What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

Isabella swallowed down the hard lump in her throat. She clenched her fists for fear of slapping him. “No, Andrew did not force me into the arms of another man. You did, with your cold words and blatant disregard.”

Tristan stared at her blankly. “I recall the last words spoken between us were at the coaching inn. I called out, told you I loved you. I told you no one would ever keep us apart.”

Hearing the words fall from his lips brought the pain of the last five years flooding back. “But you said your affections for me stemmed from your need to defy your parents. You were reckless and thrived on the thrill that came with disobeying their wishes.”

His mouth hung open; his frown created two deep furrows between his brows. “I never said that. Why would I say such a thing when it is not true?”

Her mind raced. Her chest grew tight, her face hot. “You said so in your letter.”

“What letter?”

She struggled to breathe. “The letter you wrote to me on the night your father brought us both back

to Kempston Hall.”

“I am at a loss.” He shook his head. “Why would I write to you when we prided ourselves on being so open and honest with one another?”

Panic flared. “Then be honest with me now.”

“Trust me when I say I did not write to you.”

She put her hand to the base of her throat. “But I have your letter here with me.” She carried it around with her, had read it only the day before. She read it whenever she needed reminding that he did not want her. “It bears your signature.”

There was a moment of silence.

The colour drained from his cheeks until his skin took on a deathly pallor. “Then I suggest you go and fetch this letter, Isabella,” he sucked in a ragged breath, “for I fear we have both been cruelly deceived.”

Chapter 11

Tristan paced back and forth while he waited for Isabella to return to the drawing room. He stopped, sat down on the settee, held his head in his hands as he attempted to make sense of their conversation.

One innocent comment, said in a fit of frustration, had now put everything he believed to be true into question. He rocked to ease the pressure building in his head. He could not bear to acknowledge the agonising ache wreaking havoc with his heart.

God, he hoped he was wrong. Living with the thought of her not wanting him had been torturous. To live knowing there had been a perfidious plan to keep them apart would be unbearable.

The door flew open. Isabella darted into the room in a state of agitation. “Here,” she said waving the heavily creased paper in the air. “This is the letter you sent to me.”

Tristan jumped to his feet and closed the gap between them. With hesitant fingers, he took the letter from her hand. He was desperate to read it, yet he knew the words would bring nothing but pain.

He tried to assess the faded script logically: it was not written in his hand. The long, confident flourishes were the mark of an arrogant man. Sucking in a breath, he read the first line. There was nothing untoward. The tone conveyed a warmth of feeling: she meant the world to him, which was why he had no option but to let her go.

My father was right. We are like kin. The love I feel is not what a man should feel for his wife. I made a mistake.

“Hell and damnation!” He covered his mouth with his hand for fear of bringing Satan’s curse down on everyone.

Isabella shuffled closer. Her flustered demeanour revealed an impatience for answers. “What is it, Tristan? Tell me. Now do you remember writing it?”

It is best that you leave here, that you leave Kempston Hall, for to be together will only serve to bring us both unnecessary pain.

Tristan tried to swallow, but his jaw held firm, locked and frozen in so rigid a position he was in danger of cracking the bone. Fury, red and hot, coursed through his veins. His vision grew hazy, the words on the paper lost in a blur.

“I did not write this.” He wanted to shout as a way to release the pent-up emotion. But despair washed over him like a giant wave sweeping away all traces of anger. “I did not write this,” he repeated quietly.

She grasped his arm. “What do you mean? Of course you wrote it.” She blinked rapidly, her eyes overly bright. “You mentioned our walks in the garden. You spoke of our plans to wed.”

Tristan shook his head. “I did not write it, Isabella.”

“Then who—” She broke on a sob. Clutching her throat, she stared at him, confusion and fear giving way to anguish. “What are you saying? You … you did not want me to leave Kempston? You did not want us to part?”