She had only ever had one lover. There had only ever been one man who made her body ache at the thought of joining with him. Of course, she had given herself to her husband on numerous occasions. But that was not love. It amounted to nothing more than one’s duty.
Straightening her spine, she decided it was best to be blunt. “You are the only man I would class as such. A lover is someone who rouses an ardent passion, someone with whom you share a deep emotional connection.” She flicked her hair in an act of disgruntlement. “So no, Tristan. Whilst I did my duty by my husband, other than you, there has been no one else.”
He pushed his hand through his slightly damp locks, rubbed back and forth as though the motion would ease the tense expression on his face. “What … what happened between us … you must know that it meant something to me.”
“Did it?” Her tone carried a hint of reproof. He wanted honesty, and she would give it to him. “How would I know that?”
Pain flashed briefly in his eyes. “We were in love. It was inevitable we would find a way to express all we felt, all we meant to one another.”
Did he not know that his words cut her to the bone? To remind her of what she had lost was akin to torture.
Thankfully, Mrs. Birch appeared at the top of the stairs. She cleared her throat and offered a curtsy. “I’ve prepared a light repast, my lady, a broth to warm up your bones. It’s always wise to have a hot meal when caught out in weather such as this.”
Isabella forced a smile. It took a moment for her to focus on forming a response. While her body was in the present, her mind lingered in the past. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Birch. We will be right down.”
Mrs. Birch nodded and made a hasty retreat.
“Come. Let us go and eat.” He waved his hand for her to lead the way. “We can continue our discussion downstairs, though there are certain questions you should not answer unless we can ensure absolute privacy.”
He sounded serious, so sober. She preferred his tone playful, teasing, brimming with amusement. Though they remained silent as they made their way to the dining room, she sensed a heavy pressure in the air that suggested he was deep in thought.
They chose to sit at the far end of the table, in the seats closest to the fire. Other than passing pleasantries (a mutual admiration for the landscape painting that hung above the fireplace, their predictions of how long it would be before the rain stopped) they ate their meal in silence. She watched him from beneath hooded lids, noted the lock of golden hair that fell to cover his brow, averted her gaze whenever he looked up.
“You said you wanted to know who owns Highley Grange.” She could not continue to stare at him without saying something. “What made you think that I do not?”
He used his napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth. “It is something Jacob said.”
“Jacob? What … what did he say?”
“I spoke to him briefly when I rode round to the stable. As I said, he mentioned that Mr. Blackwood manages the estate. That it is Henry Fernall who pays the servants’ wages.” He paused. “How do you find Mr. Blackwood?”
“Mr. Blackwood?” She rarely saw the man. “He is hardly ever about when I am in residence.”
During the rare occasions when their paths did happen to cross, he struggled to hold her gaze. Not that she was complaining. His thick eyebrows gave his face a wild, almost feral appearance that made the hairs at her nape stand on end.
“Does that not strike you as odd? Surely there are matters of estate business that require some communication.”
She shrugged. “Henry keeps him busy.”
“As the heir, it is reasonable to expect Henry to oversee things. But something tells me his interest in Highley Grange stems from more than a need to be helpful.”
“Henry owns Highley Grange.” And oh, how he enjoyed reminding her of the fact. “He is responsible for everything. As per the stipulations of my husband’s will, I am permitted to live here until I remarry or until I meet my demise.”
Tristan’s eyes widened. “Why did you not mention it before? Perhaps Henry wants rid of you. It gives him motive.”
“Perhaps it gives him a motive to frighten me but not to murder his own father.”
“Shush. Keep your voice low.” Tristan glanced at the open door. “I assume you have been provided for financially.”
“I have a small allowance.” She was not frivolous, and so it was adequate for her tastes. “I’m told circumstances would have been different if I’d had a child.”
He sat back and closed his eyes briefly. “Has there ever been a child?”
It took a moment for her to comprehend his meaning. “No. Thankfully, I have never had to deal with such a terrible loss.” Still, she felt the dull ache in her chest at the thought of never being a mother.
“But you were married for three years.”
The snigger of contempt was louder than she anticipated. “It takes a little more than marriage to produce a child.”