What Isabella Desires (22 page)

“But there is a particularly nice rosebush just on the edge of the garden. I know you are fond of flowers. I myself have composed no less than ten sonnets about the folds of roses.”

“Lovely,” she said, not budging from her spot on the spongy grass.

“Just a tiny peek? I promise it will be worth it.”

“No, but thank you for the invitation.”

The strains of a melody drifted on the air. She watched the last few people in the gardens drift back toward the doors, the rest of the guests on the terrace also moving, and she took that as her cue to return inside.

His hand smoothly wrapped around her elbow. “But I insist.”

She gave him a withering stare. “Mr. Ellerby, this grows tiresome. I acceded to your wish for a stroll. Don’t you have dances to lead?”

It wasn’t a particularly genteel thing to say, but she was past feeling bad for being rude. She had no idea why Ellerby was even playing at interest in her. She wasn’t his style or the type of woman he usually chased, and furthermore, she had given him no returned interest. No reason to assume she would “come ’round.” Perhaps it was the challenge, but even that should have become tiring for him by now.

“A dance to lead you to a flowering bush.”

She moved away from him, but he pulled her back, none too gently.

“Remove your hand from me at once.”

“Not until you do as I say. You are coming with me.”

She twisted. “No, I most certainly am not.”

“You are, or I will dispose of you right here.”

She stopped and stared at him, unsure she had heard him correctly. “Dispose of me?”

He tugged her and she stumbled.

“And if I don’t come with you…you will dispose of me ‘here’? As opposed to somewhere else?”

“Stop talking.”

“What are you playing at, Ellerby?”

“If there was one thing I could do differently about this whole scheme, it would be to sew your lips together. You think you are so high and mighty.”

She looked around her. Everyone had gone in, but the doors were still open. She could still scream and bring them all running. That thought calmed her.

“Many people saw us out here together—some of them will remember we are missing in the next few minutes and come to investigate, if only for a piece of gossip. What are you going to say when I go missing and people question you?”

“That you wished to sit in the gardens. That you were heartbroken from Roth’s callous treatment. That I acceded to your wishes,” he said snidely, “to leave you alone.

“I will, of course, pretend to be crushed that I couldn’t change your mind,” he went on in a nasty tone. “That you were so depressed, embarrassed, and in despair you pitched yourself into the Thames.”

She twisted her arm again. “Hardly likely.”

His hand tightened further on her arm and his face pushed into hers. “It doesn’t matter if it’s likely or not. People will believe me. And you are in disgrace.”

“Hardly disgrace. Society barely believes I would have the nerve to so ‘disgrace’ myself.”

“Is that why you’ve been getting so many narrowed, probing stares tonight? Do you believe your own lies, Lady Willoughby?”

“I suppose I do at that, Mr. Ellerby. It seems we have something in common after all.”

His face purpled.

She didn’t know why she was so deadly calm. Perhaps it was the unreality of the situation. Fenton Ellerby was threatening her life. Somehow it seemed comical. Although he might have killed people—the body in Marcus’s yard attested to that. Or hired people to do it. Little better than cowardice.

“You’re a coward, Mr. Ellerby. A little boy experiencing a tantrum. Unable to act like a man.”

If she ever spoke to Marcus again, she’d have to apologize for calling him a coward. Not that he didn’t somewhat deserve it, but his actions stemmed from a fear to protect others, and not from his own selfish indulgences.

“I am not a coward! I am a man. I am more than you will ever know. I should be serving in the Lords. I should be the one wielding the power. Roth should never have deposed my—”

His mouth snapped shut and he gripped her arm even more tightly, pushing her backward toward the gardens, an area that opened to the rest of the estate. She would be beyond the call for help soon, and her arm hurt.

She lifted her foot from the grass and kneed him between the legs. He released her instantly and pitched over onto the grass, groaning and holding himself.

She leaned down. “See you inside, Mr. Ellerby, if you aren’t too much of a coward to hear what I tell the rest of the assembly about what happened out here and where this bruise on my arm came from.”

She turned to walk up to the house, and blinked to see Marcus and Viscount St. John pulling up short not ten feet away. St. John was breathing heavily and smirking. Dark rage painted Marcus’s features.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” She pushed forward to the house, rubbing her arm.

Marcus’s hand shot out and his fingers curled around her other arm. Unlike Ellerby’s grip, however, his was warm and comforting.

“You dropped Ellerby.”

The anger and fear in his voice melted her ire for a moment. “My father taught me a few tricks to defend myself. I told you I could take care of myself weeks ago.”

“So you did.” His eyes dropped to her bruised arm and he ran soft fingers over the purpling patch of skin. “Sinjun, take care of Ellerby, will you? I’ll speak with him later.”

St. John followed his instruction, handling Ellerby none too carefully as he half dragged the moaning man across the grounds.

They were both silent for what felt like several minutes, just staring at each other before Isabella said, “Do you know what that was about?”

Marcus studied her for several more seconds. “Fenton Ellerby is the illegitimate son of Yarnley.”

She blinked. “Come again?”

“Baron Yarnley was known for his liaisons. He carried on an affair with Ellerby’s mother while she was married. Fenton was the result. It never crossed my mind, but it should have. He and his brother Charles look nothing alike.”

“So he was trying to bring Yarnley back to power?”

