Page 2 of How to Bewitch a Duke
Lucian pressed a hand to his chest, as though he might physically still the ache beneath. The pain was sharp, visceral. It burned through him with every breath, as though his very soul had been torn in two the moment she turned from him.
Isla. His Isla. She had given him her heart, her trust, her body—and he had shattered it all with a single, brutal lie.
“We cannot be together,” he had told her. “Not now. Not ever. I will never marry you.” He closed his eyes as his own words haunted him. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he turned away from the path, his hands clenched at his sides. The words had nearly choked him. Every part of him had screamed to take her into his arms, to fall to his knees and beg her forgiveness, to vow before heaven and earth that he would never let her go. His heart ached and he longed to go after her. To tell her that he had lied. That he still loved her, would always love her… But he could not do that. He had destroyed the only good thing in his life for a reason. He’d had to keep her safe. He would much rather she go on without him and live a long and happy life, then to ever put that very life at risk. She meant too much to him.
He had to let her go. Because the danger was far too real. He could not tell her—not yet. Not while shadows still followed his every step, while the man who had sworn vengeance upon him remained unaccounted for. Isla’s family had already endured more than their share of whispered scandal. To draw her into his personal war would not only tarnish her name—it could endanger her life. And that… he would never allow.
Lucian stared up at the moonlit sky as sorrow filled his soul. He had done the only thing he could. The only thing that might keep her safe. But in doing so, he had broken the one thing he held most dear. “I love you,” he whispered into the darkness, the confession torn from him like a secret never meant to be heard. But the night was silent. And she was gone.
He sank onto the ground beneath that willow tree and allowed his grief to overtake him. She was gone. He might never see her again. He let out a ragged and uneven breath. His mind warred between the instinct to chase after her and the grim knowledge that he could not. Because if he claimed her—married her, she would not be safe. She would be a target.
And that, above all else, he could not allow. Better that she hate him. Better that she believe him cruel, unfeeling—anything but the truth. Because the truth was far more dangerous than she could ever know.
One
A few years later…
Light spilled from the tall windows, golden and warm, casting a glow that danced across the manicured lawn and shimmered upon the guests descending from their carriages. Laughter, music, and the hum of conversation drifted on the summer air. The masquerade had begun.
Lady Isla Thompson adjusted the delicate mask secured over her eyes, her hands trembling ever so slightly. She drew in a breath, willing her heart to still its erratic rhythm. Her golden yellow gown, painstakingly altered by her maid, clung to her slender frame as though it had been made for her and her alone, but it hadn’t. It had been one of her mother’s old gowns that Maeve had found in one of the many trunks of their mother’s belongings. The golden silk whispered around her legs as she stepped toward the manor, shimmering with each movement like a sunbeam made flesh.
Maeve had claimed that Isla looked radiant. But she didn’t feel as if she did. Isla felt like crumbling glass about to shatter at any given moment. She did not want to be at this masquerade. She did not want to be at Thornridge at all. He lived there. The duke that had stolen and then broken her heart all in one whirlwind summer. She stared up at the grand estate and her stomach churned in one large anxiety bubble ready to spew forth. She had to gain control of her rampant emotions before she said or did something embarrassing.
Maeve stepped beside her, poised and luminous in peach silk, her own mask firmly in place. “Are you certain you wish to do this?” Maeve murmured, her gaze scanning the glittering sea of guests. “We could return home, Isla. No one would fault us.”
Isla hesitated. She wanted to say, that yes, she did want to leave. But then she recalled why she had agreed to attend the masquerade. She was not there for herself. She never would have attended a ball at Thornridge for herself alone. She was there for Maeve. She had an interest in Viscount Pemberton, and she so wished for her sister to find her own happiness. So for her, she would see this through, and pray she had little or no interactions with the duke.
The façade of Thornridge Hall loomed before her like a memory she could not erase—its stone walls gilded in moonlight, every window aglow, its very air steeped in recollections she would rather forget. This was his home. His ball. And somewhere behind those doors, Lucian Oliver, the Duke of Thornridge, moved among his guests, unaware—or perhaps fully aware—that she had returned. She shoved all those memories and thoughts aside. They did not matter. Maeve mattered. “I do wish to attend,” Isla replied softly, her voice barely audible over the lilt of the string quartet. “I will not let the past dictate my every step.”
