“How could you, Your Grace? Were you not unconscious for much of it?”
He laughed. “That is a very good point. Isolde, would you mind if Mr. Pemberton steals you away?”
Her mouth was dry, her tongue was heavy, and she was unable to speak. All she could do was gawk.
“I can assure you, it will be a quick process,” Mr. Pemberton said to her. “I know how…fondHis Grace is of you. He would have to be, for the two of you to be engaged. Truly, a most wonderful pairing, I must say.”
The duke took her hand and gave it a squeeze as he looked at Mr. Pemberton. “Be gentle with her, Mr. Pemberton. I rather like this one.”
“As if she were a newborn, Your Grace.”
Isolde remained speechless, her stomach twisted into knots, her entire being threatening to rebel as if her skeleton was trying to flee from her body. She forced a vague smile and did her best to appear nonplussed, but it was a lousy effort.
Luckily, the duke was far too enamored by his manor to notice.
They walked through the giant front doors and into the extensive foyer. It was two stories tall. The floor was sheen marble, and the walls were decked with paintings and expensive pieces of art. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the staircase, which ran up to the second and third level, was wide, sweeping, and lined with thick purple carpet.
“This is…” The duke gaped as he craned his head to take it all in. “Are you sure that nobody else lives here?”
“Apart from the two dozen servants? No, Your Grace. You are the master of this home…” Mr. Pemberton’s eyes flicked toward Isolde. “At least for now.”
The duke laughed and shook his head, seeming utterly bewildered by the expense and the opulence. He gingerly touched a porcelain vase that sat on display, he admired a suit of armor that stood rigid and shining, and he let go a low whistle when he wandered to the main doorway and took in the stretching hall that ran back further through the manor.
“I will come and find you when I am done.” The duke took Isolde by both hands and met her eyes. Despite it all, he looked at her as if she were even more impressive than this manor. “I won’t be long.”
“I…” Her voice cracked. “I look forward to it.”
The atmosphere in the foyer changed the moment the duke left.
It turned colder. Heavier, somehow. Isolde shuddered and rubbed her shoulders. And when she found Mr. Pemberton watching her—his stare made of ice and his expression as hard as granite—she very nearly screamed.
“This way, thank you.” He turned on his heel and strode down the adjoining hall.
Isolde followed in silence.
Their footsteps echoed through the wide-set halls. Isolde had to hurry to keep pace with the steward. Mr. Pemberton walked with purpose. Not once did he look back to make sure that she was with him, and while she could not read minds, it was not a struggle to guess what thoughts were at the forefront of his.
He knows. Of course he does! And now, he is going to force me to admit it.
Isolde thought quickly, trying her best to come up with an excuse. Should she admit what she had done? Should she lie? What could she possibly say that might save her?
Nothing came to mind, of course, and when Mr. Pemberton ushered her into a small, nondescript office, Isolde knew that she was doomed. There was nothing that she could do or say… This, right here, was the end of her.
Mr. Pemberton walked across the room toward an empty desk. He stepped around it and sat on the chair. Then he folded his hands, straightened his back, and looked right at her.
“The seat, thank you.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Take it.”
“I…” Isolde’s knees trembled. “I would prefer to stand.”
“The seat,” he said again without blinking. “Take it.”
The duke was not there to save her now. In this little room, Mr. Pemberton was in control. His stare was still cool. His expression was still hard. And while she had no doubt that he could be warm, perhaps even friendly and kind, she knew such social graces would not be extended to her.
Seeing no other choice, Isolde took the seat.
“I first came into His Grace’s employ when he was just five years old.” Mr. Pemberton was sure to look directly at Isolde as he spoke, not so much as blinking. “I will not disparage the man’s father, for it is not my place to do so, but let it be said that he was not a particularly loving man. His Grace, when I met him, was withdrawn—even scared of he who had borne him and was supposed to care for him—and I knew on that first day that there was nothing I would not do to keep him safe.”
Isolde said nothing. She tried to hold Mr. Pemberton’s eyes but could not bring herself to do so. She tried to sit still and appear proud and confident, but she fidgeted terribly.
