He had nodded, an act he regretted, because it was all he trusted himself to do, and he fled further into the house before the foolish longing inside him revealed itself in some other form.
Now, standing in his workshop, Cassian tried to scrub the image from his mind. The familiar scent of wood shavings greeted him as he reached for a block of fine walnut, the grain smooth beneath his thumb. He seated himself, took up his carving tools, and tried to force his focus onto the task at hand. The rhythmic scrape of the blade should have soothed him. Instead, his strokes were uneven, guided not by skill but by memory. Memory of her.
He shook his head sharply, irritated with himself, and attempted again, but a knock halted his actions.
He exhaled in frustration. “Enter,” came his reply, thinking it was none other than his butler.
Lady Kendrick stepped inside, startling him with the bold stride of a woman who had been marching through his life since his return to England. She was dressed elegantly for the charity event, her hair perfectly arranged, her gloves immaculate, and her expression… formidable.
“Are you not going?” she demanded without ceremony.
Cassian set down his carving tool with exaggerated care. “No. She does not need me overshadowing her efforts. The event will go more smoothly without my presence.”
Lady Kendrick’s lips tightened. “Perhaps. But what she needs, Cassian, is her husband by her side.”
“She has my name,” he muttered. “That seems sufficient.”
“Oh, you insufferable boy,” she snapped. “You claim she does not need you, and yet here you sit carving this?” She snatched the wooden piece from the table before he could reel it back.
Cassian stiffened.
Lady Kendrick turned it slowly between her fingers. “Do not insult my intelligence. Do you even realize what you are carving?” Her brow raised. “A Laurel leaf,” she announced.
“It is a habit,” Cassian said, his jaw tight. “Wood takes the form it wishes under my knife.”
“No, my dear, wood takes the form that is already in your mind.” Her gaze sharpened. “And clearly, something, or someone, is in yours.”
He did not answer. For what was he to say? He’d been entirely cornered.
“And do not say Isabella deserves better,” she continued sharply. “I know that line. I have heard variations of it from soldiers returning from war and widowers drowning in guilt. You think you are protecting her from yourself, but you are only depriving both of you of what you could have.”
Cassian forced himself to breathe evenly. “You speak as though love is easily managed.”
“Love is rarely manageable. That is rather its point,” she retorted. “But it is a choice. And your wife chose you after the arrangement, after the circumstances, after everything. She chose you, Cassian. A woman’s choice counts for a great deal more than any circumstance that brought her into it.”
Her words struck him somewhere deep and unwelcome, but he said nothing.
Lady Kendrick’s shoulders eased just barely. “You deserve happiness,” she said softly. “And she deserves a husband who does not run from it.”
She placed the carved laurel leaves back onto his workbench, then turned and swept out of the room, leaving Cassian staring at the carving as though it were the most damning evidence of a crime he could not deny.
The evening glowed with candlelight and winter decor, the charity event alive with music and cheerful chatter. Isabella moved gracefully among the Laurels, her family, and the guests, doing her best to hide the faint, constant ache beneath her ribs.
Beatrice remained by her side, bright and attentive, keeping her occupied with conversation and introductions. The Laurels were elated; the event was going beautifully, the ballroom a swirl of color and purpose, warm applause greeting their efforts and charitable displays.
For a little while, Isabella allowed herself to feel proud. She had worked tirelessly for this, and it was going exactly as she had dreamed it would.
“I believe there is no man alive standing in this ballroom that is as happy and proud as I am of my two girls,” Isabella’s father declared, a proud smile coating his features. Christine nodded from beside him.
“You both have outdone yourselves,” he added.
“Thank you, Papa,” the twins chorused, exchanging side glances at each other, and Isabella’s heart warmed.
This was supposed to be how the event should feel. She shouldn’t be tasked with worrying about anything other than the smooth sailing of the event; she should’ve walked with her shoulders even higher with her husband by her side.
But reality varied greatly from assumptions. Though there were praises for a work well done, there were also gossips and theories regarding Cassian’s absence. Isabella had tried to ignore them, but she could only do so much.
While still speaking to her family, a footman approached.
