Chapter 5 #2
But then there were her eyes, as brown as the woodland trees on the outer grounds of Rochdale Castle.
They caught the light and became as deep as coffee, dark and alluring in a way that made him want to lean in and find out what hid there.
For he suspected that Isabella had as many concealed elements within herself as he did.
And her hair—it was not quite brown, but not quite blonde, either.
The hue was caught somewhere in between, creating a shade that he couldn’t stop looking at whenever she was near.
When the locks caught the light, the tresses resembled wheat, but when she moved through the shadowy corners of the hallway, it turned darker.
He did not want to admit that his wife was attractive, nor would he even mentally admit he found her intriguing, but he turned whenever he heard her voice in another room or coming down the hallway. He always found somewhere else to be, but that jolt of her presence never failed to make him aware.
Oscar walked down the main hallway now, hearing her voice coming from the dining hall.
“We ought to be eating in here,” Isabella was insisting. “There should be candles lit, and the table set for breakfast.”
“Your Grace, the orders exist as given by—”
“I understand, but I am also the lady of the house, too. I do not wish to spend my life dining alone.”
Although her instructions were insistent, Oscar could hear the gentle way she delivered them to a maid. He leaned in the doorway, unnoticed by either woman.
Tilting his head and folding his arms across his chest, he merely observed.
“What do you think about peonies for a centerpiece?” Isabella thought aloud, glancing at the maid. “If I cannot have light, then they will brighten the place up a bit. Yes, yes, do arrange that. Peonies and snowdrops.”
“They are not in season right now, Your Grace.”
“Hmm. Perhaps lilies, then?”
A flower for death, Oscar noted.
Darkly, he wondered if that was how she viewed her life here: a death sentence, draped in darkness and secrets, barred by walls he put up.
Turning away, he disregarded the idiotic notions. He didn’t need to think about such things. Isabella could stand up for herself. She had agreed to their arrangement; he did not need to pity her for her consent to become his wife.
Instead, he returned to his study and slammed the door behind him. There was a new racehorse he wished to check on a few villages over the following day, and he had yet to confirm his travel arrangements with the stable owner.
Rather than the patient tone of Isabella’s voice, Oscar focused on his work but soon found his thoughts wandering.
A week passed in the same manner. They each ate separately, and Oscar tried not to overhear the clink of silverware from the adjoining room, or the low curses Isabella clearly thought could not be overheard.
The gnawing in his stomach was definitely not guilt for leaving her to eat alone in her room. It seemed that she had not migrated to the dining hall yet.
He did not disagree; there was a reason he had taken to eating in his room. The dining hall was far too large for one person.
Perhaps you could make it so two people can dine in there, he thought idly, but quickly shook the thought away.
He had no interest in dining with a lady who was his wife in name only. They did not need to keep one another company, not when it only brought about more frustration. Oscar felt enough of that even without her being in the same room.
Yet the following day, right as he came back from assessing his racehorse, a storm brewed overhead. Before he was even dismounting Helion, his prized warhorse, the skies had opened up, letting out a sheet of rain.
Handing the reins to a waiting stable hand, Oscar nodded at his staff and jogged inside.
Immediately, he heard Isabella’s voice, pitched low, as if she was soothing something, or someone.
“It’s all right, boy,” she said quietly.
Keeping his steps quiet, Oscar followed her voice to the library. In there, he found Isabella cross-legged by the hearth, her hand rhythmically stroking over Morris’s silken head.
“It is only a little rain,” she said softly.
In response, the hound howled, nuzzling further into her palm.
“I know, I know,” she soothed. “I imagine it is not quite pleasant to be soaked, but I did tell you not to sneak out where I could not find you. Here, let me keep you dry.”
Oscar watched, hidden in the doorframe, as she tucked a blanket around his dog. His heart beat too hard in his chest, and he swallowed down the emotion that sought to overwhelm him. The sight should not have made him feel weak.
She continued stroking Morris tenderly, smiling down at him.
“See? Now, when your master comes back, he will find a happy, dry hound.”
