Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
The carriage wheels rolled steadily along the quiet London streets, carrying Isabella and Eleanor toward home, but that did little to soothe Isabella’s turbulent thoughts.
Ellie sat curled against her side, her small hands tucked beneath Isabella’s cloak for warmth. Though her ankle remained tender, she seemed far calmer now, occasionally glancing up with weary eyes.
Isabella, however, felt anything but calm.
Her mind raced with images she could not dispel of Cassian lifting Ellie with such care, his voice softening into something warm and utterly unrecognizable from the cold, severe Duke she believed she knew.
The expression he wore when he cleaned the scratch on Ellie’s leg had unsettled her more deeply than she wished to admit.
You know nothing of what I care about.
His words from the ball echoed in her mind like a distant reminder. Had she been mistaken about him? He certainly seemed to have hidden qualities that she had not fathomed.
He had been… gentle and protective and wholly unlike anything she had imagined possible from a man whose reputation thrived on rumors of ruthlessness.
The stolen duke.
She recalled the name she had heard whispered in ballrooms, but she still could not fathom what it meant.
He had touched Ellie as though she were precious, as though she were his own kin.
The thought set Isabella’s heart stumbling in its rhythm, confusion tightening beneath her ribs.
“What happened, Ellie?” Isabella finally asked, breaking the silence. “How did you end up in the greenhouse?” She needed something to take her mind off the duke, anything at all that would distract her.
“I saw a cat.” Ellie shifted, glancing nervously at her before answering.
“A cat?” Isabella echoed.
“A little grey one,” Ellie clarified. “It was walking near the back garden. I followed it because I thought it might let me pet it. Then it went inside the old greenhouse.”
Isabella exhaled shakily. “Oh, Ellie…”
Ellie’s gaze lowered guiltily.
“It looked abandoned. And there was a window… the glass was broken a little. I saw the cat through it. I tried to reach inside, and… and then…” her voice wavered.
Isabella wrapped her arms tightly around her. “My sweet girl… You must never run off alone like that, especially not into places that look unsafe. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Ellie whispered. “I’m sorry, Bella.”
Isabella pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I know you are, but you frightened me terribly.”
Ellie nodded and leaned into her sister, and Isabella stroked her curls, fighting the swell of emotion rising in her chest.
And as the carriage continued its way home, her thoughts returned, unwanted, to the Duke—the way his fingers brushed hers when he passed the cloth to her and the heat that flared between them at that slight touch.
Had he felt it too? He certainly had not reacted if he had.
It was a mistake.
His words cut through her chest again like a hot knife through butter, causing a dull ache to accumulate in her chest.
And then the memory of the kiss surged forward—the one they had both agreed to forget, the one he claimed was nothing but a lapse in judgment.
That one, single kiss had caused her to question everything she had ever thought she had known about intimacy.
Did it always feel like that when a man kissed a woman?
Or was there something special between them?
She shook her head vigorously and looked out the window. Thoughts and questions like that could quickly evolve into dangerous monsters if one did not temper them as soon as they arose.
Yet he had felt solid, purposeful, entirely real against her. His mouth had felt warm, so much so that even now she felt heat rush upward through her as she recalled how breathless she had been afterward.
She wanted to forget, but she could not, and she feared she never would. How did one forget a moment that would more than likely shape the expectations of the rest of her life?
Later that evening, after the Laurels had dispersed and the household quieted, Cassian retreated into the solitude of his workshop. The room smelled faintly of cedar shavings and varnish, the scents that usually grounded him, but tonight, they seemed to mock him.
He picked up a fresh block of wood, set his tools before him, and genuinely tried to lose himself in the familiar rhythm of carving, but no matter how he angled the knife, no matter how he shaped the wood, everything he crafted seemed pointless.
He tossed aside the block of wood with a frustrated exhale and stared at his fingers, the same fingers that recalled the brush of hers in the kitchen.
It was brief, accidental even, but she’d released a soft gasp when his knuckles had grazed her skin.
Her cheeks had flushed again, that rosy hue that made his resolve snap like a poorly tied knot.
Worst of all, he had wanted to kiss her right then and there.
The only thing that had held him back was the fact that her little sister had been watching.
. God help him, he had desperately wanted to because he’d remembered the way her lips had felt beneath his, maddeningly sweet.
The taste of her, the feel of her fingers clutching his lapel, the way she melted into him even as she pushed him away.
His jaw tightened, desire burning low in his chest.
He had told her it was a mistake, a moment of weakness, yet he had not stopped thinking about it since.
Was it really a mistake?
He recalled the hurt look in her eyes, mingled with confusion, when he had said that to her. Had she not thought of it as a mistake? If she had not, then how did she feel about him?
He stood abruptly, his chest tight, and hurled his carving tool onto the table with a clatter and one thought in his mind.
He needed a distraction.
Anything to keep her out of his mind.
Tristan’s favorite pub sat only a short carriage ride away, a place where company required no emotional effort whatsoever. It would do.
He grabbed his coat and left the estate, slamming the door harder than necessary behind him.
The pub was warm, loud, and hazy with pipe smoke. Cassian spotted Tristan at once, lounging in a corner booth with a drink in his hand, his dark hair tousled, his grin far too amused by the surrounding chaos.
“You look dreadful,” Tristan observed as Cassian dropped into the seat opposite him.
“Good,” Cassian said flatly.
Tristan raised a brow.
“I didn’t think I’d see you here.” He said nonchalantly.
“Yet here I am.” Cassian began to question his decision as Tristan chuckled.
“Then you should be willing to indulge me. How come you’re here? I don’t believe I’ve witnessed such a scene ever in all my years; you walked into a pub alone.”
