Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The following day, Oscar was once again thinking of inviting Isabella to dine with him that night.
He poked his head into the drawing room.
And he found Isabella, whose face was pale.
“Is there something the matter?” he asked her.
She nodded, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she entered the room further. “My… my parents are here.”
Oscar’s body went rigid right as the butler appeared behind Isabella. “Lord and Lady Wickleby have arrived, Your Grace. Am I to see them in here?”
Oscar looked at Isabella. He did not like the thought of having guests in his home, especially not the Wicklebys, but at his wife’s discreet nod, he gave in. The last time he had seen her parents was at their wedding, and none of them had been big on congratulations.
He still recalled their horrid words from the balcony the night of Edmund’s ball. They were the very last people Oscar wanted to invite into his home, but he sighed, beckoning Isabella closer.
“See them in,” he ordered. “And send for tea. We are going to need it.”
“Lots of it,” Isabella muttered.
Together, the two of them took a seat on the settee that faced the door, so Oscar was able to see the exact moment Lord and Lady Wickleby swanned into the drawing room, their heads held high as if they owned the place.
He gave them a disdainful look, cocking his head questioningly. “Lord and Lady Wickleby,” he greeted. “Welcome to Rochdale Castle.”
“Ah, Your Grace,” Lady Wickleby purred, and Oscar fought back his bristling at the faux tone. “What a much warmer greeting than the first time we met you.”
He smiled, with no warmth or feeling behind it. “Likewise, Lady Wickleby.”
Her own fake smile faltered. In the silence, where she seemed not to know what to do with herself, Isabella was quick to jump in.
“Mama, Papa, do take a seat. We have sent for tea.”
“As a duchess should when she receives guests,” Lady Wickleby sniffed, sweeping her skirts around her as she took a seat next to her husband.
“Well, had I known you were due to arrive, I would have had it already prepared and served.” Oscar watched as she looked toward the door. “Why did you not bring my sisters? I know Sibyl would have loved—”
“We do not plan to stay long,” Lord Wickleby interrupted. Oscar swore he drew blood from how hard he bit his tongue. “It is merely a passing visit while we depart for your mother’s brother’s residence.”
“Ah.” A tinge of disappointment colored Isabella’s tone.
What strangeness it must be, to want the love a parent should give, yet also dread to see them, Oscar thought.
Isabella was granted a moment to compose herself as the tea was brought in, a maid setting out the cups in front of each of them. Oscar didn’t care to pour himself a cup, nor touch the scones that were provided, but Lady Wickleby wasted no time at all.
Neither did Isabella.
Even Lord Wickleby merely watched the two of them with a hard stare, not reaching for a cup, either.
“Besides,” Lady Wickleby continued, ignoring Isabella’s disappointment, “your sisters have duties, as do you. We cannot drag them along everywhere. You understand, surely? You were granted time to meet suitors while Hermia lived in Branmere Hall, so we have extended the same grace to your sisters. Do not be needy, Isabella.”
“Needy?” she echoed. “Needy? I only wish to see my sisters.”
“And you will.” Her mother flicked her hand at her before stirring sugar into her tea. A flash of color came from the door, and Oscar looked to where Morris trotted in, coming to sit at his feet. He butted up against Oscar’s boot, his muzzle pulling back to growl at the Wicklebys.
Lady Wickleby turned up her nose. “Oh, what a bad temper he has,” she sneered. “He must have learned it somewhere.”
“Mama!” Isabella chided.
“Oh, it is only a hound; it cannot understand me. Besides, we came to check on your progress, darling. I simply cannot help it if you are now living with two animals.”
Oscar went to stand up and demand they leave, but Lord Wickleby looked at him, his head tilted.
“Your Grace, my wife means no offense,” he said. “She is… sensitive to dogs and has been from a young age. I will kindly request that you keep your hound away from her.”
“Indeed,” Lady Wickleby sighed. “It was a terrible day, an awful day.”
“You have never mentioned such an ailment.” Isabella’s dry tone was enough to make Oscar feel a flutter of victory. She was strong, collected, and he knew the Wicklebys would not push her down, not in his home. “Morris shall stay.”
“Morris,” her mother muttered under her breath. “Give a beast a name, but it is still just that.”
Isabella tensed at Oscar’s side, and he wondered how much more she would make herself endure for the sake of appearances, but the Wicklebys hid their true, cruel words beneath comparisons, never outright insulting him.
