Page 50 of A Night of Forever
Marisa’s words jolted Isobel back to reality. Hadn’t she just decided she needed to have more self-control? That she deserved more from life than second-best? If Arend kept part of his life secret even from the men he loved like brothers, then perhaps he was a man she had better leave well enough alone.
—
Despite his best intentions, and with his promise to Hadley reverberating in his head, Arend’s heartbeat quickened with anticipation as he mounted the front steps of Maitland’s London residence.
He was honest enough with himself to admit he was excited to see Isobel again. His desire for her had been unexpected, and he vowed to crush this powerful yearning.
“Welcome back, my lord,” Maitland’s butler greeted him. “It is good to see you safe and well.”
“Thank you, Brunton.” Arend glanced around him as he handed the servant his hat and gloves. Looking for Isobel? Fool. She would hardly rush to greet him. He was the one that had suggested a fake engagement and then treated her as the enemy.
She still might be the enemy.
“The ladies are in the drawing room,” Brunton said. “If you’ll come this way.”
He let Brunton announce him. Upon his entrance, the two women immediately stopped talking.
Marisa rose, her haughty gaze conveying exactly what she thought about him and his suspicions. “Good morning, Arend. Although I would love to stay and witness your apology, I suspect you’d prefer to grovel in private.”
She gave him no time to reply, but before she swept regally from the room she flashed what appeared to be a warning look at Isobel.
Guilt gnawed at him when he remembered he was not the only person for whom the last few days had been difficult. Isobel sat, rigid and formal, watching him with eyes no longer innocent. Instead, they held disillusionment and sorrow. Something deep inside him shriveled at the knowledge that the death of her innocence was largely his fault. And Dufort’s.
The raw cut on her cheek would bring rage to the surface in any purveyor of beauty. Like a Greek statue that had lost an appendage, her porcelain skin was damaged, but you could still admire the exquisite artistry. She was still loveliness personified, and he would make Dufort pay dearly for damaging her beautiful face, and for every other pain he must have inflicted upon her.
He waited until Marisa had closed the door behind her before taking a seat across from Isobel.
She spoke first. Quiet. Polite. “I see your knee is still troubling you.”
Arend hadn’t realized he was rubbing the knee until she brought it to his attention. “It is getting better every day, thank you. And you? Your cheek appears to be healing well.”
Immediately he knew he’d said the wrong thing. Her hand flew up to her injury, a blush spread over her face, and she lowered her head as if she’d been a child and he’d scolded her. She looked as if she were ashamed of her injury.
“Sean—Lieutenant Colbert—did a wonderful job stitching the wound, but he believes it will leave a scar.” On the word “scar,” she lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye.
The scar itself did not upset him as much as her use of the lieutenant’s first name. Colbert’s given name on Isobel’s lips sounded overly familiar, as if there were some attachment between the two of them.
Fury ignited in his belly. She could not do that. She was betrothed to him, not to this Sean. Even as the flame of his anger surged up, he hated that he felt anything at all. But he did. The idea of Isobel feeling any sort of affection for another man made him want to commit murder.
He silently counted to ten and waited for his anger to cool, his fists to relax, his toes to uncurl.
She is not really yours, and can never be.
Unless she was party to Victoria’s crimes, he would be forced to marry her if he continued his dalliance—and matrimony was out of the question.
Therefore, it was unfair of him to allow this infatuation to continue. From now on he must keep his distance, both emotionally and sexually. They would work together in a platonic relationship, and when Victoria and Dufort were captured, he would leave her life entirely. Leave her to marry a man who deserved her.
Even the thought of it hurt like hell.
Like that injury of hers must have. Must still. “External scars fade over time,” he offered.
“Are you implying internal scars take longer?” Her lips trembled briefly. “I hope not. I still have nightmares about Sealey’s kidnapping, and when they took him away from me”—a tear slid down her cheek—“I thought she was going to kill him.”
He could not help himself. Before he realized what he was doing, he leaned over and wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb. “We will catch her,” he said, gently. “And Dufort. They will pay. I swear it.”
She blinked and drew away from his touch. “Will that ‘we’ include me? I believe I deserve the right”—she gestured to her cheek—“to be involved in their capture. Unless, of course,” she added, meeting his eyes without flinching or any kind of evasion, “you still think I’m part of her conspiracy, her evil stepdaughter.”
Her scorn was evident, and the way she looked at him down her pretty, aristocratic nose dared him to contradict her. “I’m not going to apologize for being careful,” he said, although even as he said the word he realized that he could at least have been kind. “Being careful has kept me alive.”
