She certainly would not tell him what the worst of the gossip said.
His shoulders rose and fell. He picked up the poker at the side of the fire and gave it a jab, then he rested his arm upon the mantelpiece and continued to watch the flames.
“She died because of me. I killed her.”
Isabel studied his silhouette and the way the grief had weighed him down. There was no chance this man was a ruthless killer. There was more to it than that. She waited.
The duke glanced back at her then turned his face to the fire once more. “It was a rainy night, much like the one when you came to me. Too rainy to travel. But we had planned to go to London and I was eager to leave. Living in this house...living with my wife bored me. I wished to go and flirt with as many lonely wives as I could…” He placed the poker back on the hook and turned to face her. “I was not a good man, nor a good husband. I was arrogant and uncouth.”
She took a step forward but he held up a hand.
“That is the truth.” Running a hand across his beard, he huffed out a breath. “I insisted that we travel overnight, regardless of the weather or the warnings. Our carriage slipped in the mud and the wheel caught. It overturned and fell into a ditch. My wife died instantly and I was left with this.” He pointed to his eye. “Along with a few broken bones and bruises.”
Isabel closed her eyes momentarily. When she opened them, she took a step forward and did not let him stop her. She pressed a hand to his chest and felt the rapid heartbeat there.
“I am sorry.”
“I do not deserve any pity. It was my fault.”
“I think you have paid deeply for it.”
“Most would not agree with you.” He gave a gruff laugh. “To be called a beast. To be ridiculed. To see children run away from you in terror. It is no less than I deserve.”
She stared up at him, willing him to see what she saw. There was no beast here. No conceited man thinking only of himself and fast pleasures.
“You talk of this arrogant young man…I do not see him here.” She smiled. “I know, Your Grace. I know all that you do for the villagers. If they only knew…”
He shook his head. “No. If they knew, they would never accept the aid.”
“But if you just—”
The dinner gong rang and the duke offered her his arm. “I think we had better go and eat or Mrs. Potter will have our heads.”
Isabel took his arm but the idea had taken root. Somehow the villagers had to discover who was behind these charitable acts.
Chapter Twelve
“Timms, have you seen Isabel?” Wilde paused, book in hand as the butler entered the room with a tray of tea.
“No, Your Grace. Not since the morning meal. Perhaps she is in the gardens. It’s a fine, sunny day.”
“Hmm.” Wilde tilted his head and eyed the spine of the books in front of him. He plucked another out and added it to the pile he’d created. “I had better go and find her.”
“Is all well, Your Grace?” Timms peered at the stack of books which left him no room to place the tray.
“Excellent. Everything is excellent, Timms.” Wilde turned his attention back to the books. He could only give her a few for now. With no carriage to take them back, she’d be relying on the strength of her arms and he would not have her overloaded. Perhaps he could arrange a carriage for her.
“Excellent,” Timms repeated. “Everything is excellent.” He stared at the pile of books again. “Perhaps I should come back later with the tea.”
“Yes, thank you, Timms. That would be excellent.”
“Excellent,” the butler repeated once more when he turned on his heel and took the tray out of the room.
Wilde knew he was acting strange. The truth was, he felt strange. But in a wonderful—no, excellent—way. After his conversation with Isabel last night and the following dinner, a weight had lifted from his chest. Isabel did not see him as a beast. Maybe others always would. But as long as Isabel did not, all could remain right in the world.
He found himself humming while he perused the shelves. Humming! He could scarce believe it when he paused and realized what he’d been doing.
“Your Grace?”
He turned to see Isabel in the doorway to the library. He scowled. She was back in her muslin from the first day, now clean and repaired. It was not that she did not look beautiful in it but it was a reminder she did not belong here.
He’d change that. Surely he could? If he offered her his books, she would stay.
“I have hardly seen you this morning.” He turned to view her fully as she approached. His heart did a wild skipping motion.
“I was making preparations.” She twined her hands together and he eyed the movement. A tight feeling welled in his chest.
“Preparations?”
She nodded and offered a gentle smile. “I think it is time I left.”
She might as well have stuck a sword through his gut. He scrambled for a response for several moments. “It’s what I said last night, was it not?” he spilled out, wincing at how pathetic he sounded.
