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Abigail
Isabel blinked, then reread the letter a few times to make sure she’d understood it correctly. The date of the letter corresponded with the date of Millicent’s birth. Abigail spoke of Millicent in the letter.
Millie was not Rhys’s.
Isabel’s fingers shook as she placed the letter on the bed, her heart hurting for Rhys.
“Did you read them?” Rhys said from the doorway, and Isabel jumped.
“Rhys! Where have you been?” She hopped to her feet and hurried toward him, but he stepped away from her.
He was impeccably dressed for the ball, but his eyes were red as if he’d been crying. Isabel took a tentative step toward him. “Rhys—”
“Did you?”
Isabel nodded. “I did.”
“And do you still want to stay married to me?”
Isabel blinked. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Even if I can’t give you children?”
There was a knock on the door, and then Mr. Monroe stepped in with the flourish. “It is time for your first dance, my lord, my lady.”
Isabel looked at Rhys. He stood silently for a moment before offering his arm. Isabel took it, her fingers shaking as she rested her hand on a steel-hard arm.
They walked through the house and into the ballroom in silence. As the lord and lady of the house, it was a tradition for them to start the ball with the first waltz. So they glided to the center of the ballroom, Rhys took Isabel into his arms, and the moment the music started, he swept her into a dance.
Rhys was a perfect dancer. His form was impeccable, his movements soft and smooth, and Isabel would have enjoyed the dance under any other circumstances, but her thoughts were not on the dance floor.
“Have you thought about it?” Rhys asked.
“About what?”
“A divorce,” he said nonchalantly as he whirled her around the dance floor. Other couples started joining them, and Isabel smiled at them as their eyes met.
“Are you out of your mind?” Isabel said to Rhys. “Why would I think of divorce?”
“You said you read the letters.”
“And they told me nothing except that your late wife—may God rest her soul—was a selfish, vile woman. And I don’t know how Lady Mowbray thought any of those ramblings would help me escape the marriage if I wanted to.”
“By declaring me unfit to give you a son.”
“Ramblings of a departed, lost soul do not constitute evidence, Rhys. You are physically capable. People would sooner think me barren than believe that you—”
“That’s not the point,” Rhys interrupted sternly.
“Then what is the point?” Isabel cried, then composed her features as they passed yet another couple. “Because I do not understand.”
“The point isyoucan get a divorce. I can grant it to you. We can say I sustained an injury and am unable to perform my marital duty.”
“But you can perform—”
“It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t result in a babe.” He looked away.
Isabel’s head was beginning to spin. “Rhys, I can’t discuss this while we are spinning around the ballroom.”
