Chapter 5
Five
What am I doing? This is insane! It is not too late, Isolde. Say something! Anything!
She might have wanted to, but as the carriage ride stretched and Blackthorne Hall slowly appeared on the horizon, Isolde knew that this was one lie that she could no longer talk her way out of. She was in this now, and all she could do was hold on for dear life and see where it went.
“Is that…” The duke shuffled to the window of the carriage and his mouth fell open when he saw his home for the first time.
“Blackthorne Hall,” Mr. Pemberton said. “Your home, Your Grace.”
It had been a remarkably intense journey.
Mostly, that was on account of Mr. Pemberton, who sat across from Isolde and the duke for the entire ride, watching Isolde closely with a stare that brimmed with warning.
He knew that she was lying… he knew that she was taking advantage of the duke…
he just did not know how to say it without upsetting his master.
The duke held onto Isolde’s hand the entire way. It sat in his lap, and he clutched it as if for warmth and protection. In this world that he did not know or recognize, she was like an anchor that kept him stable. He needed her, just as she now needed him.
“Oh my…” the duke gasped as they came closer. “All of this for me?”
“It is one of your many homes, Your Grace,” Mr. Pemberton explained. “I pray that in time you come to remember them all.”
Isolde had seen Blackthorne Hall only once before.
The last time had been an evening, it had stood tall and ominous, purposefully intimidating as if that was its purpose.
Its walls were made of white brick and marble, its shape was blocky with wings that stretched far on both sides of the main building, and it was surrounded by a large iron gate, from which ran a long winding driveway, skirted on both sides with green swathes of land and bountiful gardens.
In the light of day, with the sun shining so brightly, Isolde could not ignore how beautiful it was.
So rich. So vast. So… expansive. It was the home of a man who had everything.
Power and prestige were as much a part of him as his own skin; a sign to all that anyone who entered was at the mercy of his whims and must do as he commanded.
As the carriage wound down the driveway, Isolde dared to look upon the sweeping manor, and while she recognized its beauty, she could not escape the sense that it felt more like a prison.
“The staff will be thrilled to see you have returned,” Mr. Pemberton explained as the carriage came to a steady stop. “However, they will not know of your condition, Your Grace, so forgive them for their ignorance.”
The duke wasn’t paying attention.
His gaze was fixed on the two dozen people who lined up outside the manor to greet him. Men and women both, they were dressed in matching black outfits that marked them as household servants. When the carriage doors opened, and the duke climbed out, they dropped their heads and bowed deeply.
“None of that.” The duke waved at them to stop as he approached. “There is no need for such things.” He looked back at Isolde as she carefully climbed from the carriage. “Can you believe this?”
“I can,” she said simply.
This was not Isolde’s world, and even the staff seemed to know it. She was dressed in a simple dress of cheap cotton, its color gray and white, and something a servant would wear. When the duke hurried to take her hand, Isolde could not ignore the strange looks that the staff gave her.
“I am happy to report that His Grace is in good health,” Mr. Pemberton announced to the staff.
“However, he has had a rather tumultuous evening, so please refrain from excessive acts of condolence or histrionics.” He stopped before the staff and looked them over.
“Go on then…” He clapped his hands. “I am sure you all have work to be doing.”
The staff bowed again. The duke waved at them as they left, a look of disbelief still painted across his face.
Isolde eyed the duke, noting his enthusiasm, just as she was somewhat touched by how congenially he behaved toward his servants. When she had met him before that one time, he had been sharp with them, even mean and condescending. She had assumed that was his true nature.
But was it possible that the man she had met that night was not the true duke?
He had been raised that way. He had been bred to behave in a certain manner.
But what if that was not him? What if, beneath the darkness, there was a light, one that he had kept hidden all this time, that was only allowed out now because he did not know any better?
Even if that is the case, does it matter?
Soon enough, he would return to his old self, and that would be that. Isolde would be punished, he likely would not care at all, and she would know the truth: the darkness and the wickedness that was him.
