Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Ibeg your pardon?”
Isabella craned her neck as though she’d been insulted. Well, it felt like an insult, and she could hardly believe her ears or even the situation.
“Come now, Your Grace. No need for such sharpness. I merely care for you. You know, you seemed rather… disturbed earlier during the performance.”
“I am quite capable of tending to myself,” she replied, taking another step backward and away from him. “I do not require your observations, nor your concern.”
“Concern?” His chuckle was low, mocking. “No, no. I am far beyond concern where you are involved, Your Grace.”
Isabella frowned. “And what precisely is that supposed to mean?”
Lord Falchester lifted a brow, leaning in as though sharing a secret. “It means, Your Grace, that some of us are not blind. Some of us understand what marrying a cold, hard man must feel like. And perhaps, just perhaps, you regret your decision.”
Heat flared at Isabella’s cheeks, not from embarrassment but from anger. She didn’t even know what possessed her to entertain this man for as long as she had.
“How dare you presume to speak of my marriage, or my husband, in such a manner?”
“Oh, I dare quite easily,” he murmured, stepping again into her space. “You see, I have known you longer than he has. And I know the kind of woman you were before he claimed you. Now look at you, defending him and that ridiculous club as though it makes you important.”
Isabella’s jaw clenched. Had the matter not been a serious one, she would’ve laughed. This man claimed her knew her, yet he failed to know that the first thing about her was that she would defend all that was dear to her.
“Lord Falchester, your words reek of bitterness. For reasons I cannot fathom, you seem intent on provoking me, but I fail to see what enmity you harbor. I have never wronged you.”
“Oh no?” His eyes flashed with something dark. “A woman like you should have been grateful to me when I expressed interest. Instead, you tossed me aside, married a duke, and now fancy yourself superior.”
“I have never fancied myself above anyone,” she snapped. “Least of all you.”
“Well, that much is evident,” he drawled. “Given the spectacle your little club just made of itself.”
“Enough,” Isabella said, lifting her chin. “I have had enough of your attempts to insult me.” Her voice steadied. “Clearly, Lord Falchester, you are shallow-minded, and you choose to remain that way. Now, if you will excuse me—”
She stepped forward, but he moved swiftly, blocking her path again.
“Out of my way.”
He smiled. “No.”
Isabella’s breath hitched.
She sidestepped, but he matched her movement. Then, in a sudden motion, he reached out and seized her wrist, wrapping it in a strong grip.
The shock of his grip jolted up her arm, and Isabella pulled sharply, but he held fast, stronger this time.
“Release me,” she hissed.
“No,” he whispered. “Not until I have said what I—”
She yelled, furious, “Let me go!”
Falchester chuckled darkly, wrenching her closer. Isabella stumbled, nearly colliding with him, but she held herself.
“Unhand me!” she spat.
His breath fanned her ear as he leaned closer still. “You married a man with a reputation darker than night. Do you truly believe you are safe with—”
Lord Falchester never finished because instantly, an iron hand latched onto the back of his coat, swift and violent, and ripped him away from her. Isabella gasped, her eyes wide in horror.
Lord Falchester stumbled backward with a strangled grunt, nearly falling onto the stone path. Isabella staggered, breathing hard, then she looked up and saw who had intervened.
Cassian. Her husband.
He stood between them, shoulders broad, body rigid with fury, his grey eyes lit with a storm so fierce, the entire garden felt colder for it.
A crowd had gathered at the garden entrance behind him, ladies and gentlemen drawn by the sudden commotion, their whispers rippling like wind through reeds.
“Is that the Duke of Everthorne?”
“What on earth?”
“Is that Lord Falchester with the Duchess of Everthorne?”
“Why are they alone together?”
“Oh dear heavens, the scandal.”
The words sparked like flame catching dry grass, and Isabella’s heart dropped to her stomach as she took in the crowd, but most especially her husband. He had seen them, and he’d heard those words.
Isabella’s stomach roiled, sinking, plummeting, because she knew exactly how this looked and how it would be twisted.
She had been standing too close to Lord Falchester when Cassian had arrived.
Lord Falchester’s hand had been on her wrist, and no one would believe he’d grabbed it violently or the horrible words he said to her and the even more horrible things he insinuated.
Lord Falchester straightened, his expression flickering between fear and smug triumph. “Your Grace,” he said, smoothing his coat, “surely you do not imagine that I…”
Cassian did not look at him. Not once. Not yet.
Isabella’s heart thumped as she watched him. She couldn’t tell his thoughts, and her breath came unevenly, her throat tightening painfully at her inability to tell.
Even though she had done nothing wrong, even though she had gone to help Emily—
She hadn’t the liberty to finish her thoughts when, suddenly, Cassian stalked forward toward Lord Falchester, anger blazing in his eyes.
Cassian did not merely see Falchester’s fingers around Isabella’s wrist; he felt it. As though those same filthy hands had reached into the locked recess of his memory and dragged forth ghosts he had spent years burying.
The garden blurred. The lantern glow, the winter roses, the gathered silhouettes, everything vanished beneath a red haze that reminded him too closely of another night. A cold barn, rope biting into his arms, the stench of sweat and whisky as his captors loomed. The helplessness he felt.
