Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Heavens, I am tired of the city,” Mary sighed as they settled into the library.
Newbrook House, the townhouse where Mary lived, was nestled in the heart of London’s most prestigious neighborhoods. Isabella was eager to visit her friend after her time shut away in Rochdale Castle, so she swiftly traveled to see her friend again.
They never really sat in the drawing room or parlor, for those were where her father and mother respectively frequented, and Mary always preferred having her own room when she entertained.
“You adore the city, Mary,” Isabella snorted. “Do not fool yourself. You love the parties too much to part from the city for too long.”
“That is indeed true, but recently I have found myself thinking of you all cozy up there at Rochdale Castle, out in the countryside, and I…” She let out a soft laugh. “Well, I am jealous. I can understand why my mama is pushing so hard for me to find my match before the Season ends.”
“As did mine,” Isabella sighed.
“And it worked.”
“My marriage was not her orchestration,” Isabella reminded her friend. “And if I am truly, deeply honest, perhaps her strategy may have been better, for my own agreement to marry His Grace has not entirely turned out to be what I hoped for myself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I—” Isabella paused, wondering how to word it. “I knew what I was entering into when I said yes to his proposal. But… I did not know enough about the man I said yes to before agreeing.”
“And what sort of man is he?”
Isabella paused to think. “A brute,” she said simply, laughing helplessly. “He…”
Heavens, I cannot even describe him properly.
“I do not wish to be insensitive, but there is a reason why he is called the Beast of Rochdale,” Mary said delicately, wincing.
Isabella was already shaking her head. “I do not like that label. I was subjected to enough labels to grow a particular dislike of those sorts of things. He is not a beast, but he is…”
Again, she paused, thinking of how he had shouted at Thomas. The poor boy had not emerged into the hallways ever since that afternoon several days before.
“Mary, you are jealous of my presence at Rochdale Castle, but it has not been a fairytale so far. I think I understood Hermia a lot better when she visited us during her early weeks of marriage. She protected us from a marriage that was not what others thought.”
“Well, you do not have to protect me,” Mary told her. “Nor him. I am here to listen to you, Isabella. You know that. Nothing you say leaves this particular room.”
She smiled indulgently and sipped at the wine she had served. In truth, it was quite early for wine, but Isabella thought it was quite necessary.
She took a sip of her own.
“I know,” she finally said. “But I do not want you to have a poor opinion of my husband.”
“I think,” Mary said slowly, carefully, “that your referring to him as your husband speaks volumes more than you realize. There is possession in the way you say it, and, dare I say, a slight fondness.”
“Oh, nonsense.” Isabella waved her glass in dismissal. “I have no fondness for him.”
“Have you ever dined with him?”
“No.” She exhaled.
“This upsets you,” Mary observed, smirking.
“Stop being so perceptive,” Isabella laughed. “Fine, it is true that I wish we could dine just once together, but he is very adamant against it.”
“So where have you dined?”
“In my chambers,” Isabella muttered. “As does he.”
“Heavens.”
“And he shouted at a little boy who was only trying to help me redecorate,” she confessed.
“My husband is ill-mannered, and the way he glowers—heavens, I cannot endure it. And his infernal love of the shadows that slither throughout his castle! How can he love them so much? I have my share of hiding at times—from Hermia when she tried to coax me to my lessons when I was younger, from my mother who pushed me at suitors—but this is quite another thing. What sort of man needs to hide in his home?”
She realized how sad her voice sounded as she asked that last question. She frowned into her wineglass, wondering just how strong it was, but no, the thoughts were her own.
When you look at the way I have been, light is sometimes not a friendly thing.
What had the ton done to him that he would bury himself in darkness even in his own home?
“Isabella,” Mary enquired softly, “when will you simply let yourself admit that you have empathy for him?”
“Maybe I see part of myself in him,” Isabella posed. “Maybe that is all it is. There have been too many times that I have been groomed for performance when all I have wanted to do is slip between my bedsheets instead and be alone. Yet, he is a duke, so he must oblige the ton’s demands.”
“Isabella.”
“What?”
“You like him.”
“I do not.”
“Let yourself admit it.”
“No.”
“Isabella.” Mary laughed into her wineglass. “We have been friends for too long for me not to know you, not to read you like a book.”
