“Your Grace,” he whispered respectfully, bowing low. “Lady Kendrick has taken ill. She requests your presence at once.”
Isabella blinked. “Lady Kendrick? But she has not arrived yet. I did not hear her announced.”
“No, Your Grace. She came through one of the side entrances. She insisted on seeing you immediately.”
Beatrice frowned. “Are you certain? She did not seem unwell earlier.”
Isabella nodded slowly, uncertainty crawling through her. “It is odd, yes… but I should go.”
“Shall I accompany you?” Beatrice asked.
“No, stay here. Enjoy the evening. I will not be long.”
Still unsettled, Isabella followed the footman through a quiet side corridor away from the main festivities. The music dulled behind them, replaced by the soft echo of their steps. A flicker of unease tightened her chest, but she reminded herself that Lady Kendrick was unpredictable. Perhaps she truly had arrived quietly. Perhaps she had overexerted herself. Perhaps…
The footman stopped before a small retiring room.
“She is inside, Your Grace.”
Isabella nodded, stepped forward, and opened the door to an empty room. Her breath caught.
“Lady Kendrick?” she called softly.
No answer.
She turned to the footman, only to find the door already swinging shut.
“Wait—”
It closed with a sharp click. Isabella’s pulse hammered. She rushed to the door and seized the handle, but it did not budge.
“Open this door at once!” she demanded, but she saw a shadow stirring beside her from the corner of her eye.
Her blood ran cold.
“Your Grace.”
The voice, silken and mocking, slid through her like a blade. Isabella turned slowly, dread washing over her as Lord Falchester stepped out from the shadows of the dimly lit room, his expression twisted with something triumphant and vile.
Her breath froze in her chest. The door was locked, and she was trapped.
Chapter Thirty
“Heavens,” Cassian breathed.
He stood alone in his quiet workshop after his grandmother’s departure. The shaving curls from his attempt at woodworking lay scattered about him like discarded fragments of thought.
In his hand, he held the small carving he had not meant to make. The slender, curved, and unmistakable laurel leaf. He stared at it for a long, frozen moment, then his gaze drifted to the chisel set resting on the bench beside him.
The one Isabella had gifted him when he had saved her sister.
He had not touched it since he received it from Michael. He had not known what the gift meant at the time or why she’d sent it, so he left them untouched.
He brushed his fingers over the wooden handles. She’d gifted him even before they defined their relationship because that was the kind of person his wife was. She was thoughtful and selfless. She had no problem expressing her feelings, and if he was being genuine, she’d been expressing her feelings for him since the day the chisel gift came.
A slow breath escaped him, ragged and uneven. He felt as though the past two weeks had been spent drowning, and he had only just broken the surface.
What am I doing?
