Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
It had been two weeks since Isabella had left Rochdale Castle.
Oscar left the countryside and ventured to his townhouse upon hearing that Hermia had taken Isabella to her own townhouse to meet with her other sisters and Lady Mary.
Part of Oscar wanted to race through the city’s streets and hopefully catch a glimpse of his wife.
But another part of Oscar’s nature was still too cowardly.
He opted to hide or simply approach the Branmere townhouse when the timing suited him better.
He sat in the drawing room of his townhouse, staring out of the window at the carriages that clattered by.
How far away was she?
He felt different for being closer in proximity, even if he did not know where the Branmere townhouse was.
He was still suffocating beneath that heavy emptiness, but brandy helped, and although he had run out of contracts to sign and letters to write, he tried to keep busy.
If he did not, he thought too hard, and he could not let himself do that.
The very taste of Isabella’s name on his tongue was something he chased away, for it hurt too much. Her voice lingered in his mind, the way it had cracked during their argument. The sight of her tears that she hadn’t bothered wiping away haunted his dreams.
More than once, he had woken up in a cold sweat from another nightmare, reaching for the soft body that he knew would not be there.
At his feet, Morris had flopped to the floor, whining, as he had kept doing ever since Isabella had left. He missed her, and, heaven strike him down, Oscar missed her too.
“I am sorry, my boy,” he said quietly, reaching down to pet the hound’s ears. “I have wronged you in how I have treated your mistress.”
Morris just sighed heavily as if to agree. Oscar closed his eyes, falling deeper into his spiral. Soon, the door to the drawing room opened, and Oscar was ready to growl at the staff to leave him be, only to find Edmund there.
“You again,” Oscar muttered. “I thought I asked you to leave me alone.”
“You did, but I do not care. It has been two weeks, Oscar. When are you going to snap yourself out of this pitiful void?”
Oscar only laughed bitterly and raised the tumbler of brandy to his lips. Yet it was taken from his fingertips, and Edmund stood over him, glaring down, unimpressed.
“Are you ready to listen to me?” his friend demanded.
“No.” Oscar shrugged, uncaring. “What good will listening do, anyway? I have lost her, and perhaps I deserve that, and she deserves the freedom.”
“What good is this freedom you speak of if she is miserable?”
“I doubt that,” Oscar muttered.
“Well, do not, for I have heard it directly from Lady Mary that she is. And if you will not listen to my advice, then at least listen to this. Fight through whatever fog encompasses your rational brain and listen.” Edmund’s eyes narrowed at him.
“Lord Stanton has been pestering Isabella for days now. He finds reasons to approach her, and there have been several attempts to woo her. Despite being warned by both Lady Hermia and Lady Mary, he persists.”
Oscar jolted. His mind cast back to that evening on the balcony, where he had found Lord Stanton first trying to get closer to Isabella again, how uncomfortable she had looked, how she had desperately told Oscar that she had not encouraged the approach.
He had believed and trusted her, and that—heavens, that was what made something in him shock back into life. He stood to his feet, growling at the very thought of that cowardly man thinking he could approach Isabella, let alone continually doing so.
He said nothing to Edmund. No, he chased that surge of protection, and he did finally claw his way out of the fog, for he could not bear to know his wife was being harassed. He could not leave her without protection, and he despised himself for doing so.
“Oscar!” Edmund shouted as Oscar stormed down the hallway, yanking a coat off a nearby hook and shoving it on. “Oscar, where on Earth—”
Oscar had already closed the door behind him, uncaring about anything but finding out why Lord Stanton’s interest had been renewed in Isabella.
The next morning, fury thundered through Oscar as he rode hard for Stanton Manor, the earl’s townhouse right in the heart of London. He had barely been shown in by the butler before the Earl himself came out at Oscar’s roar of his name.
“Your Grace!” Lord Stanton shouted, hurrying down the stairs. “What is the meaning of—”
Oscar snarled and threw the thick wad of banknotes at the man. He grasped the front of his cravat, not to harm, but to bring him closer.
“I warned you once about leaving my wife alone, and I did not think I needed to repeat myself. But here you are, a lingering infection in Isabella’s life. I understood your sudden, renewed interest in her was not good, but I did not know just how deep it runs.”
