Only a Duke Will Do by Tamara Gill

Chapter 9

Over the next few days, Isolde didn’t see Moore or Her Grace at any of the events she attended. She hoped Merrick was able to help the duchess in some way, make their life more congenial and, above all else, safe for William and the child who was on the way. For, after what Leonora had done to William, there was nothing anyone could say about the duchess that would sway Isolde in what she now thought of the woman—that she was of unsound mind and required help.

Tonight she was to attend Vauxhall Gardens and sample all its delights. Ever since she’d been on the crux of adulthood she’d wanted to attend a ball in the Gardens, and now, finally, she was going to. The outing was just what she needed.

Her mother had refused to allow her to go prior to her betrothal to Moore, but now, as a woman well past her first blush, and with the assurance that Lord Kinruth and Anne would chaperone her, the duchess had finally relented.

She’d purchased a crimson gown of sheer cotton mull, embroidered with heavy red cotton thread in satin stitches and French knots, and a black domino for warmth that she fully intended taking off as soon as they arrived.

When the Kinruths arrived to accompany her, she was surprised to see Lord Wardoor sitting in the open carriage, the seat beside him empty, her name all but imprinted on the red velvet cushion.

Isolde tried not to see the reoccurring theme that had sprung up between the four of them. To the ton, it looked as if Lord Wardoor was courting her, and she was agreeable to the situation, but something about the man gave her pause. He was affable enough, but from what she understood of his life, it was dissolute, at best. He was certainly a man who would have to earn her trust.

The journey was short, and soon they were turning into the park, traveling toward the Temple of Comus, which she could just make out through the trees.

“We have a pavilion that’s close to the Italian Walk this evening. It should be grand, Isolde.”

Lord Kinruth laughed at his wife’s words, patting his stomach. “Are you trying to tell us that after the meal, we should walk off all the wonderful food and wine?”

Anne threw him an innocent glance. “Never. That’s what the dancing is for.”

Lord Wardoor nodded in agreement, keeping his direct gaze locked on Isolde. “I agree. Dancing tonight will be a must.”

They rocked to a halt, and she smiled her thanks as Lord Kinruth helped her down. The pavilion had a long, rectangular table within it, covered in a white linen tablecloth and an array of flowers and seasonal fruit. The tableware sparkled in the candlelight and gave the small room an air of elegance not normally found outdoors.

Music punctuated the still night as other groups of revelers headed toward their own destinations for the evening. Isolde took her seat and looked about, noting that the class distinctions were quite noticeable here. The pavilions held the wealthy, the upper ten thousand of London, while the people gathering around the orchestra, waiting for the dancing to commence, their gowns less ornate, their hair without adornments, were of the lower class. And some, by their antics, their cloying of the opposite sex, plied their trade each night within the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall.

At least the location was suitably named.

A liveried footman poured her champagne and she took a sip, seeing that not all the chairs were occupied within their little room. “Are there more guests to arrive?” The question died on her lips when Moore and Her Grace, accompanied by another couple Isolde didn’t recognize, joined them. She fought not to wince at Lord Barkley, who stumbled into their dinner with reddened eyes and a disheveled cravat, taking a seat beside the duchess, as if by right.

Lord Wardoor leaned toward her. “Don’t let Lord Barkley alarm you, my dear. He’s drunk, to be sure, but you’re among friends. No reason to pale. Your skin is fair enough already.”

“The northern climes are a more accurate assumption on my skin tone, my lord.” Isolde smiled and bid the new arrivals welcome while listening to Anne rattle on about the festivities she had planned for the night.

Isolde fought not to fidget as the intense gaze of Moore bore down on her from across the table. Taking a sip of champagne, her cheeks burned as she caught him staring. He was all casual elegance, leaning back against his chair without a care in the world, but beneath the facade was a man who was in no way shy of hiding what he was obviously thinking. His gaze flicked to her lips, and she inwardly swore. What on earth did he think he was doing! Was he as foxed as Lord Barkley?

She took another sip of champagne, hoping the fruity drink would cool her discomfort. It did not. The Duchess of Moore barked out a loud laugh, and Isolde jumped, almost spilling the contents of her drink down her gown. And soundly inappropriate, Her Grace leaned over, pulled Moore toward her, and kissed him on the lips.

Lord Wardoor coughed, meeting her eyes quickly. Her friend Anne was less circumspect and gaped at the duchess with absolute shock.

