What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

It suddenly occurred to her that he could not possibly be the same man she once knew. They had spent five years apart, separated by the sea, the language, by circumstance. During that time had he known love, heartbreak? What events had shaped and moulded his character? Would anything else ever compare to the level of satisfaction he had experienced elsewhere?

“The title and land are yours whether you reside in London or not,” she said. In his youth, he had been a little reckless. He’d thought nothing of disobeying his family then. “You should follow your heart rather than what society expects or your position dictates.”

His expression darkened. “Do you truly believe that? When people depend on us, how can we ever be free? I’m afraid duty and responsibility are hats I must learn to wear comfortably and with pride.”

“You sound so different from the man I used to know.” The words fell from her lips without thought or censure. She sucked in a breath, wishing they would somehow find their way back. “What I mean is maturity alters the way we view the world. We have come to realise our options are limited.”

He snorted in both amusement and mockery. “Indeed, life no longer feels like a glorious adventure filled with endless possibilities.”

Isabella sighed. Whilst she recognised the truth to their words, a part of her wanted to kick off her slippers, take his hand and run through the garden like they used to do. The moon would be full and bright. They would sit by the fountain, splashing water, laughing. He would kiss her beneath a blanket of heavenly stars. Life would be perfect, just as it was then.

Good Lord. She was but three-and-twenty, yet she suspected every new experience awaiting her would fall hopelessly short of that one magical night. A surge of raw emotion sought to draw all the air from her lungs. She put her hand to her mouth, coughed against her gloved fingers.

“Listen to us.” A weak chuckle left her lips. “We sound so miserable, so morbid.”

He stared at her for a moment, the tightness around his jaw relaxing somewhat. “In France, my friends often remarked on my cheerful disposition. I am known for my optimism, for my carefree attitude to life. Yet I do not recognise myself when I am here. The words that fall from my mouth sound foreign to me. Everything feels like a lie.”

Isabella felt a familiar tug in her chest upon hearing his honest words. In an instant, she was transported back to the night at the coaching inn, when they realised it was his father’s carriage rumbling into the courtyard. She had put her hand on his cheek, told him nothing would ever keep them apart. Their ability to be honest and speak so openly to one another was just one of the things she loved about being with him.

How ironic that he should deceive her but a few hours later.

“It can take time to settle after years of living a different life,” she said, though she wanted to say that she understood what it was like to deceive oneself, that her life had been one huge lie, too. “Things are bound to feel strange, certain modes of conduct uncomfortable.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You always did know what to say in any given situation. It is one of the things—” he stopped abruptly, waved his hand in the air. “The more we converse, the further we seem to stray from the original point.” His tone was somewhat sharper. “You said you wished to speak to me about And

rew. Am I to assume it was to pay your respects privately?”

Isabella watched him draw back behind a solid wall of ice, a defensive manoeuvre that sent a frosty chill rushing through her.

“Whilst I grieve for Andrew that is not why I was compelled to come here this evening.”

He shrugged. “Then what forced you to seek me out?”

Sucking in a breath and squaring her shoulders, she said, “I believe your brother’s death was not accidental. I believe someone murdered him.”

Tristan jerked his head back as though reeling from a hard slap. “You believe Andrew was m-murdered?” He gulped and swallowed deeply. “Why on earth would you think that?”

The story was far too complicated to condense into a sentence or two. “I cannot explain it now. But say you will meet me tomorrow in Hyde Park, and I will tell you everything.” Panic flared. She flew forward, put a hand on his arm. “You are the only person I can turn to for help.”

He stared at her black glove as though it was something foreign to him, something dirty and tainted. When his brows knitted together and a look of disdain flashed in his eyes, she knew he did not believe her.

“Andrew is dead,” he said bluntly. “Nothing I can do or say will bring him back.” He shuffled to the edge of the seat, wrapped his fingers around the handle on the carriage door. “I suggest you speak to your husband if you are in need of attention, for I cannot think of a single reason why someone would wish to hurt my brother.”

Isabella gaped at him as he opened the door and vaulted down to the pavement.

He struggled to look at her. “If I’ve any hope of being happy here, I must move forward. I cannot revisit the past. I’m sure you understand.” Without another word, he closed the door.

The clip of his shoes faded into the distance.

Isabella sat back in the seat as she struggled to make sense of her chaotic thoughts. She should have explained the catalogue of mysterious events before revealing her suspicions. Still, the mere mention of murder failed to rouse his curiosity. Indeed, he had implied she was somewhat dramatic, perhaps even deceitful.

How hypocritical of him.

He didn’t trust her. Their history obviously still weighed heavily on his mind. Perhaps he’d suspected she was the one responsible for informing his father of their elopement. Perhaps he’d doubted her desire to marry him and thought she had used any means necessary to avoid the match, and that had been the reason behind his sudden change of heart.

Something else troubled her, too.

Why would he tell her to speak to her husband?