Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Will His Grace come down for supper?” Isabella asked, her voice tight with an effort toward politeness she did not feel. She stood at the foot of the dining table, every muscle in her body strung with tension, while Michael hovered before her, looking more uncomfortable than she had ever seen him.
Michael bowed faintly. “No, Your Grace. His Grace asked for supper to be sent up to his study for him.” There was pity in his tone.
Pity.
It burned beneath Isabella’s skin like a slow, humiliating flame. Her husband had turned her into someone who could be pitied.
Lady Kendrick, seated at the table, released a soft sigh that carried that same dreadful sympathy Isabella had begun to despise.
“I wish I had an excuse for his behavior,” the elderly woman murmured, shaking her head in a manner that suggested she believed Isabella might crumble at any moment.
Isabella’s smile tightened. “I am certain he’d be better suited to give those excuses, Grandma,” she replied coolly. “But since we are already at the table… let us eat.”
Lady Kendrick hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding. “Ye … yes, perhaps we should.”
The servants began placing dishes before them.
Roasted pheasant with winter herbs. Braised carrots and pearl onions scented with cloves.
A warm loaf of crusty bread still steaming faintly from the oven and a delicate soup of leek.
Under normal circumstances, Isabella might have appreciated the meal, but her appetite had fled days ago. Ever since Cassian began haunting his study like a restless spirit, refusing her, refusing everyone, choosing solitude like a curse he welcomed.
She barely lifted her spoon. Lady Kendrick watched her closely; Isabella felt her peering eyes on her. And so, but only because she refused to give the impression of weakness, Isabella forced herself to take small, mechanical bites.
She chewed without tasting anything. She couldn’t even see the meal she was eating.
Cassian was injured. She knew that much. The housekeeper had told her, whispering anxiously, that blood had dripped from the Duke’s hand as he refused all help and sent servants scurrying from the kitchen like frightened mice.
And now, he locked himself in his study, claiming he needed to ‘focus on work’ as though she could not see through that brittle, transparent lie.
He was avoiding her. Cowardly so, and she had had enough.
The moment Lady Kendrick finished her soup, Isabella placed her spoon down with a soft, decisive click.
“If you’ll excuse me, Grandmama,” she said, rising, “I believe I have something to do.”
Lady Kendrick paused mid-reach for her napkin. “My dear… do not overwhelm yourself.”
“Of course, I dare not,” Isabella said tightly.
She made her curtsy and left the dining room before she could be further pitied.
Isabella marched through the corridor, gathering her skirts in one hand so the hem would not slow her determined strides. Every breath fueled her anger, her frustration, her disbelief at the childish obstinacy of the man she had married.
When she reached her husband’s study, she did not merely knock; she pounded on the door.
“Cassian.” Her voice was sharp, unwavering. “I believe we must talk. If we do not communicate, we lose the progress we have achieved thus far.”
Silence.
Not even footsteps or even a breath. Only the hollow stillness of a man refusing to exist.
Isabella drew in a slow breath through her nose, her hands trembling slightly.
Fine. She thought.
If he wanted to behave like an obstinate wall of stone, she would not break herself banging against him. Not tonight.
But her anger simmered dangerously as she turned away.
Two days passed. Two long, suffocating days in which nothing changed.
Every meal was shared between Isabella and Lady Kendrick alone. No Cassian. Not even his shadow or the echo of a footstep in the corridor.
Michael avoided her eyes when she asked for updates. The servants whispered every time she entered a room. A cold dread settled inside her ribs, cold enough to make her question everything.
Should she not have walked away from him that night? Should she not have said what she said?
Should she have stayed and fought harder?
Or would that have only pushed him further?
She could not know. And the not knowing was worse than anything else.
Lady Kendrick sat across from her in the parlor as they attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to plan the next meeting of the Laurels. A tea tray lay between them, its steam curling up into the quiet winter air.
“My dear,” Lady Kendrick said gently, lowering her teacup, “it seems you have quite a lot on your mind. We can plan for the Laurel meeting at a later time. Instead, we can send the women books to read until we can gather again.”
Isabella opened her mouth to refuse. She wanted, desperately, to bury herself in work, anything that was not thinking of Cassian.
But when she tried to focus on the parchment before her, the words blurred. Her hand shook each time she lifted her pen. Her heart raced with too many tangled thoughts.
