Chapter 5
Chapter Five
“Icannot go in there?” Isabella asked.
On her tour of the endless dark hallways, Isabella found more open doors than she expected.
She did not know why she thought more rooms would be locked, but she couldn’t imagine the Duke perusing the parlor or even the drawing room. His study was indicated to her by Mrs. Tisdale, but it was locked.
“Not without permission,” Mrs. Tisdale told her. “His Grace is very serious about the business he conducts.”
“I see.” Isabella frowned. “Are there any other rooms that are…” She paused right as she saw another door that was closed. “Where does this lead?”
They were in the northern wing, and her curiosity only grew. A padlock hung on the door, only piquing her interest further.
“This is the door to the northern turret,” Mrs. Tisdale explained. “Only His Grace is allowed through there.”
“How come?”
“Your Grace,” the housekeeper said in tight warning. “I… it is not for me to say.”
“But you must know,” Isabella pushed.
“I do, but it is His Grace’s story to tell. For now, please respect the locked door.”
“Will he allow me through there himself?”
“I do not think so.”
“What if I ask nicely?”
Isabella meant it as a tease, but Mrs. Tisdale only gave a dry, unsure laugh before leading her onward.
Her thoughts didn’t leave that locked door, not even as Mrs. Tisdale showed her the music room, which was rather impressive, or the library.
The sunroom was pointed out to her, as was the morning room, where Mrs. Tisdale recommended conducting embroidery after breakfast on any day, if Isabella so wished.
Isabella nodded her assent through each room, unable to stop wondering why the northern turret was closed off. Still, the tour continued. She saw the dining room, which appeared to be used infrequently, if the lack of light was anything to go by.
Mrs. Tisdale glanced at her as if understanding her questions, but offered no explanation and instead led her further toward the grand gardens.
Once the tour was finished, Isabella was taken back to her rooms.
“Is there a particular reason why we have come back here?” Isabella said, frowning. “Should I not be in the dining hall?”
“His Grace has requested a different dining arrangement for tonight,” Mrs. Tisdale told her with a wince.
She curtsied and was gone, leaving Isabella wondering what on earth was happening in Rochdale Castle. With its dark corridors and mysterious locked passageways, mingled with the unexpected open doors, she didn’t know what to make of it.
Within the hour, she was disrupted from penning a letter to Hermia by a knock on her door. A maid brought her dinner, laden on a silver tray. The maid curtsied and left, leaving Isabella staring down at a fine dinner.
A very lonely, isolated dinner, her first of many, she assumed. She had hoped to spend at least her first night in the castle dining with her new husband, but he had stayed true to his word. This marriage would not indulge. And although she had agreed, a lonely part of her flared in anger.
After she was done, she slammed her door shut and stormed to the connecting door.
She knocked once.
Twice.
“Enter,” the Duke’s deep voice came from within.
Isabella opened the door to find her husband at his writing desk. A tray of food was already finished, left on the windowsill above his desk. He barely turned at the creak of the door and did not look at her when she entered.
“Your Grace,” she said sharply, unsure of how to greet him.
He still didn’t look up from whatever he was writing.
Frustrated, Isabella went on. “Why are we not dining together? You insisted on dancing together as a betrothed couple, so why not dine together as a married one?”
Without sparing her even a glance, he answered, “There is no reason for us to endure one another’s company. Was the long carriage ride not enough for you, Lady Isabella?”
“Will you not even look at me?”
With a heavy sigh, the Duke finally looked up at her and arched a brow.
“I wish to dine together,” she said.
“I have eaten already.”
Isabella fought back another wave of irritation. “Are you always like this?”
“Do not presume to understand me, Duchess.”
“A duchess ought to dine with her duke,” she told him, her words clipped. “I did not marry you just to dine alone.”
“Indeed. You married me to save our reputations, and while that is happening, we do not have to endure one another more than necessary. We can scarcely be in the same room without bickering, so why should we invite more of that?”
Isabella glowered at him. “You have brought me here, and yet you will insist on making me lonely.”
“If you lack company, you can speak with your lady’s maid.”
“Oh,” she scoffed. “Is that so?”
“Or perhaps you might invite your friend for tea, as you ladies of the ton enjoy doing.” He turned to her fully now, still not standing from his chair.