Isolde took in Lord Barkley’s reaction to such an open display of affection and read nothing but amusement in the gentleman’s visage. For a man who was supposedly having an affair with the duchess, she would’ve thought the opposite reaction more likely.

That the pair were possibly making fun of Moore, showing him the fool they believed him to be, irked. Merrick didn’t deserve such disrespect, and certainly not from his wife. All told, he was a good man, kind to his tenants and staff, and loved his child. He certainly took an interest in his offspring that many gentlemen never bothered doing. Many women had sought to capture his heart and become his duchess before he married, so why Leonora treated him thus, after she had tricked him into giving her his name, eluded Isolde. The duchess’s disdain for her husband made no sense. She narrowed her eyes as Her Grace finished the kiss and turned back to face them all, grinning.

Thankfully, the first course of leek soup was placed before her, and Isolde turned her concentration to the dish, hoping the dinner would end soon and she could escape to dance. To be seated at table with two people with whom she didn’t want to socialize was uncomfortable, at best.

And perhaps she was wrong in her assumption that Moore detested his wife. It was, after all, a rumor the ton had made up, due to their supposed loveless marriage. But Moore had allowed the kiss and so, perhaps, their marriage wasn’t as bad as everyone thought it to be. It was possible everyone was wrong. It had been some days since the incident with William; maybe Merrick had taken her advice and was trying harder to save his marriage and help his wife through her affliction.

She stared down at the creamy green soup, and an overwhelming urge to cry consumed her. It was wrong to allow the past to hurt her still, and yet it did. After seeing the duchess these past weeks in town, Isolde concluded that Leonora was, in fact, wholly to blame for what happened on the eve of her wedding. She ate a spoonful of soup. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. The letter she’d left, her amusement at being caught, and Merrick’s horror… How even now she liked to crow that she’d acquired Moore’s hand in marriage and Isolde had not. It fueled a long simmering anger to life, and Isolde took a deep calming breath. How dare she be so cruel? So selfish? So fake?

Lord Wardoor placed his napkin on his lap, pulling her from her thoughts. “You seem to like the soup. I’m so glad. I’ve taken great care with the menu tonight.”

Isolde met his gaze, surprised by the fact. “Have you hired this pavilion tonight, my lord? I thought Lord Kinruth had secured it for us.”

“Indeed it was I. No expense spared for people I hold above everyone else.” His smile left her in no doubt he was courting her in earnest. It had been so long since she’d been the object of anyone’s aim that it was a little unnerving.

“Thank you for allowing me to be invited. I’ve never been to Vauxhall before and have always wished to go.”

He picked up her hand, running his fingers along her gloved arm as he kissed it. “You’re very welcome. I’d do anything for a beautiful woman,” he whispered, for only her to hear.

She pulled her hand from his, looking about and hoping no one had noticed the kiss. The glower on Moore’s face, his lips pressed into a thin line, said more than words that he had witnessed it.

The duchess tittered, waving her hand to gather everyone’s attention. “I must announce my deepest thanks to my dearest friend, Lady Isolde, who helped out my husband with our son the other day. That you traveled with Moore, unaccompanied, mind, was probably not the best course of action for an unmarried spinster such as yourself, but these things happen, and I’m happy you were free to assist us.”

All eyes turned toward Isolde and heat suffused her cheeks. Flustered, she spoke indignantly. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

The duchess raised her brow innocently. “I’m sure you do beg my pardon for taking advantage of such a situation with a duke. And even though I know you were only trying to be a help to my family, and I’m grateful, truly, but I really must scold you for your impertinent actions in traveling alone with my husband in a carriage. I so wish for you to find a husband of your own, my dear. To marry before you’re too old to bear children.” Her Grace drank down the last of her wine, before jiggling the glass beside her head for a refill. A footman filled it immediately.

“Leonora, remember yourself,” Moore whispered, glaring at his wife and taking her wine away.

“Yes, remember yourself, Your Grace,” Isolde said loud enough for everyone at table to hear. “And perhaps you ought to remember why we were together in the first place. If you can.”

Lord Kinruth said, “Some dancing is in order, I think.”

“My most humble apologies.” Moore stood, pulling the duchess up to stand also, his hand firmly about her arm. “Excuse us a moment.”