“Yes. And if he couldn’t, to take revenge. He is the heir to the Ellerby estates, but he would much rather be the heir to Yarnley’s title and estates, which due to his birth he never will.”

“But why the elaborate plans, the revenge?”

Marcus shook his head. “I’m sure Yarnley promised him all manner of things.”

“But he could never gain his title.”

“No, but we don’t know what Yarnley promised. He had the king’s ear before he was disgraced. Perhaps he promised Ellerby a new title to be given by the king, not that he was or is in any position to make such a promise. My men are on their way to speak to Yarnley and discover the truth.”

“And he was after you because you disgraced his father?”

Marcus’s lips tightened. “Yes. It was probably Yarnley’s idea in the first place. Take away my men, take away my power, take away anything that meant something to me.”

She wet her suddenly dry lips.

“Oh.”

He pivoted and began walking. Away. Away from her.

“Wait, Marcus.”

He stopped and turned back to her. It was difficult to breathe all of a sudden.

“I know. I know about the orphanage, the home. I know why you keep everything so stringently in place.”

His entire body went motionless, as if he were a marble statue placed amidst the rosebushes.

“Do you?”

She took a step toward him. “I can help. I’ve been researching all sorts of remedies to stave off the onset.”

He laughed. The sound caused her to run her hands up and down her bare arms. “Stave off the onset?”

He closed the gap between them and ran his hands down her arms and over the top of hers. His lips whispered against her ear.

“What is it that you think you know, Bella? That I am going blind? Oh, I assure you, the end result will be much worse than that.”

She shivered. “What do you mean?”

“Did you know my father’s organs failed?” he asked, almost conversationally. “One at a time. He would have fits. He would cough up blood. So much that we couldn’t stem it. He went blind early on. Early enough that he didn’t see the effects on his limbs, didn’t see the marks.”

His fingers moved into her hair and tilted her head back.

“He couldn’t move from bed. Weak, so weak that everything had to be done for him. He was a proud man. Arrogant. Hated the fact that he had to be helped at first. But finally worn down to not even having that. Not even caring about pride. Just wanting relief.”

His lips caressed hers, and she closed her eyes against the relief in having him touch her once more, against the pain of his words.

“So what is it that you think you know, Bella?”

He pulled away and she stared up at him.

“Do you think you can save me? That somehow you can circumvent what happened to my father, and his father before, though my father and mother both spent endless amounts of money to find treatment? Spent hours with doctors and men who claimed to have a secret cure?”

“I just want to be there with you. No matter what happens.”

Pain flashed through his eyes and he pushed away from her.

“Is that so? Why?”

“Because I love you.”

A humorless sound escaped him. “And you think that’s enough?”

“Yes.”

“How pleasant for you that you can think so well.” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, how did you feel when your husband, George, was ill? Did you sit at his side writing sonnets? Pretending that everything would be fine?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No, it most definitely is not. How did you feel, Bella?” Her name came out as a caress.

“I was scared.”

“But how did you really feel? Did you begrudge him, just a little, for being ill? For the hardship it caused? For the sleepless nights and empty days?”

“The days were never empty.”

“No, they were filled with taking care of a man beyond your care.”

“I’ve learned more since then. Spent my time trying to increase my knowledge.”

“And you think this will help you with the next ill man you decide to care for?”

“No!”

“Do you find it satisfying to take care of ill men? Do you find me a challenge, or a way to atone?”

She swallowed. “I keep thinking you can’t hurt me anymore than you already have. You keep proving me wrong.”

She thought she saw raw pain in his eyes, but he started circling her again.

“I’m just trying to keep you from making a dreadful mistake.”

“I won’t. And if I do, I make it willingly.”

He was silent for a second. “Did you help George?”

“Yes, as much as I could.”

“Did you sit at his bedside?”

“Yes.”

“Did you read stories to him?”

“Yes!”

“Did you trudge up and down those long stairs to cleanse him, strip linens, tend his wounds, feed him? Too consumed in your own feeling of guilt to send a servant?”

She pressed her lips together.

“Bella, did you feel guilt?”

“I felt guilt,” she whispered.

“Because he was ill and you were not? Because for a moment, just a moment, you wished you were elsewhere?”

“Yes—” Her voice broke.

“And upon his death? You felt pain, surely, but also a sense of relief. That finally, finally, it was over. That you weren’t sure if you could have taken another day. That you didn’t know why this had happened to you?”

She couldn’t answer, tears distorted her vision, something blocked her throat, her head shook from side to side in denial. Denial that could not pass her lips.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. And another.

He stopped in front of her and wiped the tears. Gently. Carefully.

“The pain never goes away, does it, Bella? It just sits there eating away at you. You’ve always thought yourself a good person, yet you think, ‘How could you be good with feelings like this?’”

She brokenly nodded.

“And you keep it buried inside, not sharing it with anyone else, for what if they confirmed it—confirmed that you are all of the evil things you’ve been thinking?”

“Yes.”

“And maybe if you shove it down as far as you can, if you ignore it for long enough, it will go away.”

“Yes.”

He lifted her chin. “It will never go away until you accept it. Accept that you are having thoughts that anyone would in your situation. For doing far more than most to make your husband’s life easier, to make his ending, if not happy, then peaceful. For loving him, even when you resented—not him, but the situation forced upon you both.”