But then, when had he dealt well with anything concerning family or emotions? They both seemed to be inextricably intertwined, along with pain, distrust, and betrayal.
“I am sorry for the loss you suffered.” Izzy touched his sleeve, the gesture gentle, concerned.Caring.“Is being in residence once more at Barlowe Park painful for you?”
“The opposite.” He settled his hand over hers, wishing he had not been wearing gloves so that he might directly absorb the silken warmth of her skin. “Returning here after so many years away has reminded me of how very much I once loved this place.”
And how much he had once loved hisbrothers.
But that had been before. How easily he had forgotten, clinging to his anger instead. And how hollow he felt now at the realization. What if he had been wrong? Would he feel this same emptiness if he had been able to mend their differences before their deaths? Sadly, it was too late to know. Their rift had been permanent, and now eternal as well.
“Why were you not welcome?” she asked again. Izzy’s gaze—green to rival the moss and grasses growing on the banks and rocks of the river—searched his.
He swallowed against a painful rush of resentment. “Horatio made it abundantly clear to me that I was not to return, and my other brother sided with Horatio.”
“But why? If you were once close, what happened to change that?”
He sighed heavily, reluctant to begin this discourse, though he knew he must. There was so much old pain, scarcely buried beneath the surface. So much foolishness and hurt. And for what? Horatio and Philip were gone. So, too, their parents. Somehow, the black sheep among them was the only Barlowe remaining.
“Will you speak of it now?” Izzy persisted softly. “Will you speak of whatever happened between you and Lady Anglesey?”
He would prefer to avoid speaking of it, of course, but he also owed an answer to Izzy. She was going to be his wife, damn it. And whilst the notion of marrying had first settled upon him as a feverish dream from which he would wake up, relieved it had not been real, he no longer found the idea so appalling. How queer it was to think that the last thing he had wanted since Beatrice’s betrayal had suddenly become so vital, so necessary. He refused to contemplate why, but the notion that Lady Isolde Collingwood washisimbued him with a deep sense of ineffable rightness.
Indeed, after what had transpired between them the night before, he found he could think of little else.
Still, the words Izzy expected of him were proving nigh impossible to utter, because conceding his past foibles was damned hard. But also because he very much feared her response. What if she were to be shocked? Horrified? What if, instead of bringing her closer to him he was only about to chase her away?
Just say it, he told himself.
He inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “I was going to marry my brother’s wife.” As the confession fled him, he winced. “She was not his wife then, of course. Nor was she his betrothed. She was mine. We had a private understanding, though I had yet to approach her father for official approval and announcements. Until she decided she preferred the title my brother would give her to the life I could provide as a third son. That changed everything. I was furious with the both of them for betraying me. Horatio and I had a terrible row and we came to blows. I said and did some things I now regret. Philip tore us apart, but not before the damage was done. Neither of us ever forgave the other, and we never spoke more than a handful of words to each other again afterward.”
“You must have loved her very much if you intended to marry her.” There was no censure in Izzy’s tone or countenance, just a quiet, grim commiseration.
And of course she commiserated, having been jilted and heartbroken herself on the day their paths had crossed. The reminder she had been in love with Arthur Penhurst caused a spike of irritation to pierce him just then. He tamped it down, focusing instead on Izzy. She deserved to know the truth.
“I was in love with the girl I thought Beatrice to be,” he allowed reluctantly. He laughed, the sound bitter even to his own ears, entirely lacking in mirth. “Hell, I was foolish enough tobelievein love then.”
“You do not believe in love now?”
Once, not long ago, his answer would have been a swift and resoluteno. But everything had become a muddle. His mind, his hopes, his future. Even the way he felt about Izzy was confusing as hell.
“I believe in selfishness, in desire, and certainly in the longing for something bigger than we are,” he said carefully, “whether that be love or God or wealth, or something else entirely. But I also believe we hurt each other with greater ease than we protect or care or forgive. I am not certain love—in its purest, truest form—can exist. If it did, why would we go about wounding each other as badly as we do?”
“I wish I knew the answer to that question,” she said softly. “But pray trust me when I tell you I can well understand the conflicting emotions you must have felt. I was in love with Arthur—Mr. Penhurst—for years. I came of age believing I would be his wife. We were betrothed, though the marriage contracts had yet to be signed. A mere formality, I believed. How wrong I was…”
Her words trailed off, and her gaze veered somewhere over his shoulder for the span of a few heartbeats, as if she were looking into the past and seeing it anew. He wanted to blacken Arturd’s eye for the hurt he had dealt Izzy. But also, Zachary wanted to thank him. If the flighty bastard had not thrown Izzy over for the American heiress, Izzy never would have accosted him in Greymoor’s salon. And if she had not, he would likely be as adrift as ever.
Drinking too much.
Fucking too much.
Never sleeping enough.
Grimly surviving being responsible for his brother’s widow and estates he had not visited in years. A title he had never damn well wanted… The list went on.
To the devil with the past. He was going to bloody well seize the future, and the future was before him. The future was this woman. This glorious mistake.
Izzy.
He lowered his head and sealed his lips to hers, and she did not taste like a blunder, nor did she feel like one. She felt like everything he had been missing all his life. She tasted like desire. One touch of his mouth to hers, and he was lost, falling headlong into the abyss.