Isolde watched them go, glad she hadn’t disgraced herself by speaking of why she’d been alone with the duke in the first place. But she would not allow Leonora to shame her in Society when she’d done nothing wrong. Perhaps she’d acted improperly in going with Merrick, but what else could she have done in such a situation? A child’s life had been in danger. No matter the cost, she could not have stood by and refused help at such a time.

“Were you really alone with Moore?” Anne asked, sitting beside her, her brow furrowed. “Why on earth would you do such a thing? It is plainly obvious the duchess dislikes you and looks to ruin you in Society. You must think of your reputation, Isolde.”

Isolde sighed, not wanting to remember the dreadful day and the cloying fear of why they’d been together in the first place. “If I tell you something, you must promise to keep it to yourself. You’re not even to tell Lord Kinruth. Can you do that?”

Anne nodded. “Certainly. You know you can trust me.” Anne turned to her husband and Lord Wardoor, who stood at the entrance to the box. “Darling, would you be so kind as to leave us for a moment. I wish to have a quiet chat with Isolde.”

Both gentlemen bowed. “I shall return soon to claim a dance.”

Anne smiled. “Thank you, dearest.”

When finally alone, Isolde told Anne of how she had happened across Moore on her way to Bond Street and the reasons behind his distress. Anne sat back, clearly at a loss for words. Her friend took in the throng of dancers outside and Her Grace, who was now partaking in a reel with Lord Barkley.

“How disgraceful of her,” Anne said, her tone full of censure.

“Very much so, and that she placed her son in danger is beyond forgiving. The woman she now portrays is nothing like the girl who was once my friend. She used to be so giving, loving, and now…” Isolde turned to watch the dancers, noting Leonora was already well on the way to being foxed or worse. “Now she’s callous, mean, and selfish.”

“And horrid toward you, most of all.” Anne clasped her hand. “Do not let Her Grace ruin your Season in town. Lord Wardoor is making it as clear as the air we breathe that he likes you above anyone else. He’s one of the most sought after gentlemen in Town, you know. You should make use of him.”

Isolde raised her brow. “Anne, what on earth are you talking about?”

“You should let him perhaps kiss you every now and again, allow him to show you there is more to this life than memories of a certain duke who left you standing at the altar.”

“He didn’t leave me standing at the altar. And Lord Wardoor is one of Moore’s closest friends. Wardoor was the one who introduced me to Merrick. Do you not think it would be odd to allow him to court me?”

Anne took a sip of her drink, grinning. “I’m merely stating he’s eligible and taken with you.”

To flirt with Wardoor seemed innocent enough, and yet something told her it would be similar to poking a lion with a stick that had a piece of meat on the end of it. “He’s also a rogue.”

“Even better.”

“Anne!” Her friend laughed and Isolde did the same, unable to stay shocked for long. “I cannot do that; I’ve always seen him as more of a friend than anything else.”

“May I ask you something? It is quite personal, so you may refuse if you like.”

“By all means.” Her friend looked around to ensure their privacy, and Isolde’s interest was piqued. “What is it, Anne?”

“Do you still love the duke?”

The blood drained from Isolde’s face, and she quickly took a sip of wine. “No.” The answer almost choked her. How could she still harbor feelings for a man whom she could not have and had married, not some unknown stranger, but her closest friend? A woman whom Isolde had seen almost as a sister. She could not love him. Not at all.

“Isolde, you may try to lie to yourself, but you cannot lie to me. You always bite your lip when you’re trying to keep something from me. Remember my birthday last year when Lord Kinruth hid the puppy he was to give me at your house? You were biting your lip every time I came around to visit.”

“How is dearest Poppet? I have not seen him for months,” Isolde asked, wanting to discuss anything but her feelings for Merrick.

Anne tapped her with her fan. “Do not try to distract me onto the subject of my dog. Now, tell me the truth. Do you still love Moore?”

Isolde spied Merrick standing alone beneath a copse of trees, his brow furrowed and his attention seemingly focused on the ground. Once upon a time she would’ve gone up to him, clasped his hand, and asked what was wrong. Once she would’ve kissed his concerns away. Once upon a time. What a terrible fairy tale that had turned out to be. “I don’t know what I feel for him,” she said. “He broke my heart into a million pieces, and yet, to be around him again is bringing forth emotions I hadn’t thought to concern myself with ever again. I shouldn’t care for him at all. He’s married to another, and no matter how abhorrent and loveless their marriage supposedly is, I cannot help but yearn to be near him. It’s an affliction that I cannot cure myself of, no matter how much I wish I could.”

