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Chapter Twenty-Three
Standing at the east drawing room entrance, Louisa heldthe tray of refreshments with trembling hands. The words Isaac had just said were making her body flash hot and cold.
No…I am not in love with anyone now, and I do not know when, or if I will be.
Every fear she had told Amelia was coming true, right before her eyes. Isaac did not love her—it was plain now that she had been fooling herself. Why had she ever thoughtthis fantasy would work—a maid being with aDuke, how laughable.
She swallowed backher hurt and managed to knock on the half-opened door. Isaac pivoted on his heel, and when his gaze landed in hers, he looked stricken.
“Pardon me, Your Grace and My Lady,” Louisa said, hating how thick and hoarse her voice was. After clearing her throat, she tried again. “Mrs. Wickham has sent up repast for you.”
She bent to lay the tray on the table while feeling the piercing gaze of Miss Follet’s eyes on her. When Louisa straightened, she saw the lady’s eyes flicker to Isaac and narrow. But she could not mind either other them. “Please enjoy.”
“I would,” Miss Follet said while standing in a gracious flow of silky cloth.“Sadly, I am on the way out. Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.”
Isaac reached for a box near him and silently handed it to Miss Follet, who took it with a light hold and tipped up on her toes to kiss his cheek. A bitter stone sunk into a Louisa’sstomach, and she forced her eyes away from the two. But from the corner of her eyes, she saw the lady whisper something in Isaac’s ear, and then with a smile, and a coy look to Louisa, she left the room with a flutter of skirts. Her black-clad chaperone gave Isaac a quick curtsy and left the room.
Isaac turned to Louisa, who trained her attention on the tray. “Will you have anything in this, Your Grace?”
“Louisa, I—”
She took the tray and moved to the door. “Pardon me, Your Grace.”
He tried to stop her again, but Louisa would not have any of it, and she fledto the kitchens, as she still had a job to do, no matter how mortified and heartbroken she was. She rested the tray on the table, grateful that most of the staff were cooking and the others were tending to the rooms in the manor.
She sank to her elbows and sucked in a deep breath, as the airin her chest felt trapped, and her eyes began to burn with unshed tears.
He denied me—he told her that he was not courting, and he was not in love with anyone. But I would not have expected him to say that he is with his maid—his simple, poor, inelegant maid.
But then, before that, shehadheard Miss Follet confess her love and to him, but then, why hadIsaac acted so cold? She covered the plates and began moving woodenly around the kitchen. The feeling had sat low inside her heart for days upon days, and now she realized the ominous feeling had been right.
She could not stay with Isaac; he wasa duke; she was a maid. Isaac deserved a woman liked Helena, one that would be his best match. She had heard the bitter words he had said to her and knew that he might not want to be with Miss Follet anymore, but he deserved a woman from that class.
Louisa looked out the window to the stables, where just that morning she had hidden a gift for him—now, would he take it from her, seeing as he felt nothing for her?
“Miss Stone?” Mrs. Wickham’s sternand disapproving voice cut into her thoughts. “Stop the woolgathering and dilly-dallying and get to the west wing.”
“Yes, Mrs. Wickham, I’ll attend to it, right away. I am sorry,” she curtsied and hurried away to clean.
***
It was a miracle that there was not a furrow in the drawing-room’s floor with how hard Isaac paced on it. His left hand grabbed his hair while he walked; his stomach was somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. Louisa had heard it all, every word of it—even the lies that he knew she did not know were lies.
Helena had managed to get the last dig in when she whispered in his ear, “So that is where your affections lie.”
He wore his feet out and finally sank to a chair, only to hunch over to and bracehis elbows on his knees. Louisa must know the truth, how deeply in love he was with her. He had to find her—he stood and made for the door—but then he stopped.
It would look odd for him to pull Louisa away from her work, and he needed to get his thoughts in order. He sank back to the seat and tilted his head to the window.
Forgive me, Louisa. I will explain it all to you when we have a chance.
Eventually, he stood and moved to the door, then headed to his study and there, forced himself to do some work. The hours passed by in ruffles of papers and the scratching of a quill-pen until dusk fell, and he could not take it anymore.
He felt as if he was suffocating, and so stood and left for his mother’s garden. The many evenings he and Louisa had spent there were some of the happiest ones of his life, and as he made his way to the bench, he turned the corner and stopped in his tracks.
Louisa was there—but she was not alone. With its front paws on her knees aIrish Wolfhound’s pup preened under her loving ministrationswhenshe rubbed his ears and scratched his muzzle. He had not have seen a better image in his last two years and a hard, thick lump formed in his throat.
She looked up, and her smile slipped off her face a little, but she nodded, “Good evening.”
