Chapter 19
Ronan watched Isla say farewell to her family a dozen times as they stood on the steps of the church. They were all reluctant to part ways, especially once he reminded her that the two of them would not be settling in the London townhouse.
No, that wouldn’t do for his purposes. The place had only been open for a few weeks to address his needs. Everything was being packed up and sent back to his country estate as planned.
“What if I never see you again?” Lacey cried out.
“Balderdash,” Margaret said with a sigh. She wrapped an arm around the girl. “We shall see them soon, I am sure. And we can write, can we not?”
That stirred the girl. “Might we purchase some paper? Scenter paper?”
“I’ll send you some,” Isla promised. She hugged her sisters one last time. “Do behave yourselves and I shall see you soon. I love you all.”
Her mother refused the hug. “I expect you to perform your duties with grace and goodness,” she said sternly instead. “Don’t be embarrassing the family, if you please.”
“I would never,” Isla responded with a frown.
“And don’t make that face. You’ll gather wrinkles.” The older woman sniffed. “Very well, do take care of yourself.” And us, she seemed to say with a pointed expression.
Ronan frowned. He could tell that the relationship between Isla and her mother had always been somewhat strained. Nuanced, perhaps. Judging by the tight smile Isla made, she understood her mother’s stern manners.
“And you,” she said simply. “Good bye.”
Then Isla accepted his arm as they went to his carriage. They climbed inside. Already his valet was back on the road with Ronan’s horse to return to the country estate. Isla’s belongings were tied down here, ready for their new home.
His wife, Ronan realized. She was his wife. He watched her movements as she waved to her family one last time before tucking herself inside. What was she thinking? There was that impassive expression of hers that always left him puzzled when he saw it.
Neither of them said a word as they encountered London traffic. It took them an hour or so to escape it, finally leaving the busyness behind.
“This really is a fine carriage,” Isla ventured at last. She glanced up at the ceiling where intricate designs showed. “Beautiful, too.”
“Good. It is yours.” She stared and he pointed out, “It is a wedding gift. They are customary, are they not?”
She flushed. “Well, yes, I suppose it is. But a carriage? That’s hardly necessary. I thought you already had one.”
He leaned back and stretched out his legs. His foot crossed against the fabric of her skirts. The strangest urge to touch her washed over him. He pushed it away. “You should have your own. I wanted to ensure it would be safe.”
“Safe? Isn’t your other carriage safe as well?”
“Yes, but this has more measurements to ensure security. The driver has never crashed, either, and these horses are particularly well trained,” he explained.
He looked away when Isla peered at him with an intensity that made him feel too warm.
At least he felt the awkward need to explain.
“My sister passed in a carriage accident. I don’t wish the same for you. ”
Isla inhaled sharply. “Oh. Ah. I am very sorry to hear that. And…”
He shook his head, praying to move the subject along. “I don’t wish to speak of it.”
“Very well. Is it a long journey to your estate?” She asked, sounding rather meek. That annoyed him. He couldn’t explain why, exactly. But he liked it when she was confident. Bold. Daring.
“A few hours, so perhaps you should rest while you can,” he said.
That killed any conversation that could have happened. It was more effective than he intended. But perhaps, Ronan supposed, that was for the best.
Neither of them said a word for the rest of their journey out of London. The sun eventually set, and they rode through the night. He didn’t want to stay along the road, so he had his driver ride them through the full moon until they finally arrived home.
“Thank you,” Isla murmured when he helped her inside, servants moving about to unload. She yawned, her eyelashes fluttering, as they moved inside the hall.
“Welcome, Your Graces.” Hobbes offered a deep bow. “What a pleasure to have you here."
Ronan glanced about in relief that the servants had not all been lined out for introductions.
Although he had told his butler not to do it, sometimes the old man decided he knew better.
“Hobbes, this is our new duchess, Lady Isla. Isla, this is Hobbes, my head butler. Our head butler,” he amended when Hobbes raised his eyebrow.
“A pleasure,” Isla said before yawning again. “I’m awfully sorry. I didn’t think I could be so tired after our journey.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Your Grace.” Hobbes bowed again, clearly on his best behavior. “Why don’t I escort you up to your bed chamber? We have a hot bath prepared for you, and a light meal, should you care for one.”
Nodding, she said, “Let us see if I can stay away long enough for it.”