“Oh, Isolde…”

“I know I’m a fool, and I should know better, but whenever we’re together I want what I lost. I want to pluck that day five years ago out of history’s page and throw it in the fire. Locking myself away in the Scottish Highlands may have removed him from my sight, but being thrown into the same social sphere has only made me realize I’m far from over my youthful engagement.”

Anne threw her a pensive look. “Do you think he still feels the same? Has he given you any indication that your feelings toward him may be returned?”

A shiver stole through her at the thought of some of the heated gazes Merrick had bestowed on her since returning to Town. Of how he sometimes looked as wretched and lost. “He may still care for me, but it doesn’t signify, as he’s married.”

“Yes, he’s married, but that doesn’t stop some gentlemen from claiming what they want. Perhaps Moore wishes to make you his chère-amie?”

Isolde didn’t even want to think such a thing or admit to herself that the thought was tempting. “No, he does not. He made his choice, but that doesn’t mean I can look to Lord Wardoor, either. I hardly know his lordship anymore, and I must be certain of my choice before I make any promises to anyone involving my future.”

Anne nodded. “You’d be wise to guard yourself with any of your gentlemen admirers, at least until you know them a little better.”

Lord Kinruth started toward the pavilion, a man who’d seemingly had enough time without his wife. Isolde finished her champagne and stood. “We will talk later. I see your husband is coming back.”

His lordship came into their pavilion and held out his hand. “My dearest wife, come dance with me. The music is as lively as you’ll find anywhere.”

Anne took his hand, but not before leaning toward her to ensure privacy. “While I agree that you should tread with caution with Wardoor, it doesn’t mean you cannot use his presence to make your Season one to remember. Even if you happen to marry a man who’s more sedate and, need I say it, boring.” No sooner had her friend said the words than she was whisked off into her husband’s arms.

Isolde watched her go and thought over her friend’s opinion. The man himself, as if sensing her musing of him, turned and started toward her. Lord Wardoor was handsome, with his short, well-kept hair and attire that was always perfectly starched. Isolde smiled back, for really, what gentleman hadn’t sowed his oats about Town and enjoyed himself before marriage? Wardoor really was no different than any other. Maybe Anne was right. Perhaps it was time to have a little fun and enjoy the privileged life she’d been born into. This Season was to take risks and see where they led her. She may not trust Wardoor at present, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t come to.

“Care to dance, my lady?” he asked, bowing over her hand.

“I would love to, my lord.” Isolde placed her hand on his arm and followed him into the crowd. They danced the Allemande, which gave them plenty of opportunity to converse. While Isolde never experienced the butterflies that took flight in her belly every time she was around Merrick, she had to admit that being in Wardoor’s arms wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, with his lively discussion on the night and the ton in general, Isolde found herself laughing and enjoying herself more than she thought possible.

Some hours later, the night had degraded into a scene that, should Isolde’s mother ever find out about, would’ve sent her home to Avonmore for a reeducation on proper decorum. Not that Isolde indulged in inappropriate behavior, but the scenes playing out before her, the light-skirts who plied their trade, and the gentlemen, some of whom she knew, who took up their offerings with gleefulness and pride, was a little shocking.

Lord Barkley and the Duchess of Moore seemed to have disappeared, and Isolde hadn’t seen them in an age. Not that the absence of his wife seemed to bother Moore, and again she wondered if the rumors about their marriage were true. To her, Moore was enjoying the night and seemed relaxed and happy. It was only when his wife was about that he took on an annoyed stoic character with a dash of fear, as if he was uncertain of what would come out of her mouth. It seemed, with Leonora, anything was possible.

“What is your meaning behind courting Lady Isolde? Do you mean to marry her?” Merrick met Wardoor’s eye and ignored the mocking laugher he read in them. They stood watching the orchestra and the array of dancing couples from all levels of Society who were out enjoying the music.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Wardoor took a sip of his wine. “And if I did presume to know what you meant, I wonder at your question, since you’re nothing to the lady. You’re not her brother.”

“We’ve been friends since we were in short coats. Why would you court a woman I once harbored feelings for? Whom I was going to marry?” Merrick clenched his jaw, hating the fact that his jealousy had made him have this conversation at all. He should not care a fig what Isolde or Wardoor did in their personal lives, but he did, blast it.