Maeve touched her hand briefly, offering silent support, before leading the way up the steps. Inside, the ballroom was a riot of elegance and artifice. Gilded chandeliers bathed the room in warm light. Silk draperies and garlands of summer blooms lined the walls, and a thousand flickering candles made the room glow like starlight. Guests moved through the room hiding their behind jeweled masks and their laughter was light and joyous. The music echoed in time with the quadrille currently being performed on the dance floor.
Isla remained near the edges, skimming the perimeter, smiling when she must, speaking little. She had survived heartbreak. She had rebuilt the pieces of herself, one careful, solitary moment at a time. And yet, all it took was a single step into this place—the place where everything had begun and everything had ended—to feel the fracture lines deepening once more. He had not broken her heart in this room, but under the willow tree that his estate bordered with her father’s. She could almost see him there, that night, several years earlier. He had been so grave. The man she had fallen in love with was absence, and in his place was an aloof duke that looked down on her. She still did not fully grasp what had happened. What had changed his love for her into something she did not recognize. She could not allow herself to believe he never truly loved her. That it all had been a lie…
And then, as though summoned by thought alone, she felt him. The air shifted. Her skin prickled and she slowly turned to meet his gaze. Those golden eyes of his were like a beacon she had difficulty ignoring. Though she desperately wished she could...
He stood across the ballroom, half-shrouded in shadow, a black mask obscuring the upper half of his face—but nothing could conceal that commanding frame, the breadth of his shoulders, the piercing awareness his gaze settled over her. He was no longer the reckless, beautiful young man she had fallen in love with. He was an imperious duke now—older, more carved by responsibility, but still every inch him.
As their gazes held the crowd seemed to disappear and for one suspended heartbeat, the years fell away. Her breath caught in her throat, and she almost choked on the emotion brewing inside of her. She wanted to go to him and beg him to take her into his arms. To love her like he used to. But it was far too late for such an action. He had ruined any chance they had.
He did what she refused to. Lucian crossed the room and stopped when he reached her. She did not look up at him even though she wanted to. She wanted much from him. Isla would not give into those deep-seated desires. Those desires would lead to her ruination, and she already had a tattered reputation.
His voice was husky and sent shivers down her spine as he spoke, “You came.” That low timbre curled around her like a forbidden touch. She refused to turn, refused to grant him the power to see what stirred behind her mask. Those two words were already too much, and she could not let him see how he affected her.
“I was invited,” she replied, her voice level. Isla did her best to keep all emotion out of her tone. She did not want him to know how much she still loved him, and that the hurt he had delivered still held sway over her heart. “It would have been rude to decline.”
“You never used to care for rules.” She almost snorted at the reminder. She had thrown her reputation aside to meet with him, to allow him the liberties he had willingly taken.
“I’ve learned the value of them.” The bitterness was there in her tone as she spoke. Isla could not keep that at bay. Silence stretched between them. Her heart pounded as she struggled to breathe evenly.
“You look…” he began, but the words faltered. He cleared his throat. “You look as you always did. As if you’ve stepped from a dream I can never quite hold.”
She nearly faltered then. Nearly gave in to the tears pressing behind her eyes. “You should not say such things, Your Grace,” she said, her voice brittle. “Not when you’ve made it so very clear how little I mean to you.”
His breath caught. “Isla…”
“No.” She turned, finally facing him. She was momentarily stunned by his dark male beauty—the golden eyes and black hair that scraped the edge of his neck. She shook herself free from that and met his gaze. Her mask hid much, but her voice betrayed everything. “Do not pretend. Do not speak as if the past can be rewritten. You broke me. And I cannot afford to break again.”
He reached for her hand, but she drew it back before he could touch her. “Don’t,” she warned him. “Less you forget how little I truly mean to you. Now is not the time to take liberties that you do not have permission to take.”
