She could not know. And the not knowing was worse than anything else.
Lady Kendrick sat across from her in the parlor as they attempted, albeit unsuccessfully, to plan the next meeting of the Laurels. A tea tray lay between them, its steam curling up into the quiet winter air.
“My dear,” Lady Kendrick said gently, lowering her teacup, “it seems you have quite a lot on your mind. We can plan for the Laurel meeting at a later time. Instead, we can send the women books to read until we can gather again.”
Isabella opened her mouth to refuse. She wanted, desperately, to bury herself in work, anything that was not thinking of Cassian.
But when she tried to focus on the parchment before her, the words blurred. Her hand shook each time she lifted her pen. Her heart raced with too many tangled thoughts.
She swallowed. “It seems… that might be best.”
Lady Kendrick gave her a sympathetic look, one that made Isabella bristle, though she kept her face composed. The older woman reached for her hand.
“My dear,” she began softly, “your husband is not an easy man. He has suffered pain unimaginable to us, and he has survived by isolation. It must be why he believes he does not need anyone. Why he believes needing someone is dangerous.”
Isabella’s throat tightened.
Lady Kendrick squeezed her fingers. “I hope you understand what I am saying.”
“I do,” Isabella whispered.
She did understand, but she also wanted to scream.
She excused herself instead, rising quickly from the parlor. Lady Kendrick watched her with a soft, concerned gaze, but she said nothing.
Isabella climbed the stairs back to her chambers, her heart heavy and hot beneath her ribs as she laid in bed and the evening bled into night and night into morning.
Now three days without a word. Three days when their imperfect marriage that had felt so alive, so real, now felt like a ghost flickering out of existence.
Isabella paused at the top of the staircase, gripping the banister as a wave of emotion washed through her.
How could he shut her out like this? How could he disappear into silence after everything they had shared—the intimacy, the tenderness, the nights when he had held her as though she were the anchor to his unraveling soul? How could he do this to her now?
She did not cry because she refused to cry.
But when she entered her room and shut the door quietly behind her, Isabella pressed her hand to her chest and whispered, “Cassian… what are you doing to us?”
The empty room offered no reply.
Cassian sat slumped in his study that evening, the room thick with the stagnant heaviness of stale smoke and spilled liquor. He did not know how many bottles he had opened, nor how many glasses he had drained. He only knew the burn had long ceased to register. He drank now without tasting it, without wanting it, only needing it to dull the sharp edges of a mind that refused to be quiet.
He had not stepped inside his workshop since his injury. His hand was still tender, his knuckles raw from the split skin, and the deeper wound he had carved into his palm throbbed with each pulse of his heart. He had attempted to work, to lose himself in the art of carving, but the ache had worsened, and so he had abandoned the effort entirely.
Now all he had was paperwork and brandy. Mostly brandy.
His study was dim, lit only by the single lamp on his desk. Papers lay untouched. A half-finished letter had become stained by a careless slosh of brandy. Cassian pressed a hand to his temple, willing himself to get some work done, but then came a knock on the heavy double doors.
A sharp, unwelcome rap that pierced the haze surrounding him.
He did not lift his head.
“Michael,” he muttered, “unless the house is ablaze, you had better have a compelling reason for disturbing me.”
Michael hesitated in the doorway as he entered, wringing his hands. “Your Grace… you have a visitor.”
Cassian’s head snapped up, fury flaring instantly. “I thought I made myself extremely clear that I would receive no visitors.”
Michael opened his mouth to speak, but he was too slow.