“Once had feelings? Are you sure you do not wish to make the delectable Isolde your own? Admit it, man, you’re jealous.”

Merrick ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could erase the last five years of his life and not be living this nightmare playing out before him. “You are not the marrying kind. If you hurt her…”

“Like you did?” Wardoor scoffed. “Please.”

“Because we’re friends, I’ll let your comment pass, but be warned, if you hurt one hair on Isolde’s head, I’ll kill you.” Merrick watched as Lord Kinruth took Isolde out for a dance, her face alight with pleasure. She was so very beautiful, long dark locks that were artfully up in an array of curls and partly hidden by her domino hood. An ache formed near the vicinity of his heart, and he rubbed his chest.

Wardoor sighed. “If I ask Lady Isolde to be my wife, she’ll know how I mean to go on, married or no. I’m not one to marry and bed only one woman for the rest of my life, and I will be honest with her in relation to this. It’ll be her choice, should she choose to saddle herself with me.”

“She deserves better than that, and you know it.” Not that he had bestowed any better on her. When did I become such a hypocrite?

Wardoor shrugged. “As I said, it’ll be her choice. And I must marry sometime. Isolde is pleasant and very beautiful. I’ll not struggle when it comes to bedding the chit to ensure my future heirs.”

Merrick clenched his fists, wanting to haul his friend up against a tree and land a good solid blow to his gut. The thought of Wardoor caressing Isolde, kissing her sweet mouth, having children with his former betrothed made him see crimson. “Do not speak of her in that way! She’s a duke’s daughter, and you’ll show the proper respect she’s entitled to. Don’t push me on this, friend.”

“Who the hell do you think you are? You may have been betrothed to the chit five years ago, but you no longer have the authority to chastise me on how I speak or choose to live my life.” Wardoor glared, and Merrick fought to control his rising temper.

“You will not marry her,” Merrick said, his voice brooking no argument.

Wardoor swore. “You lost the right to dictate her life when you married her best friend.”

“And you know the circumstances surrounding that night. The truth, I might add, and still you seek the one woman, above all else, who should not be sought after by you. If you court her, we are no longer friends.” Moore pushed him away, his body thrumming for a fight to release the pent-up anger over every disappointment he’d endured being married to the wrong woman.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but you cannot stop Isolde from marrying. She will marry one day. It may not be me, but it will be someone. And if the reports around London are correct, she is looking for a husband.”

“Damn you to hell.” Merrick left Wardoor, grabbed a half-filled bottle of whisky from the pavilion, and started toward the Italian Walk. He found a secluded grassy spot within the trees. The sweet-smelling scent floating on the breeze did little to lesson his ire.

Merrick clung to the tree branch above his head and fought not to snap it off, imagining it as Wardoor’s neck. He flung back a good portion of the whisky and welcomed the burn to his throat. How could his closest friend do this to him?

The thought of Isolde welcoming his attentions was like a physical blow.

Damn them. Damn him.

“Moore!”

It had always boded trouble when Isolde called him by his title. He turned, wanting and yet not wanting her here right at this moment. “My lady.”

She came up to him, standing but a few feet from his person, close enough to reach out and touch, to pull close and take what he desperately sought. And wished for.

“What do you think you’re doing, running off Wardoor from courting me?”

“He told you?” Merrick made a note to choke the bastard to death the next time he was in range to do so.

“Yes, he told me. After seeing you two trying to kill each other, in front of everyone, I might add, I asked him what you were about. Demanded to know, in fact.” She placed her hands on her hips, her perfect brow marred with a slight frown. Hell, she was beautiful. More beautiful than when he had met her at Cranleigh. “Now answer the question.”

“He’s my friend.”

She stood staring at him a while, before she slouched, as if gauging his meaning. “Merrick, you keep forgetting you married someone else. You have to let me go, if this is your struggle.”

It was his struggle. A constant gnawing on his soul that would never leave. “What if I do not want to?” And he didn’t. Never had. He’d loved this woman from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, and it had never faded. No matter how many years they’d been apart. “I should never have married Leonora.”

Isolde sighed, stepping closer and taking his hand. “Don’t say that. It’s unkind, and there is nothing anyone can do to change what’s come to be.”

