He was in the mood to carve wood, so he selected a block of wood from the corner shelf, assessing it, then he picked another, weighing each piece in his hand until one felt right—smooth enough, dense enough, and shaped well for the image forming vaguely in his mind.
With practiced movements, he set his tools upon the worktable, took a steadying breath, and began carving.
The first cuts were deep and scattered, releasing the tension that coiled in him. Every downward motion chipped away the irritations of the day, the frustrations of running an estate, the endless demands, and the expectations. It satisfied him, but he didn’t stop, especially as the shape began to form slowly beneath his hands.
A curve of a shoulder, a tilt of a head, then a delicate line that felt familiar yet foreign at the same time.
He worked for long minutes before he stopped, bristling slightly as realization dawned on him as he stared down at his work.
He knew that profile and who it belonged to.
He scowled.
“Lady Isabella,” he muttered, and gripped the wooden figure more tightly than necessary, heat creeping unwelcomed into his chest.
He had not intended to create this, to create her features from memory, yet they had appeared unbidden beneath his hands.
Isabella ought to have been grateful, elated even, that it was her third visit to Everthorne House as a Laurel, and she had yet to catch a single glimpse of the duke in his own residence, other than the times where he had suddenly, and unexpectedly, appeared.
One might have thought it a blessing, and yet it troubled her more than she liked to admit.
Had the arrival of multiple ladies at his estate done irrevocable damage to him, as he had initially suggested? Had their presence driven him into some deep reclusive retreat?
She doubted it. The duke did not strike her as a man easily undone by anything, least of all women in his halls. And yet, ever since the first gathering of the Laurels, the morning he had marched into the ballroom, glowered, and promptly disappeared, he had not shown himself once.
Not in the corridors nor the entrance hall. Not even the distant echo of his footsteps was heard. As if he simply did not exist anymore.
Countless times, Isabella had been tempted to ask Lady Kendrick about the duke’s whereabouts, but each time, the words lodged themselves in her throat. Pride, or perhaps common sense, prevented her from appearing even remotely curious. Still… it gnawed at her.
She should not care, she told herself repeatedly, and yet…
Their task for the day was art—learning to paint mundane objects—and as she sat before her canvas, brush in hand, listening to the quiet scratch of bristles and the soft hum of ladies chattering, her thoughts drifted once more to the Duke of Everthorne like an unwelcome guest returning again and again.
“It is safe to think His Grace hides himself from us, is it not?” one of the ladies asked suddenly, as though plucking Isabella’s very thoughts from her mind.
The lady did not even lift her eyes from her canvas, her brush moving steadily across the page as she continued, “He has not shown himself today, and it cannot be a coincidence.”
A few ladies murmured in agreement, their voices low with mischief.
Isabella stiffened, her brush hovering in the air. She did not wish to appear invested in the answer, though she was far more invested than any proper lady ought to be.
“It is not,” came Lady Kendrick’s firm voice from the doorway.
The older woman had excused herself nearly half an hour earlier and had only just returned through the ballroom doors with a triumphant stride in her steps.
“Why not, Lady Kendrick?” another lady called, turning in her seat.
“That is because my grandson,” Lady Kendrick explained, raising her brows with an exaggerated flourish, “left for a business trip days ago. He shall not return until the morrow.”
A ripple of sound moved through the group, not quite enthusiasm, not quite disappointment. Merely mild surprise.
Lady Kendrick, however, remained unfazed by the lack of excitement. “Well! You all needn’t look so dull,” she said briskly. “I come bearing a gift.”
She clapped her hands once—sharp, dramatic, entirely unnecessary—and all heads turned toward her.
Isabella blinked. She had learned by now that Lady Kendrick’s gifts could range from delightful to mildly alarming, but she was curious, nonetheless.
“I curated this gift from the bottom of my heart, so not one of you is allowed to spew hate,” the older woman declared, and her arms spread wide as though presenting a grand feast, “Come on in, good sirs!”