Lord Falchester’s smirk became their smirks, and his grip became their grip.
Something in him snapped.
“How. Dare. You!”
The words rumbled from deep inside him, not spoken so much as torn from him, and the entire crowd behind him froze at the low, feral promise threaded through each syllable. Even Isabella flinched.
Falchester straightened, indignant, smoothing his sleeve as though he had been affronted. “Your Grace, this is hardly a…”
He never finished because Cassian’s fist collided with his jaw in a brutal, cracking arc that echoed through the rose garden like a gunshot. A collective gasp rose from the onlookers; someone shrieked, another stumbled backward, knocking into a hedge.
Falchester staggered, clutching his jaw.
“You, you struck me!”
“You put your hands on her?” Cassian roared, advancing on him. “On my wife?”
Another punch landed, this one squarely against Lord Falchester’s cheekbone, sending him sprawling to the ground with a strangled cry. The guests recoiled, skirts and coats rustling.
“Cassian!” Isabella stepped forward, breathless. “Stop—please, just stop—”
But Lord Falchester, pitiful as he appeared on the ground, seized upon the audience. He raised his voice, forcing a tremor into it, eyes wet and wide with practiced outrage.
“Look! Look at what he does, he descends upon me like a brute, and she… she was out here with me, unchaperoned. What sort of Duchess behaves so—”
That was the final straw.
Cassian lunged at him.
“Do not,” he snarled, grabbing the front of Falchester’s coat, “dare to utter her name.”
His fist came down again and again. Lord Falchester screamed as his nose cracked beneath the blow, blood spurting across the snow-dusted stones, but it didn’t stop.
“Cassian!”
Isabella grabbed his arm, but he shook her off cruelly because he did not see her. He saw only the shadows of the past, rough laughter, a boot on his ribs, a voice whispering, “No one is coming for you, boy.”
Cassian’s chest heaved like that of a beast pulled too long by the reins. He struck again, knuckles splitting.
“Cassian, stop!” Isabella cried, voice cracking with terror. “It is not worth it!”
But her words did not reach him. He was trapped inside a memory, inside darkness.
“Cassian!” she tried again, stumbling closer. “I am not hurt. Do you hear me? I am not hurt. Please, look at me!”
He did not lift his head. Not until she dropped to her knees beside him, right into the blood-smeared snow, and her trembling hand caught her dress.
“Cassian,” she whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. “Please… please stop.”
Her voice, so broken, finally cut through the fog. He froze.
Slowly but painfully, he raised himself from Lord Falchester and looked at her.
Her face was pale, stricken. Her eyes, usually warm, bright, and stubborn, were now wide and red with fear and disbelief. And beneath that… disappointment.
The blow hit harder than any fist could have.
Cassian’s hand loosened, but Lord Falchester had already gone unconscious beneath him. Servants rushed forward, dragging him away, pressing cloth to his bleeding face. The crowd burst into frantic whispers, clustering like vultures.
“Did you see him?”
“Like a madman—”
“A caveman, you mean. Why would a duke behave like that?”
“Ruination, both of them.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, all of you hush at once!” Cassian heard his grandmother’s voice, and he looked towards the crowd to see her pushing through, her expression torn between fury and mortification.
“If gossip must be spread, at least have the decency to be accurate. Lord Falchester laid hands on the Duchess; His Grace merely reminded him that such behavior is not tolerated by civilized men,” she snapped at the crowd of gossipers.
“Civilized?” someone whispered. “Did you not see what just transpired?”
“I said be silent,” she barked.
But the whispers only softened—never stopped.
Cassian did not bother to listen to any of them. He could not. He was still staring at Isabella, unable to tear his gaze away from the expression on her face. She was frightened of him.
His chest constricted painfully.
This, exactly this, was precisely why he had sworn to himself he would never marry, never tie another person to the broken shadow he was. He could not bear the thought of her looking at him as though he were a monster.
His jaw clenched so tightly he tasted blood, his eyes never leaving hers as he lifted a hand toward her, hesitated, then let it fall, fingers curling into a fist.
Lady Kendrick moved forward towards them and touched Isabella’s shoulder. “My dear girl, come with me,” she murmured softly. “We shall have someone fetch you warm water for your hands.”
But his wife did not move; she only stared back at Cassian, trembling.
His voice, when it came, was low, hoarse. “I… had no intention of frightening you.”
She swallowed, unable to speak. He looked away first, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He inhaled sharply, once, twice, trying to steady the ragged edge of his breath. Then, without another word, he turned.
“Cassian…” Isabella called weakly.
He stilled, but he did not turn.
“Please…”
He shook his head once. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say. He didn’t want to hear her tell him she couldn’t stay married to him in the presence of the ton, so he walked away.
The crowd parted for him in eerie silence, as though afraid he might lash out again. He neither glanced at them nor at the blood on his hands nor at Falchester being half-carried, half-dragged toward the house.
He especially did not look back at Isabella. He could not.
Every whisper, every horrified stare reminded him of why he had built walls so high, no one could breach them. Why he had isolated himself for years. Why he had avoided attachments, avoided tenderness, avoided hope. Because this was his truth.
This was the darkness he had warned her about.
And the look on her face. The fear, the disappointment. It gutted him.
And he feared there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. What was done was done.