Wonder?
He had spent many hours awake at night dreaming of just that.
“We would have married, lived in a remote village far away from society’s prying eyes. I would have been disowned for bringing shame on my family, forced to work to support you.” It was a rather grim view, but they were the thoughts of a broken man. “Things would have been difficult, but I hope we could have been happy.”
She put her hand to the base of her throat and swallowed. “I would have been happy as long as we were together.”
He snorted. The contemptuous sound revealed his belief that the reality would have been so far removed from the stories told in romantic poetry. “Fate obviously had other things in store for us.”
“And yet we are here together now.”
He rubbed his chin as he considered her comment. A few months ago, he would have cursed and protested with uncontrollable vehemence at the mere suggestion of spending the night at her house. “Then we must be grateful for something.”
A faint blush touched her cheeks. “So we have spent the last two days in each other’s company, both feeling abandoned and betrayed, yet neither of us said anything.”
“Pride can be both a blessing and a curse.”
They fell silent. A minute passed. Isabella stared at the swirling pattern on the Persian rug, her eyes wide, glassy.
“I married Lord Fernall out of spite,” she eventually said, her tone somewhat detached. “I wanted to show you that I could be a lady, someone worthy of respect. I wanted to hurt you but, in the end, I only hurt myself.”
She had hurt him. The news had cut him to the bone. “But why did you leave that night? Why not wait?”
Isabella shrugged. “Lord Fernall had made your father an offer for me weeks before. Your father had not mentioned it to me as he felt I was not ready for marriage. You see, he had promised my mother he would care for me like a daughter—”
Tristan shot to his feet. Their father had insisted they treat her as kin. “Good Lord, do you think we—” he could not speak the words.
“I am not your father’s daughter, Tristan.” Her confident chuckle settled his racing heart. “We were living in Italy when I was conceived.”
He dropped into the chair, unable to suppress his sigh of relief. “Forgive my interruption. You were saying that my father did not think you ready for marriage.”
“When he entered my chamber with your letter in his hand, he looked so lost, so forlorn. He apologised, repeatedly, cursed under his breath for having failed my mother. My heart went out to him.” She put her hand to her chest. “Marrying a gentleman with a title and money seemed like the only way to appease him. Your father was a kind, quiet man, and as such did not know he was selling me to a gentleman with questionable morals.”
“But you left Kempston that night.”
“Lord Morford thought time away would help me to think more clearly. He wanted me to meet Lord Fernall before I made my final decision. And he knew my heart was broken, thought he was acting in the way any caring gentleman would.”
Tristan raked his hand through his hair. “If only he would have come to me and questioned my motives.” At the very least he had expected his father to berate him for his foolishness.
“If only I would have stayed at Kempston for one more night. If only Andrew had kept our secret.” She gave a sad sigh. “Your father wanted to speak to you. But he was angry. I begged him to wait.”
It was evident from Isabella’s recount that his father had acted genuinely, believing his son had indeed written the letter. A wave of sadness washed over him. By the time his father returned to Kempston, Tristan was sailing to France. They had not spoken again. No doubt his father assumed his lust for adventure was the reason behind him abandoning Isabella.
“Do you believe my father was guilty of any duplicity?” From the way she had spoken, he knew the answer, but he would hear her opinion.
“No. He acted with compassion. I’m confident he had my best interests at heart. Like me, he was perhaps blinded by Samuel’s kind countenance, by his reassurances that he would be a dutiful husband.”
Tristan cursed inwardly. There was only one person capable of manipulation and deception. There was only one person devious and shrewd enough to carry out such a dastardly plan — his mother.
“I know I said we should not rush back to London, but under the circumstances, I feel I must leave Highley Grange today.”
Isabella caught her breath on a gasp. “Today!” A look of disappointment flashed in her brown eyes. “Can it not wait?”
Tristan shook his head. He had waited five years to discover the reason for his love’s betrayal. He would not rest until the person responsible had confessed. “I must speak to my mother. I must know the part she played in all of this.”
Isabella sighed, her solemn countenance tugged at his heart. “I understand.”
“Come back to London with me.” Logic played no part in his suggestion. But the more he thought of it, the more it made perfect sense. “Once I have spoken to my mother we will continue our investigation into Lord Fernall’s death. There is no more to be done here,” he said waving his arm about the room. “We will begin with Henry Fernall. Learn more about these sordid parties.”