“Not because of my ladylike enjoyments. Besides, why would I want to invite my friend to a place that is draped in darkness?” she snapped back. “Are you truly so afraid of the light in your own home? Even in here, there are shadows everywhere.”
“And I do not need to compromise on such an arrangement,” he told her coolly.
“I am the Duchess of Rochdale by your offering,” she said, moving close enough that he finally stood up as if to stop her advancing. “A duchess ought to be able to open a door, or a curtain.”
“Light a candle if you are afraid of the dark.”
There was something insufferably mocking about his tone, and she did not care for it. Her jaw clenched, and she shook her head.
“I am not afraid,” she said quietly, looking up at him. His eyes swept over her, as if taking her in, inch by inch. She had the sensation of being weighed and measured, but not in the way the ton made her feel. “Not of the dark, and certainly not of you.”
His mouth tugged at one side, and she truly took him in. His beard covered more scars that disappeared into it. Curled around his nape was dark hair to match, several strands hanging in his eyes. He looked tired, but there was so much pride in his expression that it was almost covered up.
“Yes?” he prompted, as if noting her gaze on him. “You have a penchant for staring, Duchess.”
“And you have one for a lack of manners.”
“So you have pointed out.”
She made a rough, annoyed noise in her throat and backed away. The closeness to him could not be abided, and she drew back, shaking her head in irritation.
“I—” she did not know how to finish that sentence. “Why is the northern turret door padlocked?”
At once, his eyes turned flat, the bright green dimming. A muscle in his cheek twitched.
“There are rules in this house that you should follow,” he told her softly. “Keeping away from the northern turret is the very first rule.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“It does tell you all you need to know,” he dismissed. “The why is none of your concern.”
“As your wife, I believe it is.” She exhaled deeply. “Why are you the only one with access to it? Even Mrs. Tisdale would not say anything.”
“Duchess, you are my wife in name only,” he reminded her, and she ground her teeth. “We do not need access to one another’s privacy.”
“Then you ought not to have brought me to a place full of secrets,” she snapped.
In truth, all the rules and distance reminded her of her parents’ dismissals and disapproval.
All I do is perform. Isabella, move here, go there, do this, and do not do that.
For a minute, she regretted not taking Hermia’s offer of connections to relieve her of this arrangement.
“Your Grace,” she finally said, when he offered no other answer, “if you harbor a dangerous secret, then I ought to know. Is the northern turret locked because of what they call you throughout the ton?”
“Oh, dear wife,” he laughed darkly, “I earned that name for far more dangerous reasons.”
“And I suppose I will not know those either?”
“No.” He cocked his head at her, causing his hair to fall into his eyes. “You have a rather fanciful imagination for all these assumptions of dark secrets. If you wish to paint me as your villain, you are free to do so. However, you are still my wife, and you will obey.”
“And that is an order?”
“Yes.”
“I have decided that I do not wish to take orders from my husband.”
Finally, the duke stood up. She fought the urge to back away further because, as he stalked closer to her, his gaze was unwavering. A faint scratching came from the door, but she ignored it.
Her husband, however, did not. He strode toward her, and she held her breath, right up until he leaned past her to open his main bedroom door.
A scratch of claws on the floor and the brush of fur against her ankle had her looking down.
Morris trotted in, affectionately rubbing against her leg, and then loping toward the Duke.
“We have nothing left to discuss,” the Duke finally told her, nodding at the door he held open.
Isabella did not break his stare for another moment. Then, she turned on her heel and left through the adjoining door instead.
Oscar Guildeford, the Duke of Rochdale, was largely unsettled by the new presence on his estate. He didn’t like what Isabella was doing in his castle. Despite the drawn drapes, it seemed she brought a certain sort of light to the rooms.
With their whirlwind betrothal and engagement, Oscar was left untethered and off-kilter, disliking the whole arrangement. He felt wrong, as if he was betraying himself by allowing Isabella to be his wife, to be in his life altogether.
Day by day, he worked on putting up his walls, locking more and more doors to keep her at bay.
He watched her—her, and her upholding ways. She spoke so eloquently, yet he could hear the bite on her tongue that ached to come out. Perhaps that was the only part of her he liked: the way he could rile her up and receive as well as he gave.