“It’s the truth.” He slurred the last word and took a sobering breath when he spotted the near-empty whisky bottle at his feet. He was a disgrace. What was he doing here? Trying to seduce an innocent woman into being with him by using his pitiful existence as an excuse? Merrick ran a hand over his jaw lest he act on the impulse to taste her once more and be damned forever.

“You must think of William, Merrick. Your son and heir. He’s one precious soul you cannot regret.”

Merrick nodded. It went without saying how much he loved his son, more than life itself. Even if his lad had been fathered with a woman he loathed. “He’s the only saving grace in my marriage.”

Isolde walked to stand beneath a large elm and looked up at the sky. “What really happened that night, Merrick?”

He came and stood next to her, looking up to the heavens also, hoping to God that he could find the right words. “I’d had too much to drink with your father and brother. More than I should have imbibed the night before our wedding. It was quite late; even the servants were abed when I went upstairs. I had given my valet the night off, since I was to celebrate our forthcoming nuptials with your family and didn’t want the old retainer up all night.”

He met her gaze, but she didn’t venture to speak. Merrick fought the urge to reach out and touch her cheek, to touch her, however fleetingly. He fisted his hands at his side.

“I fell to sleep quickly and woke to someone crawling over me. It was dark, the fire having long burned down to coal. I couldn’t see much past my own nose. Leonora had your perfume on and her hair down, so it was of similar length to yours. I know I asked if it was you, and she shushed me, but stated, ‘yes’.” He cringed at the memory, hating to relive something that caused so much pain. “I never noticed the voice belonged to someone else.”

“But surely when you kissed her…it was different.”

Even in the moonlight Merrick could see the hurt reflected in her eyes, and he hated himself for being the cause of it. “I should have. I had wanted you in my bed for so long that I thought myself dreaming. Please know, I did not do it intentionally, Isolde. We were not having an affair. I was not playing you false, in any way. No matter what Leonora said otherwise, I swear on William’s life, I was faithful to you in all ways up to that point. I loved you. From the first moment we met, I wanted to marry you. Please say you believe me. Please forgive me.”

Isolde wanted to believe him. Had wanted to hear for years that Merrick had not broken her heart with intention, but even so, knowing what she now did, a restless fury ate at her, pricked her pride.

“We had been kissing for some time, Merrick. You should have known it wasn’t me in your bed, dream state or not.” Had the roles been reversed, not that Isolde would ever find herself in such a position, surely she would’ve noticed the difference.

The difference of lips. The difference of touch, taste, and smell. Merrick had always smelt of fresh laundered linen with a soft fragrance of lavender. She loathed the smell of that little purple plant now.

“It’s the one mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life.” Moore clasped her hand, and she pulled away, placing some distance between them.

She didn’t like how her body reacted when they were close, all shivery and achy in places she didn’t want to admit. She glowered at him instead and fought to sound stern with what she had to say next. “It’s time I married, Merrick, and for me to do that, you must allow others to form attachments to me. You cannot be involved with my suitors, in any way, from this night on.”

“Wardoor? He’s admitted himself that he’ll not be faithful. Is that truly the type of husband you wish for?”

She shrugged, having gathered that much herself from the reputation that preceded the gentleman. “That may be so, but I’m not looking for a love match. I’m looking for a husband who’ll give me a home, children, a future that’s not under the same roof as my brother.”

“You have Avonmore. There is no need for you to marry.”

She laughed, the tone condescending, even to her own ears. “How dare you. Who do you think you are? I am not allowed to marry because you cannot have me? You’re married with a child. Why should I not have the same?

“You, above anyone, knew how much I longed for children. To have a child of my own, to love and dote on? Am I not entitled to such happiness?” Anger thrummed through her; she needed him to see sense.

“I cannot watch you marry another.” His voice sounded hoarse and thick. There had been a time that, if she heard him speak so, she would’ve rushed to offer comfort, to ensure he was well. That she could not any longer, hurt more than she wanted to admit.

She glanced at him. “You have no choice.” Scant inches apart, she said, “You will watch me, Merrick, as I promise myself to another, marry someone who is not you, just as I had to.” He flinched. She was being cruel, but she could not help herself. Years of anger and frustration wanted to lash out and vent and, with Moore’s confession, he’d given her a port to do that. Her vision of him blurred, and she blinked away the tears, her heart and mind warring with each other. One wanted blood, to hurt and seize revenge, while the other wanted comfort, to forgive and be loved.