Isla took a step forward as a young maid was brought out to lead her in that direction. But then she paused, looking back at Ronan.
He gave a short nod in return. “Go on. Get your rest. We shall talk tomorrow.”
A shadow seemed to cross her features but it passed so quickly he was certain it was only his own exhaustion.
It wasn’t often he used a carriage to venture forth on these long journeys, and he hoped never to do that again.
Isla was right: one could sleep on the road but it was never a satisfactory rest.
“Very well. Good night, your grace,” she whispered and took her leave.
Watching after her, Hobbes waited until she was gone to tell him, “Well done, my boy. She’s a very fine lady, I say.”
“After only a minute of meeting her?” Ronan asked in amusement while shucking his coat.
The man tapped his nose. “I always know. What I am not understanding, however, is why she doesn’t look happier. The same goes for you as well. I should think your wedding day a joyful one, yes?”
“Satisfactory,” he corrected him. “The plan has worked out as I needed it to. That is all. As long as she is good to Oliver, that is all I ask of her.”
Hobbes blinked. “That is all?”
“Not your business,” Ronan pointed out before taking a candle. “Put the household to bed, would you? Thank you for not bringing everyone out. We’ll take the usual breakfast in the morning, if you please. Good night, Hobbes.”
Behind him, the old man harrumphed. But before he disappeared down the hall, Ronan could hear him mutter, “Do sleep well, your grace.”
Sleep well he did. Ronan was glad to be back in his usual bed.
And back in his regular routine. He could manage his accounts and estates as needed, also attending to his tenants. There were his morning rides and conversations with Hobbes. Now, he was ready to return to the usual life that he had sorted together after his world had fallen apart.
The only change was Isla, which… was going well, if unprecedented.
Everything was a little louder with a duchess under the roof. She had gently established order and won over the staff without complaint. Often he could hear her talking to them, asking questions, or even laughing alongside them.
She too established herself with the tenants, making deliveries of small gifts to them, and befriending the local vicar and his large family. Then she was also there for Oliver.
Just as I planned.
It wasn’t that Ronan avoided them, he told himself, merely that he was busy. So it was rare to come across either his wife or the child. Until one afternoon, perhaps a week or so after the wedding, when he encountered them together kneeling beside a table in the parlor with pastries beside them.
He paused in the shadow of the door to watch them interact.
Noisy, they were, and so very bright it made his eyes hurt. He watched them curiously. Questions filled his mind but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He was simply a fly on the wall. He didn’t belong there.
Something was going on with them as they played with their food. A loud giggle erupted from Oliver’s beaming face as Isla dramatically pouted when he won their game.
Does the game even have rules?
He couldn’t take his eyes off them. Mostly Isla. She frequently smiled or frowned when they were together. But now she owned so many more expressions. Sometimes she scrunched up her nose or crossed her eyes. She snickered and pouted and stuck out her tongue, all to the boy’s amusement.
“You did it!” She clapped softly before nudging over half a macaroon. “Very well, the last one is yours. This one must be lemon, yes?”
“No, orange!” Oliver laughed before stuffing it all in his mouth. It was hardly appropriate manners. Ronan felt the need to correct him on the tip of his tongue. He bit it instead. “Yup, orange!”
“What? How could it taste like orange?” Isla’s eyes widened dramatically.
He giggled more and showed her a crumb. “Orange color!”
“Oh, you are right. What a clever lad you are. The treat was the color orange, so it must have tasted like an orange,” Isla allowed.
“You have good eyes, Oliver. You see so much. Did you see it was the last of our macaroons? I suppose we should tidy up and let the staff know we are finished. Would you like to pull the service bell?”
“Yes! Please!” He still couldn’t sort out that R sound.
Oliver jumped to his feet, his curls bouncing and wearing the widest smile Ronan had ever seen on his face.
The boy was happy with the house and the servants and Anne.
But right then, he looked so utterly delighted.
It made Ronan’s heart pound in a way that he didn’t understand.
The two of them were so happy together it was like he wasn’t needed; maybe he never had been.
I shouldn’t be here.
Looking at the lad with warmth in her eyes, Isla stood as well. “Very good. To the corner we go, Oliver!” And when she glanced toward the doorway, feeling like they might not be alone, she found no one there.
Ronan knew he didn’t belong there and took his leave.