“I… I will have the ton know about your approach in my home!” Lord Stanton spluttered, but Oscar only laughed darkly.
“When you do, ensure that they know the Duke of Rochdale only did so to protect his wife, for I have discovered your debts, Lord Stanton. I have discovered them and see that you hoped to get closer to Isabella again to get money. So, here. Have the money and leave her alone for good. There is plenty there, once you scrabble on your knees to collect the notes, to get a new life away from England for good. Your debts are settled.”
Lord Stanton had already begun snatching the notes, but he peered up, his mouth parting. “You… you have paid my debts?”
“I would rather see you rot and drown in your financial struggles than help, but you have encroached your presence on my wife one too many times. I have done this for her. I have done this to protect her from filth like you.”
Grasping half the notes, Lord Stanton stood back on his feet, huffing. He puffed out his chest. “Isabella all but chased me down each time. She could not wait to see me again, I imagine. Her face, so pretty and blushing whenever she—”
Oscar slammed his fist into the man’s jaw and heard a satisfying crack. Lord Stanton cried out, already crumpling to his knees, covering his face.
“One punch the last time we spoke was not enough, it seems,” Oscar growled. “Take that as your final warning. Leave my wife alone and leave England for good. I do not want to ever see your face again.”
He turned on his heel and strode out of Stanton Manor, fury making him tremble.
How dare that man go near his wife? Oscar had previously worried that he was trying to reconcile with her romantically, but to find out it had been far more nefarious made him see red.
To think Lord Stanton would have used Isabella so callously…
He could not stand it.
But more so, he could not stand that he had left her defenseless, and his own stubbornness had almost gotten in the way of finding out about any of this.
Isabella could have been roped into Stanton’s schemes without ever knowing.
Oscar had almost put her in danger by being parted from him, and he knew for certain in that moment where his anger came from.
The thought of leaving his wife unprotected.
I have never needed to be protected from you.
Oscar could see it now. He could see that he had been so selfishly spiraling into his own insecurities that he had not realized she was right. He had fought everybody, including himself, to keep her safe, but he had failed her. Now, his only fighting instinct was to fight for her forgiveness.
He still did not entirely feel back in reality as he mounted his horse again and rode hard to the Branmere townhouse and toward his wife.
When he arrived, he did not even bother to stop his horse fully before he was already dropping to the street.
His boots hit the ground, and up ahead, the door to the townhouse opened.
A stern-faced butler watched Oscar approach and shook his head. “Your Grace, I am afraid I cannot let you inside. Your presence here is forbidden and—”
Oscar cared little. He brushed past the man, easily side-stepping him.
The butler turned, protesting with shouts.
Yet Oscar’s victory of walking into the townhouse was short-lived when he stopped short at the sight of the Duke and Duchess of Branmere standing in the hallway.
Behind them, Phoebe peered around Hermia’s dress, a scowl on her small face.
“Before you say anything,” Oscar began, but Hermia stood forward, shaking her head.
“No,” she said. “No, I will not allow you to speak first. Or at all, in fact. I want you to leave. Leave my home and leave my sister to heal.”
Oscar raised his scarred hands as if in surrender, his face twisting in anguish.
“Hermia, I understand you are only trying to protect her, and you have every right to, but that is what I wish to do as well. I should have protected her from everything, including myself, and I thought I was, but I was only making her hurt more. I must speak with her.”
“Consider that she does not want to speak with you.” This time, it was Charles who spoke up. Oscar wanted to appeal to him, one haunted Duke to another, but he felt helpless. He hated feeling weak under their authority, but he felt stripped bare and exposed.
“Yes, she really does not want to speak with you,” Phoebe interjected. “And I agree. I do not like you. You made my aunt cry. If you do it again, I will tamper with your carriage wheels and—”
She was hastily silenced by Charles, who placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. The sight of the family once again nearly brought Oscar to his knees.
“Please,” he said, his voice straining. “I will stay until Isabella is ready to see me. Whether that is now—”
“It is not,” Hermia interrupted.
“Or in a day, or in a week. I do not care. I will remain out here until she speaks to me.”
“You are backing my sister into a corner,” Hermia accused. “For you know she will feel guilty if she knows you are being kept waiting.”