Chapter 24
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Hartley stood in the middle of his study, the morning light striking the decanter on his desk. His coat was unbuttoned, his cravat askew, and his hair a disheveled mess from running his fingers through it for the better part of an hour.
He had tried to drink, but the liquor turned to ash on his tongue. He had tried to pace, but his legs felt heavy, his chest tight.
Isabella’s eyes haunted him—wide and full of betrayal.
He pressed a hand to his forehead. “God, what have I done?”
He had gone to the Ravensmere House that morning with the best of intentions. He would speak to the duke, ask for Isabella’s hand, and set things right. He had rehearsed the words, imagined her shy smile, the warmth in her gaze when he offered for her. Asked her to love him as much as he loved her.
Then everything had gone to hell.
The duke’s fury, Rosalind’s cold disapproval, Isabella’s tears—it was a nightmare he could not wake from.
He moved to the window, looking out onto Berkely Square. The world outside went on as usual. Carriages rolled past, gentlemen tipped their hats, ladies took the air. No one knew that his life had just come undone.
And worse—he had undone hers as well.
He closed his eyes and saw her again as she had been the morning before. Her hair loose around her shoulders, her lips parted beneath his. She had given him everything, and he had ruined her in return.
A wager.
A foolish, hurtful wager made in haste, meant to irritate his nemesis.
Never once had he believed it would lead to the overwhelming affection he had for Isabella.
The one woman who refused to be swayed by his charms and yet had won his heart with her wit and sweetness.
He was privileged to have won her affection and trust in return, and yet he’d thrown everything she held dear back in her face like it did not matter.
Or at least that was what she would now believe.
The image of her hearing the truth—of her face crumpling in disbelief—would haunt him until the day he died.
He sank into his chair, resting his head in his hands.
“She will never forgive me.”
There was a knock at the door, and his butler entered quietly. “My lord, are you unwell?”
“No, only a fool.”
The man hesitated, unsure if he should remain in his presence. “Shall I bring coffee?”
Hartley shook his head. A flintlock might serve him better…
Hartley shook his head and leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, knowing that such dark thoughts were not welcome or helpful.
He groaned, dragging both hands down his face.
He had always fancied himself a man who could charm his way out of trouble. But this—this went beyond either.
He had destroyed the one person who had seen good in him.
His gaze fell to the desk where a small box lay—the ring he had chosen for her, a delicate gold band set with a emerald the same color as her eyes. He picked it up, turning it in his fingers.
He had planned to give it to her yesterday, to ask her to be his wife, not out of duty or scandal, but because he wanted to wake every day for the rest of his life and see her face.
Now that dream seemed laughable. Unattainable. She would never forgive him.
“She will marry me because she must,” he whispered. “And she will hate me every day for it.”
He rose, pacing to the hearth. The fire had long gone cold, the ash gray and lifeless.
It mirrored how he felt—spent, hollow, and beyond repair.
He thought of leaving London, of disappearing to his estate in Kent until the wedding.
But he could not. To vanish now would brand Isabella forever, and he needed this time to make amends.
To try to salvage something of what they had started.
He would face the shame, the gossip, the pity. He would do it for her.
Because he loved her.
God help him, he loved her.
The admission struck him hard, leaving him breathless. He sank into the chair once more, the ring clenched in his fist. He did not deserve her forgiveness, but he would earn it all the same. He would marry her. Protect her. Make her smile again—one day.
And if she never loved him in return, that would be his penance. Hartley lifted his gaze toward the window, where the faintest glimmer of sunlight pierced the gray clouds.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured. “Tomorrow I will make it right.”
He had broken the only woman he had ever loved. Now he would spend the rest of his life trying to piece her back together.