Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Cassian walked ahead of Isolde, determined to put this evening behind him. He left her in the carriage, not once looking back, needing to be away from her and quickly.
A valet waited by the door, saw him coming, and quickly opened it. As Cassian walked by the man, he noticed the way the footman looked down, refusing to meet his eyes. He also saw how the footman trembled, and he noticed that he held his breath as Cassian passed by.
Was I really such a tyrant?
He knew the answer, of course. And if there had been any doubt, the way he was treated by his peers was proof enough.
They were terrified of him, just as they were desperate for his approval.
And those few times that Cassian had dared to show his new side, a joke or a smile, they had looked at him as if he were a stranger.
Cassian paused when he reached the foyer, and he did not know why.
The manor stood in darkness. Often, on quiet nights like this, he would retire to his office for a drink and some more work. That was another memory that touched his subconscious, vague images of who he used to be and how he used to spend his time.
He looked up the staircase, picturing himself alone in that office, and the image that he found was one of loneliness and sadness, and not something he wanted for himself.
But wasn’t that his entire life? One spent alone. One where he relished the fear he struck in others? One where he did not want someone to spend his days with… where he thought love was a myth and a trap… something better to be avoided at all costs?
What kind of life is that… and why would I want to return to such a thing?
“Good night, Cassian…” Isolde drifted past him. “Thank you for tonight…”
She walked with her head bowed, her shoulders withdrawn, a shadow of the lively woman whom he knew her to be. And it was all his fault.
He watched her cross the foyer and Cassian felt the urge to go to her suddenly.
All night, in fact, he had noticed how hard she tried, and how desperate she was to please him.
From her jokes to that coy smile that she wore to the look in her eyes when she found him across the room.
She might have lied about her past, but she had not lied about who she was.
Cassian felt his hand shake as he watched her reach the staircase… his legs trembled… his heart raced.
It was easy to tell himself that he wanted nothing more to do with her. It was just as easy to tell her the same. But to believe it? To see it as a truth? That was impossible.
“Isolde…” Cassian said before he could stop himself.
She stopped at the bottom of the staircase and turned back. The look of hope in her eyes was like a knife through his chest. All he had to do was tell her that… that… that what? That I forgive her? That I want to forget about what she did?
He just couldn’t do it. Even the thought brought with it pain as the memories of what she had done crashed down on him. He wanted to forgive her, but he simply wasn’t strong enough.
“Good night,” he said and looked away. “Mr. Pemberton will let you know the next time I require you.”
“Oh…” Her voice cracked. “Yes, that is… thank you.”
He refused to look at her, even as he felt her eyes on him. A moment passed, hope felt in the room, and it broke as she turned and started up the steps.
He watched her go, and with every step she took, he fought within himself until she finally vanished in the dark.
Cassian released a deep breath and stumbled forward. That was far harder than it should have been, as if a hand had wrapped itself around him and was trying to drag him forward. How much longer could this go on for?
With no other option, he decided to retire to his office and drink alone. Wasn’t that who he was? Wasn’t that expected? Perhaps it was time to stop fighting it… to accept who he was.
However, it was as he started up the steps, taking each one slowly, that he continued to picture that look on Isolde’s face.
Where everyone else he knew saw him as a cold monster, she saw him as somebody else.
Only she knew who he had become, and that meant something.
It felt important, as if it should not be forgotten.
He reached the upper landing and half-turned toward his office, but once again paused. The hallway was dark and empty, and it seemed to mock his loneliness. He did not belong in its depths, and he turned back the other way, looking down the hallway where Isolde’s room was.
It was lighter, somehow. More welcoming. It seemed to beckon him like a loving mother with her arms held wide. Isolde did not care about who he had been, but about who he was now. She might have lied to him. She might have hurt him. But did that really matter?
Why am I so insistent on returning to who I was? Why do I fight for that which I do not even want?
As if his legs moved without command, he took a step down the hallway that led to Isolde’s room. And then another. And then another—
It hit him like a punch in the face. A memory. One so vivid, so real, that even if he wanted to look away, he would not have been able.
Cassian was in his office, drinking his brandy, smoking his cigar. Men were standing around the desk, each one with a smirk on his lips and cold laughter in their voice. And at the center of the room, on her knees, was Isolde.
She was dripping wet and dressed in rags.
She had her hands clutched before her as she begged.
He did not know what she said, for that was denied him in his memory, but he could see the desperation in her eyes.
As for Cassian’s response? He sneered and laughed and waved her away.
She cried out, begging for mercy, but he looked upon her with anger before ordering one of the men to drag her away.
As she was dragged, the other men laughed and congratulated Cassian.
They appeared proud of him, as if what he had done was to be lauded.
And Cassian accepted their praise, relished it, bathed in it as if it were life itself.
And not once after Isolde was taken from the room did he stop and consider what he had done and to whom.
Cassian lurched as the memory faded.
He stumbled and fell into the wall. His breathing was heavy, his heart hammered against his chest, and shame enveloped him so that it pushed him to his knees and made him feel sick and wretched and as guilty as he ever had.
I am a monster… I am wicked… I am exactly what people say.
The memory echoed in his mind as he stared dumfounded down the hallway that led to Isolde’s room. It no longer looked inviting and just the thought of walking toward it made him want to vomit.
It was no wonder that she had tricked him. It was no wonder that she had used him. And it was a wonder that she felt anything for him but hate and apathy and loathing. Truly, he deserved her resentment, just as he deserved what she had done to him.
Cassian stumbled backwards from the hallway.
He turned and stumbled further as he made his way toward his office.
He would be alone there. He would be a broken man not worth love or kindness or the type of companionship that Isolde offered him.
He would be as he deserved and it was time that he accepted that.
Who was Cassian? He was a wicked duke, and no amount of pretending otherwise would make a difference.
Could he change? Could he be someone else?
And did it even matter? As he made his way into his lonely office, as he sat behind his desk, and as he poured a glass of brandy, he decided that it did not.
In truth, Isolde was better off without him, and whether she accepted that or not, he would do her a favor by keeping her away. His memories were bound to return one day, and the less he and Isolde had to do with one another when they did, the better.