“That night was the only night I’ve ever been unfaithful to you.” His eyes beseeched her to believe him. And maybe Isolde did, not that it changed their situation.

“This,” she said, gesturing between them, “is no more. You must accept it.”

“I cannot,” he said, his gaze as glassy as her own.

“Leonora is pregnant, Merrick. You should not be here with me while your wife is carrying your second child.” She should leave, get as far away from this man as possible. Around Merrick she could not trust herself.

“The child is not mine. It’s impossible, as I have not touched Leonora since the night you caught us in my room.”

For a moment, Isolde was speechless, unable to comprehend that Merrick had not lain with Leonora in all this time. Then another dissembling thought occurred. The duchess was increasing with someone else’s child. How could she have such little regard to her station? “If what you say is true, and Leonora tricked us both the night before our wedding, why would she do such a thing? She broke my heart, the friendship we had, to marry you. To give her affections elsewhere makes no sense.”

“Leonora ruined all my hopes and was only ever after the title of duchess, Isolde. I have never forgiven her for that, and we do not have a marriage in any way. We share a roof, and that is all. I do not care how she lives her life or vice versa.”

“You should care,” she said, frowning. “You may never be able to forgive the duchess, but you must forget the past. Look to the future, enjoy your children, and make the situation you now find yourself in as best as it can be. You said you would try to help her curb her lifestyle. She is your wife, Merrick. You have to at least try.”

“I still love you.”

The words dropped between them like a cannonball, and Isolde gasped. “You cannot. I will not allow you to say such things.” She cleared her voice, hating that it sounded thick and uneven or that she longed to hear more of the same from him. That he’d always loved her. That he would shift heaven and earth to make her his again.

If only…

“There is nothing you can do about it,” he replied, running a finger along her arm all the way to where her glove sat at her elbow. Isolde shut her eyes, missing the touch of the one man who made her burn. “I love you as much today as the last day we were together at Mountshaw. Had your father and brother allowed me to know of your location, I would’ve followed you to Scotland. I would’ve begged your forgiveness and lived in sin with you, if it meant I could be with you.”

Isolde shook her head, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “Stop saying such things, Merrick. They help no one.” Not the least her, who had stupidly looked out from her bedroom window at Avonmore, willing his ducal carriage to appear on the hills beyond her estate.

“They help me. For years, I’ve carried this burden. That you did not know the truth. That you thought I would do such a heinous crime against you willingly. I would not. I could not.”

He stepped closer still, the hem of her gown sweeping across his Hessian boots. She should move away, run away from emotions she no longer had the right to feel, but she did not. Instead she stood still and started only the slightest when he ran a finger along her cheek before lifting her chin. “Merrick.” Isolde wasn’t sure if she was imploring or warning him.

“Please…” he begged, his eyes darkening with intent. Her eyes closed at the sound of his need, raw and consuming, and then, God save her sinning soul, she watched as he dipped his head as if to kiss her.

With a will born out of sheer desperation, Isolde pushed him away. “No, Merrick.”

He looked wretched. “Tell me you do not care. Look at me and declare that you do not want this as much as I.”

She hugged her domino about her like a shield, yet it did little to protect her from the man before her. Nothing could. Nothing ever had. “I will always care for you, Merrick. How could I not? We had planned and dreamed of a life together, one we both were desperate to start. But damn it,” she said, stomping her foot a little. “What do you want from me? You’re married, and I will not be your whore, no matter who is wrong or right in this putrid triangle in which we find ourselves.”

“I want to leave Leonora, but she’s threatened to spread a rumor that William is not mine.”

Isolde gasped. “Well then, you cannot. Think of your son and what it will do to your name. A family would never recover their good standing if such information got out. Even a duke’s.”

He growled, running a hand through his hair and leaving it on end. “I’m being selfish, I know. Certain members of the ton will think I’m a bastard, but the majority know the truth of the situation.” He took a step toward her, and she stepped back. “Being a duke will also help, to a certain degree, not to mention Leonora has a reputation as a liar among our peers. And I want you. It’s as simple as that.”