“Your Grace.” Mr. Pemberton bowed. “We have your personal physician inside waiting to see you. Please, I will not sleep soundly until I know that he has seen to you.”
“Yes, that is…” The duke touched gingerly at his head. “At the very least, he might be able to help with these headaches.”
“I am certain that he will.”
“Isolde…” The duke reached for her hand. “Shall we?”
“If you do not mind, Your Grace, I would like a moment with Miss Whitmore. There are a few things we must discuss about last evening.” He looked directly at Isolde, and her blood turned cold.
The duke clicked his tongue in consideration. “I already told you everything.”
“How could you, Your Grace? Were you not unconscious for much of it?”
He laughed. “That is a very good point. Isolde, would you mind if Mr. Pemberton steals you away?”
Her mouth was dry, her tongue was heavy, and she was unable to speak. All she could do was gawk.
“I can assure you, it will be a quick process,” Mr. Pemberton said to her. “I know how… fond His Grace is of you. He would have to be, for the two of you to be engaged. Truly, a most wonderful pairing, I must say.”
The duke took her hand and gave it a squeeze as he looked at Mr. Pemberton. “Be gentle with her, Mr. Pemberton. I rather like this one.”
“As if she were a newborn, Your Grace.”
Isolde remained speechless, her stomach twisted into knots, her entire being threatening to rebel as if her skeleton was trying to flee from her body. She forced a vague smile and did her best to appear nonplussed, but it was a lousy effort.
Luckily, the duke was far too enamored by his manor to notice.
They walked through the giant front doors and into the extensive foyer.
It was two stories tall. The floor was sheen marble, and the walls were decked with paintings and expensive pieces of art.
A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the staircase, which ran up to the second and third level, was wide, sweeping, and lined with thick purple carpet.
“This is…” The duke gaped as he craned his head to take it all in. “Are you sure that nobody else lives here?”
“Apart from the two dozen servants? No, Your Grace. You are the master of this home…” Mr. Pemberton’s eyes flicked toward Isolde. “At least for now.”
The duke laughed and shook his head, seeming utterly bewildered by the expense and the opulence.
He gingerly touched a porcelain vase that sat on display, he admired a suit of armor that stood rigid and shining, and he let go a low whistle when he wandered to the main doorway and took in the stretching hall that ran back further through the manor.
“I will come and find you when I am done.” The duke took Isolde by both hands and met her eyes. Despite it all, he looked at her as if she were even more impressive than this manor. “I won’t be long.”
“I…” Her voice cracked. “I look forward to it.”
The atmosphere in the foyer changed the moment the duke left.
It turned colder. Heavier, somehow. Isolde shuddered and rubbed her shoulders. And when she found Mr. Pemberton watching her—his stare made of ice and his expression as hard as granite—she very nearly screamed.
“This way, thank you.” He turned on his heel and strode down the adjoining hall.
Isolde followed in silence.
Their footsteps echoed through the wide-set halls.
Isolde had to hurry to keep pace with the steward.
Mr. Pemberton walked with purpose. Not once did he look back to make sure that she was with him, and while she could not read minds, it was not a struggle to guess what thoughts were at the forefront of his.
He knows. Of course he does! And now, he is going to force me to admit it.
Isolde thought quickly, trying her best to come up with an excuse. Should she admit what she had done? Should she lie? What could she possibly say that might save her?
Nothing came to mind, of course, and when Mr. Pemberton ushered her into a small, nondescript office, Isolde knew that she was doomed. There was nothing that she could do or say… This, right here, was the end of her.
Mr. Pemberton walked across the room toward an empty desk. He stepped around it and sat on the chair. Then he folded his hands, straightened his back, and looked right at her.
“The seat, thank you.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Take it.”
“I…” Isolde’s knees trembled. “I would prefer to stand.”
“The seat,” he said again without blinking. “Take it.”
The duke was not there to save her now. In this little room, Mr. Pemberton was in control. His stare was still cool. His expression was still hard. And while she had no doubt that he could be warm, perhaps even friendly and kind, she knew such social graces would not be extended to her.
Seeing no other choice, Isolde took the seat.