“I simply needed a drink,” Cassian grumbled and waved to the barman, who nodded.
Tristan seemed to consider his words for a moment and chuckled.
“Only a drink? Or perhaps you want something else?” He tilted his head to the side with a suggestive smirk.
Cassian let out a frustrated sigh, but it was his mistake.
He should never have chosen the pub Tristan frequented to gain himself a semblance of privacy, but he didn’t think Tristan would appear out of the blue.
Although in his defense, Cassian hadn’t been thinking when he left his house, as the situation didn’t give much room for thinking.
“I want nothing but for you to quit questioning me.” He sat back in his chair, throwing one arm over the back as he stretched out his legs beneath the table.
Before Tristan could reply, two women approached, one blonde, one dark-haired, both wearing flirtatious smiles and dresses cut slightly lower than respectable society permitted.
“Well, well,” the blonde cooed, leaning forward on the table until her breasts almost spilled from their cloth prison, “are you gentlemen in need of some company tonight?” Her voice was a little huskier than the average lady of the ton, a voice that hinted at the use of cigars, a practice not uncommon in women of leisure who frequented pubs.
Cassian opened his mouth, but Tristan beat him to it.
“Always,” Tristan said with a hungry grin.
The dark-haired woman trailed a finger along Cassian’s sleeve and up his arm. “And you, My Lord? You look rather tense. We could help with that.”
Cassian forced a polite smile. He had come here precisely for this reason. For the distraction he knew she would offer, for escape, for something that did not carry Isabella’s scent in the edges of his memory. But the moment the woman’s hand touched his, every nerve in his body recoiled.
He did not feel desire or interest. He simply felt nothing.
Nothing except the sharp, unwelcome image of Isabella’s flushed cheeks in the kitchen earlier. Her wide eyes, her trembling breath, and her lips. Always her lips. No woman he had ever seen had lips as kissable as Isabella’s.
The woman leaned closer, fingers brushing his collar, and Cassian snapped.
“I must apologize,” he said abruptly, rising from his seat. “I find that I am no longer in the mood.”
The woman stepped back sharply, her expression hurt and slightly embarrassed as she glanced at the faces now staring at them.
“Everthorne—” Tristan began uncertainly.
“Goodnight,” Cassian said sharply with a nod.
He did not wait for a reply. He turned quickly and strode out of the pub, ignoring the startled glances and Tristan’s loud voice following after him.
“Everthorne! What the devil—?”
He pushed through the cold night air, temper hotter than when he’d found the shirtless performers in his ballroom. Tristan hurried out of the pub in his wake.
“Everthorne!” he called. “Stop a moment!”
Cassian did not stop.
Tristan reached the carriage just as Cassian climbed inside. “Why are you running off and abandoning women?” He placed a hand on the carriage door, stopping Cassian from slamming it shut.
“I am suddenly not in the mood. That is all.” Cassian’s expression was carved from stone
Tristan folded his arms, eyes narrowing.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is a certain lady you cannot escape in your mind.”
Cassian stilled but said nothing.
Instead, he yanked the door from his friend’s grip and tapped the carriage wall sharply. “Home.”
The horses lurched forward, leaving Tristan behind in the cold, arms raised in exasperation.
And Cassian leaned back, jaw clenched, refusing to admit, even to himself, how right Tristan was.
The following morning, Cassian sat in his study, the remnants of restless sleep still clinging to him though he hid it well beneath the crisp press of his attire.
Papers lay spread across his desk—financial ledgers, correspondence requiring his signature, household reports—but he found himself unable to focus on any of them for long.
It was then that his butler stepped in with a small, neatly wrapped parcel resting in his gloved hands.
“This was delivered for you, Your Grace,” Michael announced.
Cassian glanced up, expecting some unnecessary request from a member of the ton. But the parcel was modest, plainly wrapped, tied with a thin ribbon, not at all the sort of thing one of his peers would send.
He frowned and accepted it.
“From whom?” He kept his eyes on the neatly tied string.
“There is a note inside, Your Grace. I slipped it between the folds of paper just in case it slipped away and got lost.”
Cassian’s brows drew together. He pulled the twine loose and unwrapped the paper. Inside lay a velvet-lined case holding a unique set of wood-carving chisels. His breath caught, surprise flaring through him, then he reached for the folded note that had fallen to the side.
Your Grace,
Thank you again for your kindness toward my sister. She insists I include her thanks as well, and she begs me to tell you she is sorry for troubling your greenhouse. You were very gentle with her, and this is a small token of my gratitude.
Thank you once more.
Lady Isabella Hunton
Cassian froze. The handwriting was neat and elegantly slanted, exactly as he would have imagined her writing. It was just as graceful as she was.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the slanted, feminine curling of the letters, his chest tightening with a warmth he refused to acknowledge. It felt dangerously close to something he had no right feeling.
Something he had every intention of avoiding.
He snapped the velvet case shut.
“Shall I bring writing materials so that you may respond to the sender?” the butler asked politely.
“There is no need,” Cassian stiffened.
“Your Grace?” Michael lifted a brow in question.
“I said there is no need,” he repeated, harder this time.
Michael bowed and stepped back into silence as Cassian shoved the chisels into his desk drawer as though they had burned him. He closed the drawer sharply and placed the note atop another stack of papers where he would not have to look at it.
He tried, genuinely, to return to his work, but every time he lifted his pen to sign his name, the note’s words echoed in his mind.
That she had taken the time to send him something so thoughtful, that she had thanked him, that she had noticed—God help him—his gentleness.
It unsettled him far more than he cared to admit.