“Nothing is simple, and you cannot have me. Now or ever. Divorce is not an option, and you cannot risk placing a shadow of doubt on William’s parentage. He’s not to blame for what passed.” The truth of the words was like razors in her throat. They cut and hurt. “We shouldn’t even be here in such a private locale. This nocturne rendezvous is as wrong as what the duchess did to me to gain your hand, if what you say is true.”

“You think after how much I adored you, how much I wanted to marry you, that I would lie about how we were torn apart? It killed me to see you standing in my room, witnessing my shame, and unable to comfort you, as I wanted. Listening as lie after lie spewed from Leonora lips. Isolde, please…” he begged.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, tiredness swamping her. “Very well, I admit it, Merrick, we were wronged, and in the worst imaginable way, but the papers were signed and vows were spoken. We both must make the best of a situation that is not to our liking.”

“And so you will marry.”

The words sounded as dead as the prospect seemed, considering she would never marry the man before her. “Yes, I will marry. Is that what you want me to say? To torment you with?” She adjusted her tone, fearful others may hear. Tears blurred her vision, and she wrenched away when Merrick went to hold her. If he were to touch her now, she’d never have the strength to pull back, to walk from a man who should be hers. “Be happy for me, please.” Isolde turned to leave, her feet as heavy as stone. “You mustn’t seek me out again, Merrick. I have a life to live, as you do, and you must allow me to live it, just as I have you.” She swiped at a tear and fumbled for her handkerchief, hating every word she spoke, and Leonora more for placing them in the situation in the first place.

“It’s not over between us, Isolde,” Merrick said, the words a low growl in the darkened gardens.

“Do as I ask, I beg you.” Isolde left quickly, thankful when the row of pavilions came into view, and Anne, who stood before them, but the pensive look on her face gave her pause.

Isolde checked that Merrick wasn’t following her as she exited the entrance to the Italian Walk. What had she been thinking pursuing him into the park? They could not be anything to each other than passing acquaintances.

Nothing more could come of it. If she was to have any chance of forming a future with anyone else, she needed to forget what it was like being back in Merrick’s arms. Of longing to be back there again, if only for a moment. Once married, she would never look to anyone else, no matter what the marriage bed was like. A duke’s daughter did not cuckold her husband. She had almost kissed Merrick while he was married to another woman. A stab of shame shot through her heart. That was not who she was, and never again would she allow such a slip.

She had acted no better than the loose women plying their trades here this evening.

Lord Wardoor joined Anne and looked about. Spotting her, he smiled in welcome. “I’m glad you’re back. I was about to come find you. We were getting a little worried.”

Isolde laughed, ignoring the nervous edge to it. “I went for a little stroll. I’m sorry I did not tell you.”

Lord Wardoor’s attention snapped to where she’d walked from, and Isolde didn’t need to turn to know who had appeared; the narrowing of his eyes and thoughtful expression was proof enough.

“Well, you are back now, which is all that matters,” Wardoor drawled.

Anne smiled at her. “I believe Lord Kinruth wishes to leave. Are you ready, my dear?”

“Whenever you are,” she said, placing her hand on Wardoor’s arm. “I’m at your disposal.”

They walked toward the carriages, discussing the night and the remainder of the Season, which was starting to pick up in gaiety, before Moore stepped before them, halting their progress.

Heat bloomed on her chest and rose up her neck. She took a calming breath and met Merrick’s intense, frustrated gaze head on.

“Good night, my lady.” Moore bowed before her, holding her gaze longer than he ought.

Wardoor cleared his throat. “Moore.”

“Wardoor.” The name sounded like an insult and Isolde moved quickly to the carriage. She tampered down the conflicting emotions zipping around her insides, determined to forget this night and look only to the future. “Good night, Your Grace,” she replied, taking her seat. “Please give my regards to the duchess.”

Merrick nodded before walking away, not bothering to acknowledge Lord Wardoor’s farewells.

Isolde noted Wardoor’s attention didn’t leave Moore until he was out of sight. That she was coming between friends left a sour taste in her mouth, but for all Wardoor’s rakish tendencies, he was suitable for her, as Anne had said. If only she could have some of the attraction that she’d always had for Moore when it came to Wardoor. It would certainly make marrying the man a lot easier to allow.

He was one of Moore’s closest friends. How fiendish could Wardoor be? No more than any other who were a part of their set. Others had married for lesser qualities and been happy with their choice. Had lived long, contented lives that eventuated with children. A happy thought, if ever there was one. There was no reason she could not also.