Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Oscar could not claw through the fog in his own mind. He knew he needed to, knew he was causing himself more damage, but heavens, he could not. He was lost, trapped in his own mental prison, and not even Isabella’s pleas could break him free.
Let me lead you out of your shadows.
The words registered, but he wanted to helplessly beg, to show her that this sort of shadow could not be broken free from.
His stomach rolled with the sheer pressure of his fury; he couldn’t shake it off.
All he saw was this pathetic weasel of a man who spewed hateful, vile words about both Isabella and Oscar, and he had to pay.
An apology was not enough. Oscar needed to make him feel the pain he had caused.
But then a cry went out—a cry he knew, for it was his wife, and it was of his name.
“Oscar Guildeforde.” Oscar gasped for breath, clawing free for a moment, long enough to see how she had reared away at his warning growl.
Heavens, he had growled at her in warning. As if to say Stop, for I will hurt you too.
He had not meant it in that way, but the moment he turned to look at her, he saw the fear in her eyes. The fear he had tried to shield her from with weeks of silence and retreating into himself, forcing her away from him.
He had been weak. He’d let her get close, and now his actions had caused her pain. She had not been worried about this ball, and he had ruined that. She stared at him, pale and wide-eyed.
As soon as he saw that, Oscar snapped back into himself. He saw the frightened looks on those around them in the ballroom; he saw the hands over mouths, the fans snapping, and there was a lady being supported by a gentleman as if she had fainted.
Fear. Fear. That was all Oscar caused. Fear and pain and terror, just like in his parents’ faces when he returned from war. Just like Isabella’s face the day he had first stepped into view on the balcony at Edmund’s ball.
You are nothing but a beast. It is all you will ever be.
His father’s voice came back to him, and Oscar immediately released Lord Henry.
He did not deserve to be released, but Isabella did not deserve to fear the man who had sworn his devotion to her.
Ice covered the fog in his brain, and he stood back, snarl fading, body going rigid.
He took two steps back, out of the man’s space, and he noticed again how Isabella stepped back too.
“Oscar,” she whispered, her voice shaking. When she reached for him, her hand shook, and it made Oscar nauseous to see what he had caused. “Come. Come with me. Let us leave. Let me get you somewhere safe and—”
He didn’t let her finish. He was already walking away, jerking his head for her to follow. There was nothing in his head but deep self-loathing. His father was right; the ton was right. How did Isabella still not see it?
Breaking out into the fresh night air did little to help, and he threw himself into their carriage.
He waited only long enough for Isabella to step inside the carriage before he slammed a fist into the ceiling to order the carriage to pull away.
Not to their townhouse, no. He wanted to be out of this heaven-forsaken city.
“Where are we going?” Isabella asked. “Our townhouse is the other way.”
When Oscar only stared ahead, not at her, she spoke again. “We are going to the castle. You are retreating into your darkness, are you not?”
Her voice was hard, and he took it as judgment. Judgment he deserved.
He turned away to look emotionlessly out of the window. Yes, he was retreating into his darkness, but it was not a physical one to conceal his hideous scars. It was in his head to conceal all he had done and all he was and all he would ever be.
When they finally arrived at Rochdale Castle, Oscar stormed ahead, but Isabella caught him by the elbow. He shook her off easily and walked upstairs to his chamber. He slammed the door shut behind him, but she slipped into his room through their connecting door.
“Do not order me to leave,” she warned, but Oscar was braced against his writing desk, staring down at the dark wood.
It reminded him of watching the cabinet in the drawing room the night his parents had poisoned him.
He remembered the wood scars spinning, wondering why he suddenly felt wrong.
He stared down at the desk now, trying to ground himself, but he could not.
Heavens, he was so terrible that his own parents had tried to rid themselves of him permanently.
“Oscar,” she said, her voice commanding. “Oscar, speak to me, for goodness’ sake!”
He only stared down at the wood, heaving.
Her hands hit his shoulders, and that jolted something in him. “Speak to me. I am your wife! I am not one of the ton you can ignore or threaten. I am your Duchess, Oscar. Speak. To. Me.”
“Fine,” he roared, spinning, and Isabella didn’t even move.
She stood firmly before him, too close, too close for comfort.
Get away, he wanted to order. Get away from the spiraling, vicious mess that I am.
“You want me to speak, wife, then I will.
Do you see now? This is who I am. Heavens, Isabella, I can pleasure you with the same hands that I can and have used to kill a man.
I can sit with you and speak openly about my past, but it all comes back to this: who I am, and that is not your gentle husband.
It is not the man you polish for the ton, or for your sisters to protect them from the truth of your misery living with me.