Isabella only scowled at her friend, but deep down, she wondered how true her friend’s words were. She sat there in her deep-blue day gown across from Mary in her own rose-colored dress. She felt foolish thinking such things. She was not Sibyl, with thoughts of falling in love.
Isabella was a decoration, a diamond to be bestowed upon the crown of the man who chose her, nothing more, nothing less. Alicia could be confidently outspoken, and Sibyl could be a dreamer, and Hermia the steadfast logistic of them all, but Isabella…
Her mother had made it clear that she was to be the pretty one, the one to raise their family out of Hermia’s former shame and back into the good graces of the ton.
Of course, before her own shame had befallen them.
“Isabella?” Mary probed.
“I am fine,” she said, almost too quickly. “I just—my dreams are nothing. They are insignificant.”
“No dreams are insignificant, dear friend. You are entitled to your own, as your sisters are.”
Isabella forced a scoff, tossing her hair. “Dreams are for fools, Mary. I am married now, a duchess, and I must be happy.”
“Yes, but are you? All I see is my friend denying herself a lot of things.”
“I deny myself nothing,” she lied.
She thought of the intimacy she had craved for the longest time, the intimacy that her mother had not told her about, but Hermia certainly had alluded to.
The intimacy she had tucked away into the darkest corners of her mind, and, if she was truly honest, the romance she had quietly craved in the moments when she wasn’t performing.
“Just think of my words, friend,” Mary told her gently, reaching out to squeeze her hand gently. “Promise me.”
“I will,” Isabella said, and she hoped she could keep to that, even if it went against everything that she had followed for all of her life. “Thank you, Mary. But we truly must discuss finding you a husband. What of Lord Davington?”
Her friend’s responding blush was enough said, and Mary even giggled. “Things are… progressing well.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Indeed.” She took a sip of her wine, giving Isabella a conspiratorial look. “My mother does not think he is high enough in rank, but sometimes one must put aside rank when it comes to real feelings.”
“Indeed,” Isabella agreed, even though she had married a duke of high rank and without feelings. “Take what you wish, Mary, for you deserve every ounce of love you want.”
“As do you.”
“I am speaking of you,” she countered.
“We may speak of the two of us. Do not be afraid to open your heart, Isabella.”
Isabella took another sip of her wine and considered her words. She could open her heart, but how did she know it would be received well?
“Dare I ask where your wife is tonight?” Edmund asked, handing Oscar a brandy that was quite strong, by the smell of it.
He took a generous gulp, anyway. “She is visiting a friend. The daughter of the Earl of Newbrook, to be exact.”
“Ah.” Edmund laughed. “So, you may know her business, but she cannot know yours? Does she know where you are tonight, or do you keep even friendly visits from her, too?”
“My wife knows of my comings and goings,” Oscar muttered defensively, rolling his eyes.
Across from him, Edmund took a seat in his drawing room.
It was strange to feel how quiet Harcross Manor was, the townhouse his friend loved to frequent because it was right in the center of the entertainment and excitement of the ton.
When Edmund threw so many rowdy parties, it was strange to experience later the stillness of the townhouse without such soirees and distractions abounding.
“I am certain that is the only thing your wife does know about you,” Edmund muttered, eyeing Oscar knowingly.
He lounged back into a leather armchair, artfully crossing one ankle over the other. Dressed in a complementary emerald tailcoat and white shirt, he looked every inch the composed Marquess. Any lady would be lucky to have him, and plenty had thrown themselves at him.
“She knows plenty,” Oscar told him dismissively.
“Does she now?” Edmund did not sound convinced at all, smirking at him.
“Edmund,” Oscar warned. “Do not start. I am not at my most patient.”
Edmund only laughed at him, casually running a hand through his hair. “When are you ever?”
Oscar gave him an acknowledging wave of his glass, for he hated how his friend was correct. However, sitting here in Harcross Manor’s drawing room, his head felt clearer than it had in a short while. So, he finally let his tongue have free rein.
“I…” Oscar began, and Edmund, not always used to him opening up, sat up straighter.
“Yes?”
When Oscar remained quiet, Edmund pushed. “It is about the Duchess.”
“Yes,” he begrudgingly agreed. “Yes, it is. Of course, it is. I feel like everything is these days.”
“She is your new wife,” Edmund acknowledged graciously. “That is to be expected. Speak to me; you know you always can.”