“I would rather face the noose,” Cassian muttered.
He had come to the deserted library to be alone, but it seemed as if his friend had been hellbent on making him miserable.
Tristan groaned as he let himself in and rolled his eyes.
“People talk. They always talk. But you cannot let ridiculous rumors live longer than they deserve. Show yourself. Let them see that you, in fact, are not a fraud, have not committed murder, abducted a French heiress, or gambled away your fortune in a drunken haze,” He said irritably.
Cassian shot him a withering look. “Which rumor claims I abducted a French heiress?”
“Two separate ones, actually. Both absurd.” He gave his own words some thought before shaking his head.
Cassian pushed a hand through his hair, irritated. “I will not parade myself, just so they stop whispering about those rumors. The truth of the matter is far more complex than any of them realize.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow, placing his half-drunk glass of whisky on a side table before straightening and addressing his friend. “And when exactly are you planning on revealing any of these complexities to people other than your grandmother and me?”
Cassian’s chest clenched in anger as he thought of the secrets he had shared with his closest and only friend. Many people had speculated about the time he had gone missing before returning to live with his grandmother in London.
The stolen duke.
He had heard the whispers of the name. Yet not a single person of the ton had dared to truly understand what it meant. The years preceding his return had been stolen from him. They had formed him into the heartless monster that people whispered about behind closed doors.
They had no idea just how accurate the description truly was.
The thick scars on his back began to ache, reminding him of a time he’d rather forget. He knew it was just his mind playingtricks on him; the wounds had long since healed, yet the old aches returned whenever someone reminded him of the past.
“I cannot speak of what happened back then. I refuse to drag another person into the abyss along with me. You and my grandmother are strong; not everyone can shoulder the burden of truth that is my past.”
Cassian stiffened as Lady Isabella flashed across his mind.
What would she say if she knew what had happened to him? That he had been shamefully flogged over a feud he had not even started. He knew very well that she had seen the scars that night in his workshop, but she had not shied away from him. Would she be able to stomach the story if he ever worked up the courage to tell it to her?
“Then hide,” Tristan conceded briskly. “I have guests to greet. Do as you wish. I can lead you to the water, but I cannot force you to drink.” He turned sharply and left, leaving his half-finished drink behind.
Did he just call me a horse?
Cassian frowned and remained in the library for nearly an hour, and only when he felt boredom did he enter the ballroom with the same cold composure he always wore: shoulders straight, expression unreadable, footsteps measured.
A few heads turned, fans fluttering as the crowd parted naturally around him, making space without making direct eye contact. He ignored everyone except Tristan, whom he spotted near the far end of the ballroom.
Tristan seemed to be in conversation with a cluster of newly arrived guests when Cassian approached slowly, intending only to nod in greeting and help himself to some whiskey, until he saw her.
Lady Isabella Hunton.
The name always sliced through his mind with sharp precision.
Standing there in a gown of soft ivory, trimmed with shimmering gold thread, the fabric flowing like liquid light as she moved. Her hair had been styled with delicate care, a few curls framing her cheeks in a way that made his breath catch painfully.
She was breathtaking, and Cassian’s feet nearly faltered.
Her parents stood beside her, exchanging polite conversation with Tristan.
Isabella’s father smiled warmly at something Tristan said, and his wife nodded with quiet grace.
Then Isabella lifted her gaze, and their eyes met.
Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly, and he caught the movement. Her fingers tensed around the fabric of her dress, her shoulders straightened, and yet she did not look away.
Nor did he.