“I am not the Duke of Branmere, who can laugh with a child and a wife. I am not a healed man. I am scarred, and I am a beast, and nobody will ever believe otherwise because I cannot give them reason to. And you—heavens, you, Isabella—you deserve a gentleman. A man who would never dare touch you with the same hands that have hurt. A man with scarless hands. Not this brute who makes rooms fall silent, or makes ladies gasp in horror, or makes his wife have to scream his name just to bring him back down from a violent rage. Goodness, Isabella, I wanted to kill that lord for what he said, and I could have. What sort of husband is that for you?”
“The sort that I have and the sort that I am still here, fighting for,” she snapped at him. “Why will you not listen to me? I am here, I am trying—”
“And when you get tired of trying?” he shouted. “When you realize it does not work. Not for men like me, and I will not chain you to me any longer.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you are free from this prison with a beast.” His words came out flat. “I married you to protect you, but what if the thing you need protecting from is me?”
“I do not need that,” she whispered, her eyes glistening with tears. “I have never needed to be protected from you. You are my husband, Oscar, and I swore to walk through your darkness with you, no matter how ugly you think it is. We can work through this!”
“My darkness will swallow you whole.” Oscar’s voice was so cold, so distant, and he hated how he sounded to her. She didn’t deserve any of this, but he was so lost even to himself. “You are light. You are goodness—”
“I am tired of hearing that!” Isabella shouted, and he saw how he snapped at her, too.
Her hands balled into fists, pushing against his chest. “I am tired of hearing Isabella is so good, and she is light, and she is perfect. I have darkness, too, and it might not be violent, but heavens, Oscar, I feel anger. I feel rage that clouds every rational thought. I have felt it deeply with my mother, and I felt it deeply with Lord Henry.”
“And that is where we are too different,” Oscar intoned. “For you know when to stand down.”
“I would not have been with my mother tonight had you not been there. Shadows exist in us all, husband, but we are not made to walk this world alone. I am here. You are my hero. Have I not told you—”
“Do not,” Oscar managed to say. “Do not say that word to describe me. I am not and have never, ever been a hero. I am not yours, certainly.”
“Only I get to decide that,” she hissed.
There was so much anguish in her eyes, and he wanted to take it all away.
He wanted to dance with her again. He wanted to kiss her, to sweep her into his arms, and he wanted to shower her with goodness and light and love, but he was incapable. He was so, so lost.
“Isabella—”
“No,” she spat. “No, Oscar. I have seen you behave violently before. I have seen you make men bleed. Lord Peregrine and Lord Stanton. I have seen you make them scatter away in fear. I have seen the darkness you live in, and I am not afraid of it, or of you.”
“Isabella, I saw your face—”
“I cannot promise that I will not be stunned by what I see.” Her voice lashed out at him, angry and hurt. “I cannot conceal you from that, but I can promise that I am not afraid of you.”
“And if you ought to be?”
She exhaled exasperatedly, staring back at him with the most stubborn, unflinching glare.
“Do you know what I think, Oscar? I think it is you who are afraid. You are afraid of yourself, afraid of not being good enough, of damaging me, or of making me run. You scare yourself, and you are pushing me away because of it. But I do not need to be apart from you. I do not need your acts of martyrdom, not when it brings me no happiness.”
Oscar stared at her, his breaths ragged. He could see tears falling down her cheeks despite the hard set to her jaw, and he despised himself for it. He despised himself for causing her so much pain, and he turned his head away.
“Do not push me away, Oscar,” she whispered. “Not after all I have been through. Not after all we have been through.”
“I want you to leave my chambers.” His command came as though it was winter itself, cold and icy, unfeeling. “I want you to leave, Isabella. I will not keep arguing about this.”
“So that is it, then? We are back to silence and dinners in our rooms? We are back to being strangers.”
He dragged his stare back to her and damned himself with one last question: “Was that not when it was best?”
“You can be violent, and you can have your darkness, but you do not have to be cruel,” Isabella whispered, her voice cracking so terribly.
Oscar’s heart gave a horrible pound that he ignored, and he turned his back on her, but Isabella’s storming footsteps already sounded through his chambers.
She left through the main door and shut it behind her so hard that the items on his desk rattled.
He closed his eyes, slammed a fist into his desk, and retreated to the northern turret.
Once there, he stormed to the gallery. He thought about tearing down every Godforsaken portrait of every person who had made him become this monster. Instead, he collapsed to his knees and let out a roar that spoke of every inch of his pain and violence.
Oscar, the Duke of Rochdale, wished to be better even as he knew he could not be.