What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

Why now?

“After all this time, I doubt there is anything left to say.” His tone was deliberately cold, blunt. The memories of her were like painful wounds that refused to heal and so he had no choice but to hide them beneath bandages of indifference.

“I did not come here for the music,” she whispered, but he noted anger infused her tone.

What the hell did she have to be angry about?

The gentleman in front turned his head. “Shush.”

Tristan cast him an irate glare. “And I did not come here to revisit the past,” he muttered to her through gritted teeth.

“But this is not about the past.” She gave a weary sigh as though she would rather be anywhere else than sitting talking to him. “This is about Andrew.”

“Andrew?” He could not hide his surprise.

During the two months since his return, she had not called at the house. She had not come to pay her respects or offer her condolences.

“I cannot speak about it here,” she said as she placed a hesitant hand on his arm. His traitorous body responded immediately as a familiar warmth travelled through him. “My carriage is waiting outside.”

Without another word, she stood and walked out through the door.

His heart lurched. The urge to run after her would never leave him.

He should tell her to go to the devil, let her husband be the one to listen to her pitiful woes. Turning back to face the musicians, he closed his eyes in the hope the melody would ease his restless soul. But the haunting harmony only served to remind him of all he had lost.

Perhaps if he went to her, she would offer an explanation for her lies and deceit. Perhaps then he would be able to move forward, take a wife, and produce an heir.

Straightening his coat as he stood, he crept out of the room.

When it came to Isabella, he would always be too weak to resist.

Chapter 2

Isabella Fernall flopped down into the carriage seat and exhaled deeply. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest the thumping echoed in her ears. She did not need to put her fingers to her cheeks to know they flamed berry red. Besides, how could she when sitting on her hands was the only way to stop them from shaking?

She glanced at the empty seat opposite, at the closed carriage door. Her vague plea had failed to rouse Tristan’s enthusiasm. After noting the contemptuous expression on his face, she doubted he would come. Whilst he grieved his brother’s passing, the men had never been close. She did not know or understand why. During the last few years, and until his untimely death, Andrew had been a good and loyal friend to her.

The sudden tap on the window made her jump and gasp for breath.

Good Lord. The ghostly hauntings at Highley Grange had turned her into a shivering wreck. Sucking in a breath, she leant forward and opened the door ajar. Catching a glimpse of the gentleman’s golden hair and black coat, she sat back in the seat in a bid to compose herself before he entered her conveyance.

With swift efficiency, Tristan climbed inside the carriage and slammed the door.

Time stopped. Just for a moment.

He sat down opposite, his glacial gaze scanning the interior as though he would rather observe the qualit

y of the leather than look at her.

“What is this about?” His blunt tone sliced through the air.

In her mind, she imagined slapping the sour look from his face. “It is about your brother.” Her reply was equally as cold and direct.

He sat back in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and stared right through her. “What could be so important you would wait two months before approaching me? You could have called at the house rather than accost me at a concert.”

She searched his face, struggling to find the kind and carefree man who had once stolen her heart. Hostility did not come naturally to him. It was an ill-fitting mask, worn to hide his true feelings.

“I’m sure you know the answer to that,” she said haughtily, refusing to let his frosty tone penetrate her composed demeanour. “I tend only to call where I know I will be welcome.”