“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “Not at all.”
“It is. Don’t lie to me, Isabel. You have come to realize what everyone has realized.”
Isabel touched his arm—a movement that he was growing so used to yet it still made his whole body fire with awareness of her.
“I am not lying.” Her gaze connected with his, wide and open and honest. “But I do think I must return home. There are….things I must do.” She removed her hand from his arm and began twisting them together again. “However, I would like…that is…I was wondering…if maybe I could return. To visit. Perhaps.”
The sword in his gut vanished. He had not scared her away with his tale. In fact, she wanted to return. To come back to him.
“I think you must.” He swallowed and motioned to the stack of books. “For if you do not, who shall collect these books for your library?”
Her eyes widened further and a grin broke across her face. “In truth?”
He nodded. “I must share these books with the world. It is unfair for only one man to enjoy them. I realize that now.”
“Oh, thank you!” She swooped forward and flung her arms around his neck. The gentle but unexpected weight of her body made him stumble back a step and he latched his arms around her to keep her from falling.
When she pressed a kiss to his cheek, there was nothing more natural than turning his face to meet that kiss. Her lips touched his and they froze, but only for a moment. He held her tight and she melted into him, releasing a tiny, satisfied sound as he kissed her harder.
Cupping her cheek as he broke the kiss, he pressed his lips to her forehead and held her there for a time, simply absorbing the feel of this wonderful woman in his arms.
“You will come back to me then,” he asked, his voice low.
“If you wish me to, Your Grace.”
“I wish you to.”
“Then it is settled.” He felt her smile against his palm.
A loud cough broke the moment. He drew in a breath through his nostrils and eased away from Isabel to glower at Timms.
The butler’s cheeks were tinged red. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It appears we have a, um, crowd of visitors.”
“A crowd?” Wilde repeated.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Timms glanced at Isabel. “That friend of yours appears to be leading them. He demands to see you, Your Grace.”
“Garth?” She huffed. “He is not my friend.” She put a hand to Wilde’s arm. “Let me speak with him. I shall send him on his way.”
Wilde shook his head. “Not after how he behaved toward you last time. Clearly, I did not frighten him enough last time. I shall have to do better.”
Wilde strode to the front door,
aware of Isabel and Timms on his heels. Teeth gritted, he yanked open the front door to be confronted by a group of men. He took note of each one. Seven in total. All young. All practically cowering at the sight of him. Apart from Garth, who stood at the front of the group, his chest puffed out.
And a sword in hand.
Wilde heaved out a breath. “If you are looking to kill me, there are easier ways to go about it.”
Behind him he heard, Isabel gasp. Footsteps scurrying through the hallway told him Mrs. Potter had come to see what the spectacle was.
Garth lifted his chin. “There may be easier ways, but none so honorable. I come here, Beast,” he spat out, “to challenge you to a duel.” Someone murmured something behind Garth. “For Isabel’s honor,” he added, “of course.” He thrust a finger at Wilde. “You have dishonored her by keeping her here. I fight for her.”
Isabel tried to slip past Wilde but he stood his ground, forcing her to remain behind him. There was no chance he was letting her anywhere near this fool whilst he had a sword in hand.
“I do not want anyone fighting for me,” she declared behind him but Wilde ignored her.
“It is time someone taught this chap a lesson,” he murmured in the direction of the crowd of servants and Isabel.
“He could kill you!” Isabel declared, whilst Mrs. Potter nodded frantically.
“I am a little out of practice but I was known to be handy with a sword.” He nodded to Lighthall. “Bring me my sword.”
The crowd of men on his doorstep broke out into an excited bustle of noise. Garth eyed him. “At least you have some honor, Beast. I had thought you might turn me down.”
Wilde pointed to the open land, where the river cut through. “Over there. That's the best place for a duel.”
“To the death?” Garth asked.
“Did you want anything else?”
“Of course not. You have haunted this village long enough with your beastly ways. Taking Isabel hostage was your biggest mistake. You deserve to die for what you've done.”
“Once upon a time, I might have agreed with you.” Wilde slammed the door in his face and turned to confront the people in front of him who were eyeing him as though he had gone mad.
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