They both watched Isla turn another page in her book, her elegant gloved fingers tracing the lines.
“No wonder ye’ve never touched a woman in all the years I’ve known ye. I wouldn’t either, had I such a bonnie lass waiting for me at home.”
“Ross.” A warning. “She was never waiting. Our marriage was over as soon as it began. I’m theeejitstill holding a candle, unwilling to blow out the flame of my love.”
More silence.
Isla turned another page.
“I’m not sure Fletch will forgive ye. For not telling him, that is.”
“Aye.” Tavish pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t . . . I can’t manage this. What I feel and—”
“Balfour! Ross!” Fletch’s voice boomed outside the library door.
Ross gave Tavish a look of sympathy. Fletch bounded into the room—smiling, happy, and oblivious. The sight cut Tavish like a dagger.
“There you two are!” Fletch said on a laugh. “The ladies are asking for you. Or rather, the ladies were hoping Ross here would assist them with untangling some knitting wool in the morning room.” His gaze turned to Tavish. “And Balfour, can I persuade you to assist me with an important matter?”
Gravel crunched underTavish’s boots as he walked the path that snaked through the trees and around the lake.
Ahead of him, Isla strolled arm-in-arm with Fletch, her ear lifted to hear whatever tender endearments he had to whisper.
Tavish looked away before he caved to the temptation to pound his fist into one of the surrounding trees.
A chaperone.
Fletch had requested Tavish act as achaperonefor his “courting campaign”—Fletch’s words—of Lady Isla.
The pity in Ross’s eyes would have been comical had the situation not been so tragic—Tavish chaperoning hiswifeas another man wooed her.
He challenged Shakespeare himself to concoct a situation more absurd.
In truth, Fletch didn’t need a chaperone to take a stroll with Lady Isla. As long as a couple remained in easily visible locales—like the gravel paths surrounding Kingswell—there was little concern for a lady’s reputation.
No, Fletch wanted a friend along for plausible deniability. With a trusted third person present, Fletch could steal a kiss or two from his lady love without placing her upstanding character in danger.
For Tavish, the thought of having to turn his back while Isla kissed another man was almost unbearable. It was one thing to know a gentlemancourted Isla. But another thing entirely to have to witness it. To assist and encourage it.
For her part, Isla appeared oblivious to the men’s machinations.
She walked with ease, head canted toward Fletch. However, she did occasionally glance back at Tavish, as if ascertaining his distance or unable to shake the weight of his presence.
Maybe Tavishshouldleave Kingswell. Grayburn clearly wished him to. At breakfast, the duke had met Tavish’s gaze over the rim of his teacup, eyes flaring with a dark warning. His Grace had ridden off with Lord Milmouth shortly after. To what end, Tavish hadn’t a clue. Something pompous and lordly, no doubt. The two gentlemen were endlessly discussing political matters, likely shoring up their soon-to-be familial alliance.
As for Tavish . . . leaving Kingswell felt a wee bit like ceding the battlefield, and the soldier in him simply couldn’t do that. And there were still matters to be discussed with Fletch and Ross about Pennsylvania.
At least, those were the excuses Tavish told himself. But he was honest enough to recognize the deeper reason: As much as it battered his heart, he simply couldn’t tear himself from Isla until circumstances forced their separation. These would likely be the last few days he would ever spend in her company, and even though situations like playing chaperone pierced him to his core, the thought of not experiencing them hurt more.
Isla had always been a woman who sparkled like snow on a sunny day, blinding him to responsibility and wisdom. He had never had any sense of self-preservation when it came to her.
Ahead, Isla laughed at something Fletch said, and Fletch looked at her with adoration.
Tavish watched in misery.
He couldn’t blame Fletch.
Isla was irresistible—a butterfly’s wing, entrancing and urging a hunter in pursuit. The iridescent flash of her wit. The flutter of her laugh. The clever dance of her mind.
