She would not have believed it herself either, had she not seen it with her own eyes.
“I do not see how he can possibly explain, Ellie. The truth does not lie.” She sighed, heart heavy. “There is a past between the two of them. He was in love with her once, and had intended to marry her himself until she chose his brother over him. He told me himself. What he failed to tell me is that he is still in love with the widowed countess.”
“Oh dear.” Ellie’s face fell. “That does indeed sound damning, particularly in conjunction with what you witnessed.”
And the treachery was so much worse than her sister knew. She didn’t dare reveal the full extent of everything that had happened between herself and Anglesey. It was mortifying.
How foolish she was.
For the second time.
“It would seem I am perfectly dreadful at choosing gentlemen to care for,” she said, miserably aware of how pitiful she sounded.
“Izzy, are you saying you have feelings for Anglesey?”
“Yes,” she admitted, her wretchedness knowing no bounds. “I am. So now you see, Ellie? It is imperative that I go at once. I cannot bear more of this. I simply cannot.”
The tears began in earnest now, falling in an uncontrollable deluge.
Ellie wrapped her in a reassuring embrace. “Hush, dearest. Wycombe and I will take you from here this morning if that is what you wish. I shall speak with Mama and Papa. We will do our best to blunt the scandal.”
She sobbed into her sister’s silken shoulder, knowing she was likely ruining the gown, but unable to stem the flow of helpless misery. “Thank you, Ellie.”
* * *
Zachary had not even madeit to the breakfast table before he was waylaid by a somber-looking Wycombe.
“We need to speak, Barlowe.”
His friend had slipped into his old familiar name, but Zachary did not bother to correct him, for he was far more concerned about why the duke looked as if he were attending a funeral. “What is it?”
“Not here,” Wycombe said curtly. “In a private room.”
Damn.The last time he had seen his friend so forbidding, it had been the day he had asked Zachary to attend his wife because a woman had been murdered.
“This way,” he said with a nod toward a small salon that was empty.
He waited until the door was closed and they were alone before attempting a joke.
“Potter has not been shooting walls again, has he?” he asked, hoping to lighten the harshness of the mood.
“Not that I am aware of.” Wycombe remained unmoved by his humor. “My wife came to me this morning to tell me Lady Isolde has had a change of heart concerning the wedding.”
He blinked. “A change of… What the bloody hell, Wycombe?”
Surely he had misheard his friend. When he had parted with Izzy last night after the event with Potter, nothing had been amiss.
But Wycombe did nothing to reassure him, standing stoic and dour sentinel by the door. “Izzy does not want to marry you. She has asked her sister and I to take her to Brinton Manor this morning, and I have complied. I thought you should know.”
“Wait a damn minute, Wycombe.” He stalked forward, a surge of righteous anger igniting a flame within. “You cannot kidnap my wife.”
The duke shook his head. “She is not your wife, and it is hardly kidnapping if she has requested to be removed from Barlowe Park herself.”
Requested to be removed.He made it sound as if this were a common enough practice. That it was every goddamn day that a woman made love with her betrothed one day and decided to leave him without a word the next.
Was it because of what had happened between them at the little falls? Had his lovemaking scared her off?
“I need to know why,” he ground out. “I am not going to allow her to run from me without an explanation.”
