thirty-one
Anthony read again the letter Patrick had sent him from Cabo Verde. Usual chatter about the weather, business, and the beautiful Sophia. Patrick claimed to be utterly smitten with her. Not a word about Isabella. Of course, he didn’t know about her condition yet.
Anthony lowered the letter on his desk and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Patrick—a gentleman who thought only about pleasure, didn’t seek marriage, and was out of London. The description of Isabella’s mysterious lover fit his brother like a glove. Even the rules…Patrick had spoken about his rake’s rules. Something about no gossip, no marriage, but only pleasure.
Not to mention that Isabella and Patrick had spent a lot of time together before he left for Cabo Verde. And she was looking for him that day when she’d fainted.
He exhaled. Patrick. Damn Patrick. Curse his bloody urges.
Fatigue more than anger flared up in Anthony’s chest. The sleepless night had dampened his mood, and Patrick was lucky an ocean separated them.
He thumped the desk, causing the pencils to rattle. There was little he could do now, and Isabella was his wife. Patrick would be dealt with when he returned. This time, Anthony would not protect him.
He went to Isabella’s room, his footsteps the only sound in the corridor. Since the incident, the house had been eerily quiet. The servants did their best not to make noises that might disturb her.
“Isabella?” He knocked on the door.
Lawson, who was now Isabella’s guard dog, opened the door. “Your Grace.”
“You may leave now. I wish to be alone with my wife.” He walked past her.
For once, the maid didn’t hesitate.
Isabella’s pallor hadn’t improved. Her lips were bloodless as well. He didn’t remember the last time he’d seen her smiling. No, he couldn’t confront her about Patrick. Not now. She needed to be fully recovered.
He sat on the bed next to her. “Are you bleeding again?”
“No.” She tried to sit up, but winced.
“Let me.” He slid an arm around her waist and gently pulled her up. She was as frail as a sparrow.
When she was up and resting against the pillows, he released her.
“Did you want to talk to me about something?” she asked after a moment of silence.
“No. I just wanted to see how you were faring.”
“I’m improving. It doesn’t look like I am, but I am.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Yes.” She shifted on the pillows. “I would like to know what you think. Have you changed your mind about your marriage to me? Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” The answer came out quickly without him thinking. But it was true.
He didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want an annulment, and not because an annulment or a divorce would tarnish the House of Beaufort’s reputation. She was his wife, and he’d sworn to protect her.
And he cared about her.
He closed his hand around hers as a new riot of opposing emotions waged war inside him. There was anger at having been deceived, disappointment at her lies, and a sense of defeat. But despite all that, he wanted her to stay with him because there was tenderness and care as well.
A knock came from the door. “Your Grace?” the maid said.
He removed his hand. “Come in.”
The maid carried a tray with a steaming cup. “For Your Grace.” She placed the tray on the nightstand.