“Lady Wickleby,” Oscar spoke up. “If you, as you say, have come to check on my wife’s progress, then I will report that she is doing excellently.
The castle’s staff has taken well to her, and she is most friendly to all.
She has taken to her role with every expectation I imagine you have had and has greatly exceeded all of them.
I could not have asked for a better duchess. ”
Isabella’s head whipped around to him, her surprise not covered up as quickly as it likely needed to be. Oscar didn’t look at her, only watched her out of his periphery. Instead, he dared Lady Wickleby to counter his words, to deny her daughter’s behavior.
He’d heard about her warning at their wedding, to behave, to be a refined wife and Duchess, and Oscar thought Isabella was. It was all she let herself be. He could see the shell she lived within, forged by duty, as he had been.
Except he imagined that, even when she was alone, she still did not let herself emerge from that shell.
“Good.” Lady Wickleby hummed as she sipped her tea, saying nothing further. Oscar bit back his frustration, disliking that he had to entertain the couple. “Ah, speaking of better choices, darling Isabella, you will never guess who I saw the other day!”
“Oh, heavens,” Isabella whispered, her face paling further.
Oscar waited with bated breath.
“It was Lord Stanton, my dear,” Lady Wickleby beamed.
“It was a massive surprise, but there he was, riding astride a most impressive stallion right through Hyde Park. He was ever so handsome and sweet. Oh, he could not apologize enough to us when he saw us, but we assured him all was well. If anything, he is most disappointed to hear of your new marriage, but he wishes you well.”
The older lady scowled at Oscar for a moment, but he caught it.
“You know, I cannot help but think that it is a pity you didn’t try harder to beg his forgiveness, to win him back, darling,” she added.
“Forgiveness?” Oscar’s mood darkened further, and he knew he had used up his generous silence.
“Lady Wickleby, it is Lord Stanton who ought to have fallen to his knees and begged Her Grace for forgiveness. How can you sit there, view her as my Duchess, as the highest rank she could have married into, and speak of her begging for a man?”
“I—”
He didn’t give either Lady or Lord Wickleby a chance to speak.
“Isabella is my wife,” he growled with more possessiveness than he realized he had. “She is mine, and nobody else matters. Do not come into our home and speak of such things. In fact, you may take your leave altogether.”
“I do not believe you came to check on me at all,” Isabella agreed, her eyes narrowing.
She set down her teacup with enough force to rattle the teapot.
“You have simply come to stir up trouble and try to throw me off with a mention of Lord Stanton. I do not care for him, not after what he did. It seems you have forgiven him easily, considering the shame you crowed about him bestowing upon us.”
“Isabella,” Lord Wickleby berated. “Do not speak to your mother that way.”
“But I shall,” she snapped. “And I agree with my husband. You may both take your leave and give my regards to Uncle Bernard.”
“But—”
“Good day, Mother, Father.”
Pointedly, Isabella turned her face away. After a second, she gestured for a maid to come and clean up the prepared tea.
“We are finished here,” she told the maid, smiling politely.
The silence after the Wicklebys’ departure was a blessing. The air still trembled faintly from their raised voices, but Oscar stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back, as if their presence could be banished through stillness alone.
“You are all dismissed,” he said quietly.
The servants scattered like birds freed from a cage. As the last maid passed, Oscar plucked a sugar cube from the tea tray. He rolled it between his fingers before placing it on his tongue, eyes half-closing as it dissolved.
When he opened them again, Isabella was watching him from the settee, one brow arched. “You eat sugar like that?”
He turned slightly toward her, the smallest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth. “On occasion. It is one of life’s simpler pleasures.”
She laughed softly. “You, of all men, finding sweetness enjoyable? That is unexpected.”
Oscar tilted his head, as though studying her from across an invisible line. “You think me incapable of sweetness?”
“I think you prefer to hide it.”
His gaze lingered on her—longer than was polite. “Perhaps I do.”
Her eyes dropped to the sugar bowl still sitting between them. “Does it truly taste so good?”
His tone deepened, almost a rumble. “Would you like to find out?”
Her breath caught, but she reached for the bowl. “I’ll be the judge,” she murmured.
Oscar watched her fingers as she lifted a cube, small and white, holding it up as if to weigh his challenge. “It melts quickly,” he said.
“So do tempers,” she replied, eyes flicking up to his.
“Mine?” he asked, voice low. “Or yours?”
“Perhaps both.”
The sugar touched her lips. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move, and then she bit delicately, the faintest smile curving her mouth. “Mm. I can see the appeal.”