She swallowed. “It seems… that might be best.”
Lady Kendrick gave her a sympathetic look, one that made Isabella bristle, though she kept her face composed. The older woman reached for her hand.
“My dear,” she began softly, “your husband is not an easy man. He has suffered pain unimaginable to us, and he has survived by isolation. It must be why he believes he does not need anyone. Why he believes needing someone is dangerous.”
Isabella’s throat tightened.
Lady Kendrick squeezed her fingers. “I hope you understand what I am saying.”
“I do,” Isabella whispered.
She did understand, but she also wanted to scream.
She excused herself instead, rising quickly from the parlor. Lady Kendrick watched her with a soft, concerned gaze, but she said nothing.
Isabella climbed the stairs back to her chambers, her heart heavy and hot beneath her ribs as she laid in bed and the evening bled into night and night into morning.
Now three days without a word. Three days when their imperfect marriage that had felt so alive, so real, now felt like a ghost flickering out of existence.
Isabella paused at the top of the staircase, gripping the banister as a wave of emotion washed through her.
How could he shut her out like this? How could he disappear into silence after everything they had shared—the intimacy, the tenderness, the nights when he had held her as though she were the anchor to his unraveling soul? How could he do this to her now?
She did not cry because she refused to cry.
But when she entered her room and shut the door quietly behind her, Isabella pressed her hand to her chest and whispered, “Cassian… what are you doing to us?”
The empty room offered no reply.
Cassian sat slumped in his study that evening, the room thick with the stagnant heaviness of stale smoke and spilled liquor.
He did not know how many bottles he had opened, nor how many glasses he had drained.
He only knew the burn had long ceased to register.
He drank now without tasting it, without wanting it, only needing it to dull the sharp edges of a mind that refused to be quiet.
He had not stepped inside his workshop since his injury.
His hand was still tender, his knuckles raw from the split skin, and the deeper wound he had carved into his palm throbbed with each pulse of his heart.
He had attempted to work, to lose himself in the art of carving, but the ache had worsened, and so he had abandoned the effort entirely.
Now all he had was paperwork and brandy. Mostly brandy.
His study was dim, lit only by the single lamp on his desk. Papers lay untouched. A half-finished letter had become stained by a careless slosh of brandy. Cassian pressed a hand to his temple, willing himself to get some work done, but then came a knock on the heavy double doors.
A sharp, unwelcome rap that pierced the haze surrounding him.
He did not lift his head.
“Michael,” he muttered, “unless the house is ablaze, you had better have a compelling reason for disturbing me.”
Michael hesitated in the doorway as he entered, wringing his hands. “Your Grace… you have a visitor.”
Cassian’s head snapped up, fury flaring instantly. “I thought I made myself extremely clear that I would receive no visitors.”
Michael opened his mouth to speak, but he was too slow.
A familiar voice spoke from behind him. “Well, if that is the welcome one receives, then things must be far more serious than I assumed.”
Tristan stepped into the study with the casual arrogance of a man who had never been denied a room in this mansion. His eyes swept over Cassian, a long, assessing stare that took in the half-buttoned shirt, the disheveled hair, and the slack grip on the glass of brandy.
“You look like death reheated,” Tristan observed dryly.
“You are not needed here,” Cassian said sharply. “You may return home.”
Tristan rolled his eyes in exaggerated fashion. “Of course. Because the moment you start drinking yourself into oblivion and isolating yourself like a wounded wolf, the sensible response is for your friend to politely leave you to it.”
Cassian glared. “I am perfectly capable of—”
“Ruining yourself? Yes, I am aware,” Tristan interrupted, already shrugging out of his coat.
He folded it neatly and placed it on the nearest cushion, as though settling in for the long haul.
“Lady Kendrick sent word. Said you were… ‘in a state.’ I thought she was being dramatic. But Christ, Cassian, even for you, this is abysmal.”
Cassian lifted his glass and swallowed what remained. “You are wasting your breath.”
“Am I?” Tristan arched a brow. “Tell me, then. What is the matter? Because I know with absolute certainty you are not like this simply because you pummeled Lord Falchester into an unrecognizable heap.”
Cassian said nothing. Instead, he reached for the bottle, poured another glass, and drank.