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“But… Aren’t you curious?”
Isabel shook her head resolutely, and Rhys let out a breath of relief. She trusted him.
But what if the contents of those letters would change Isabel’s mind? He wanted to know what kind of compromising evidence Beatrice had on him. It was probably all lies. Rhys might have been rude and arrogant, but he had never acted in a way that Isabel would find repulsive enough to leave him. Or at least he hoped he hadn’t.
Still, he wanted to see what lies Beatrice had gathered about him.
“Whatever is in there, Beatrice wanted you to know,” Rhys insisted.
“Well, I don’t want to know. I do not want to read what your former wife had to say about you.” She lifted the bundle in her hands. “And these are probably lies.”
“What if they’re not?”
She bit her lip and studied his face carefully. “You are curious. It is understandable. Perhaps if I was in your place, I would want to know as well. But it isn’t my place to read them.” She held out the letters. “You can if you want.”
There was a pause as Rhys stood watching the bundle in her hands with an empty gaze.
“And after you’re done, you can tell me if you still want me to know what’s in them. I mean, truth or lies, these are intimate details about your life with your former wife. And I do not want to intrude unless you read the contents first.”
She nudged the bundle toward him. Rhys took a deep breath and accepted the letters.Do I really want to know?
Something told him that he needed to.
* * *
Isabel entered her room to prepare for the opening ball. She hadn’t seen Rhys since this morning when she’d nudged the bundle of letters his way. He’d left to read them in peace. Part of Isabel wished she had gone with him, held his hand, or just sat by his side.
Where was he? What was written in those atrocious letters to make him disappear? And if he didn’t return soon, what would Isabel do? How would she host the opening ball of the house party without him?
Surely he did not mean to leave her all alone!
She walked farther into the room and was about to call Anthea to help her change for the ball when she noticed the letters scattered on her bed. She walked toward them with quick steps and gathered them into her hands. A note enclosed with them was scribbled in Rhys’s hand, and it only said two words:
Read them.
Isabel looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. “I’ll read them later,” she whispered. First, she needed to prepare for the ball. If she didn’t, she might not have the strength after she’d read whatever those letters had to say.
So Isabel called for Anthea, got dressed, and pretended nothing was amiss until her maid left the room. She settled on the bed, took a deep breath, and started reading.
The letters started about a year into Abigail and Rhys’s marriage. At first, they didn’t seem that important. Abigail had complained that she did not enjoy her lot in life, calling Rhys cruel for not buying her more dresses or staying a long time in the country while she wanted to be in London. She was bored in the country home and unhappy with her husband. More than once, she mentioned she wished she could conceive an heir so Vane would be able to finally leave her alone, and she’d be free to carry out her liaisons in public, without fear.
Isabel swallowed. So she’d already had her liaisons at that time. Isabel’s heart squeezed for Rhys. The woman had never loved him, and Rhys seemed unable to please her no matter what he did. But her letters were also full of fear.
What if I am barren as people whisper in the shadows? I shall have to stay with him forever.
Isabel’s heart squeezed because she was afraid of a similar fate but for different reasons. What if she never conceived an heir for Rhys?
Isabel made it to the last letter, not quite comprehending which information from the woman’s scattered thoughts would help her escape her marriage if need be. Or what Rhys thought was so imperative for her to know.
She picked up the last envelope and read the contents.
Dear Beatrice,
I am finally with child, though with no help from my husband. The ease with which I conceived makes me realize that I have not been the problem all along. Nobody would believe me that the marquess is the one who can’t give me children. The poor bastard tied me to him and wasn’t able to carry out his main duty—to sire a son.
If I am carrying a girl, pray for me because I shall attempt to run off with Marcus.
Much love,
