Page 5 of How to Bewitch a Duke
“I find I cannot find peace with those words,” he said.
Her heart thudded, but she refused to let it show. “Then I am afraid I cannot help you. This is a decision that you made.” She let out an exasperated breath. “What do you want from me?” She raised a brow. “Do you wish for me to drop to my knees and beg you to take me back?” She laughed a little derisively. “I might have once upon a time. Back when I believed in love—believed in you. I am not that foolish girl now. Go away, Lucian. I have nothing to offer you.”
He stepped closer, his voice rough. “I did what I thought I must to protect you. And in doing so, I lost the only joy I have ever known.”
Isla’s eyes burned. She did not want to cry. Not today. Not when her sister deserved all the happiness the day could offer. “You had your chance, Lucian,” she whispered, voice trembling despite her best efforts. “You held my heart in your hands and cast it aside.”
“I was wrong,” he said simply. “But I am not the same man now. And you are not the same woman. We have both suffered. But it does not mean we cannot begin again.”
She turned away from him, her arms crossed tight before her chest. “I don’t trust you.”
“I know,” he said behind her. “But I will earn it, Isla. No matter how long it takes.”
She faced him then, eyes flashing. “You think a vow uttered beneath the flower-covered arbor will undo years of silence? Of pain? You may mean it now, Lucian, but when your past rises up again—as it always does—you will run from me. Just as you did before.”
“I would die before I let anything harm you,” he said, his voice shaking. “And I would rather live a thousand lifetimes alone than walk away from you again. I swear it.”
The truth in his words nearly undid her. But it wasn’t enough. Not now, maybe not ever. He spoke pretty words, but in the end, he had failed her. What could have changed now? Why should she ever believe he would not break her heart again? It was a risk she did not wish to take. Perhaps it was fear, or it might even be something else entirely. “You may love me, Lucian. I cannot say with any certainty,” she said, her voice soft with sorrow. “But love is not always enough. It cannot thrive in fear. And I will not shackle my heart to a man who still hides his truths from me.”
His jaw clenched, and she knew he understood.
Isla took a step back. “Do not pursue me again until you are ready to offer everything. Not half-truths. Not protection disguised as rejection. But your whole self, as I once gave mine to you.” She turned and walked away; her steps quiet against the garden path. She glanced back, briefly. Behind her, Lucian remained still, as if rooted to the earth. She turned away, determined to remain strong in her convictions. And though her heart wept for what could have been, Isla did not look back again. She had done that more than she should have already. She would not walk that path again. Not unless he could prove to her that he could be trusted, and that was a task she did not fully believe he could meet.
Lucian Oliver, the Duke of Thornridge, stood unmoving in the shade of the arbor, the delicate murmur of wedding laughter carrying faintly on the breeze as Isla disappeared down the garden path. Her final words echoed in his mind, each one a blade: "Do not pursue me again until you are ready to offer everything."
He had known it would be difficult to face her. He had known she would be wary, bitter, wounded. And she had every right to be. He had hurt her more deeply than anyone else ever had—not from malice, not from indifference, but from love twisted by fear. Nothing had truly changed for him. He still found her radiant and strong, and she demanded nothing less than his entire heart. How could he fault her for that? He wanted to give it to her—after all it had always belonged to her.
He had given it to her years ago. From their first meeting, and the moment she had smiled at him under that willow tree, he had fallen. It had been foolish, reckless, doomed from the start—but utterly inescapable. Of course he had not known the path their love would take. Had not realized the danger he would put her in by pursuing her. His bloody uncle had threatened her life, and he could not allow anything to happen to her.
He turned from the garden and made his way toward the edge of the estate, his boots crunching over the gravel path, away from the revelry and joy he had helped orchestrate. It was not the wedding that troubled him. Lady Maeve and Lord Pemberton deserved their happiness. It was the sharp reminder of what he had lost—and what he might still regain, if only he could find a way to convince Isla to give him another chance.
