Isabella.
A fresh wave of pain assaulted him, and he flinched as he heard her words all over again.
I don’t love you.
How could he have been so wrong? It was a question he had asked himself a hundred times in the months since walking away from her.
Tormenting himself did no good. Isabella didn’t need him. She had a country to rule. Any worth he’d held for her quickly dissipated once her objective had been achieved. But the pain would not feel so fresh, so raw, sonewif he didn’t love her still.
He turned away from the fire, his gaze flitting over the window. It was raining. The perfect accompaniment for his mood. He shuffled to the sideboard and poured another drink.
It had been a long time since he had indulged heavily in spirits, but an evening spent in his cups seemed the perfect homecoming. Maybe then he could forget the past year. Forget he ever met Queen Isabella Genevieve Elizabeth Chastaine.
* * *
The hours passed. The drinks blurred. And so did his pain. Simon slumped in his armchair and stared unseeingly into the dying fire as he downed another glass of brandy. He started to pour another then looked in disgust at the empty decanter in his hand.
“Timmons!” he bellowed.
He needed another bottle. Somehow the contents of this one had disappeared.
“My lord, you have a caller,” Timmons said from the doorway.
“Well, send them away,” Simon grumbled, waving his hand dismissively.
Timmons hesitated and Simon focused unsteady eyes on him. “Who the bloody hell is it?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, my lord,” Timmons replied, a perplexed expression on his face. “He’s a peculiar looking man. Dressed as a monk.”
Simon bolted upright in his chair. “Monk you say?” His heart hammered in his chest. Could it be Father Ling? Had something happened to Isabella? He could come up with no reasonable explanation for the monk to be in London.
“Send him in at once,” he ordered.
He rose from his chair as Timmons left and hastily straightened his rumpled clothing. He ran a hand through his mussed hair in an effort to make himself more presentable. Harsh stubble abraded his hand as he rubbed his palm over his jaw. He hadn’t shaved in days.
A few moments later, Father Ling walked into the study, his brown robe plastered wetly to his body. His hood was pulled back and his normally serene features wreaked of fatigue.
Simon crossed the room to greet him. “Father Ling, this is a surprise,” he said as he took the monk’s arm and guided him toward the fire.
“Have Mrs. Turnbull prepare Father Ling some hot tea,” he directed Timmons.
“I am happy to find you well, Lord Merrick,” Father Ling said as he stood warming his hands by the fire.
“You say that as if there had been some doubt,” Simon said dryly.
“These have been troubled times,” the monk said solemnly. “You have risked much in the past months.”
“How is Her Majesty?” Simon cut in. He had no desire to discuss the last few months. He was more interested in why the monk was here and if Isabella was all right.
“She is…well,” Father Ling said slowly.
“What brings you here?” He voiced only one of the hundred questions swirling around in his mind.
“I have come to correct a wrong.”
Simon’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. He turned as Mrs. Turnbull bustled in with a tray of hot drinks. “Please sit,” Simon said, motioning for Father Ling to rest in the armchair closest to the fire.
Mrs. Turnbull pressed a cup into the monk’s hand, and casting him a curious glance, she retreated from the room, leaving the two men alone.