In response, Morris yipped, curling up against her shins. Soon his breathing labored, and yet she didn’t stop her stroking. Under her breath, she began to hum. Morris gave a happy sigh, and his eyes closed in slumber.
Oscar’s foot scuffed the floorboards, and he reared back sharply, right as Isabella looked up.
“Your Grace?” she called out, but he was already walking away hastily, ignoring her call.
He did not need to keep witnessing such a tender moment. He did not need to see how well she treated his beloved dog, nor how Morris was taking so well to her.
He did not need to see it at all.
The morning air was balmy as Isabella walked through the gardens of Rochdale Castle, taking in the lilies, the bluebells, and the blooms of roses nestled in their bushes.
Surrounded by flowers, she was comforted. She and Sibyl had often sat out in Wickleby Hall’s gardens, smelling the fragrant scents, watching butterflies dancing around one another.
Her heart clenched with a deep ache she couldn’t ignore quickly enough, thinking of her younger sister.
I hope she is not enduring too much at the hands of our impatient parents, she wished.
The skirts of her dress brushed along the clean stone path as she wandered deeper, letting herself be comforted by the memories of her sisters.
Alicia would always laugh at them, hanging out of her schoolroom window, complaining about her tutor, whom she insisted was short-minded.
She would say that flowers are for women who wished to sit lazing the day away, surrounded by beauty, because they knew they belonged within the scene.
Alicia always wanted more than to be another pretty decoration, but Isabella herself had been groomed into making that her life’s purpose.
Sitting down on a swinging bench that rocked within a white-painted, wooden hut, she wondered if she indeed fit into this particular beautiful scene.
Was she another flower among them all? Was she the biggest, brightest one?
It was a shallow thought, but her husband had married her to save her, not because she was beautiful.
Isabella had always been told she would be wanted for her beauty. She had not quite imagined this would be the scenario she would find herself in.
The Duke had not asked her to be his bride because he admired her, yet she had become his wife. Even now, he largely ignored her. So, if the Duke did not want her as an ornament, then what did he expect from her?
As she relaxed back onto the bench, she was stopped by the sound of grunts coming from the thick of a grove of trees in the garden just up ahead. Curious, she stood back up and followed the path in that direction, pushing her way through the tree line.
Only, her breath caught as her eyes fell on what she found.
In the center of a clearing of trees, the Duke was braced by his palms, lifted up by his arms, his body a long, toned plank as he heaved himself up and down, using his shoulders and biceps to carry his body into pushing up and down.
He did it with ease. There was no trembling of his limbs, no heaving breath, but he did let out another grunt as he tucked one arm behind his back, pushing up only with the other.
Isabella’s mouth turned dry.
Sweat slicked through his white shirt. For a man she had only ever seen in all-black clothing, she could not stop gazing at him in the paler color that bared so much skin and toned muscle, thanks to the perspiration.
The material clung to him like a second skin, showcasing every divot and ripple that went through his back as he strained to push up.
His upper arm muscles were thick, and she truly realized the full size of her husband.
His thighs tensed, and she quickly averted her gaze from his backside.
She went to leave, to slip away as though she had never even been there, but as she moved, a twig rolled beneath her shoe, snapping.
“Blast,” she hissed to herself.
Immediately, the Duke stopped. Slowly, still braced up on his forearms, he turned to look at her out of the corner of his eye.
“Duchess?”
The tone was enough, and what are you doing here?
“I…”
“What are you doing?”
“N-nothing,” she stammered. “I… I wanted to see the flowers in the garden.”
His arms did not even strain as he held himself up. “Which are not here, so why are you?”
“I was just leaving,” she muttered in the end, her face burning at being caught ogling him. “Enjoy… enjoy your exercise.”
He said nothing more, just gave a grunt of effort as he lowered himself so close to the ground that his chin almost brushed it.
Hurriedly, Isabella left, trying as much as she could not to think about the ripples of muscle, the way he moved like it was nothing to his body, the sweat that displayed every ridge of his form.
As soon as she rushed back into the house, she gulped down the first glass of water she had brought for her, trying to calm the burning in her cheeks.
Once composed, she did not dare rush back to the garden, but her eyes strayed to the corridors, looking out for the Duke’s return.