Lucian reached the stables and stepped inside. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight filtering through the high windows. Here, away from the eyes of the world, he let the weight of the years settle upon him. His enemy—the man who had threatened Isla's life—was dead now—he’d died in a riding accident. That danger, the one that had once forced Lucian to choose duty over desire, no longer stood between them. And yet he had still not told her the truth. Cowardice, perhaps. Or pride. Or fear that she would never forgive him.
But what was pride, compared to the agony of losing her?
He thought of her words again. Her defiance. Her strength. Her sorrow. Isla had not vanished from his life like a dream. She had endured. And she had every right to demand the whole of him. No more shadows. No more silence. He would give it to her. Everything. Lucian straightened, resolve hardening his features. He had been a fool to ever let her go. To allow his uncle to convince him that he could not protect her. Lucian should have married her all those years ago. He would not make the same mistake again.
He would explain about his uncle and the threats he had issued. His uncle, the wily prick, had not wanted Lucian to marry. The rotten bastard had thought that if Lucian had not children, he would inherit the ducal estate. Lucian had not known until those threats that his uncle had actually killed his father—his own brother because he had wanted the title. He had tried several times to end Lucian’s life. It was why he had ended his relationship with Isla. He had difficulty keeping himself safe, and he did not want to put her life at risk too. If they were to have children… he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The thought of losing her and their child. It sent shivers of fear over him leaving him cold.
He would go to her. Not tonight, perhaps. But soon. And when he did, he would bring her every truth he had once buried. Every promise he had never dared to make. And he would pray that Isla, fierce and unyielding, would let him try again.
Because he loved her. He always had.
Four
The golden morning light filtered through the tall windows of Lucian Oliver’s study, but it brought little warmth to the Duke of Thornridge. He stood at the window, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the sun met the gently rolling hills of his ancestral lands. It was the day after Lady Maeve Thompson had married his dearest friend, Viscount Pemberton.
His two dearest friends, the Earl of Kendal and Viscount Pemberton both had found what he long believed was something he would never have—love that was both honest and enduring. Watching them the day before, exchanging glances laced with trust and devotion, had stirred something deep in Lucian’s chest. A yearning he had tried too long to silence. They both had been at that wedding—though it had been Pemberton’s wedding, and he should have been glancing at his bride with such adoration, it still had been hard to witness. They both had stared at their wives with utter love and devotion. It had nearly undone Lucian.
He wanted that. Desperately. But to have Isla… he needed to destroy the one threat that had haunted his every step, the shadow that had slithered through his life since his father’s death. His uncle—Lord Michael Oliver.
Lucian’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white with tension. The wretched man had once been a fixture of his childhood—a charismatic figure cloaked in laughter and charm. But beneath the genteel veneer had lurked ambition and rot. Lucian had never suspected it until it was too late. Until he found the evidence, the hints his father had left behind. The poison, the tampered reins on Lucian’s horse, the near-fatal fall from the cliffs… Michael hadn’t just wanted the title. He had murdered for it. Lucian’s father—his own brother—slain so Michael might seize the dukedom. And when Lucian had survived his schemes, he had turned to threats.
“If you marry, if you beget an heir,” the fiend had hissed in his ear, “you will not live long enough to hold your son.” He had then added, “And your son won’t breathe long after he is born.”
That had been the end. The day he let Isla go. He hadn’t done it because he stopped loving her—God help him, he had never stopped—but because the thought of her blood spilled, of a child orphaned or worse murdered by his cursed legacy, had been unbearable. Lucian turned from the window, striding to his desk with sudden purpose. He opened a drawer and withdrew a sealed missive. He had written it last evening, after watching Maeve and Pemberton exchange vows, and not long after his conversation with Isla….
He rang a bell to call for his butler. He needed to settle this all once and for all. This had to be finished and he had to take precautions. It was far past time he stopped living in fear.
