eight
After the walk with Isabella, Anthony found it difficult to focus on reading his correspondence.
Isabella’s sense of unworthiness troubled him, but her happiness and desire to live hurt him as well, like when a wound was cauterised.
Before talking to her, he’d had no idea she perceived his family as so overwhelming and intimidating. If he were to propose to her instead of Helen, she would be crushed. Unless he reassured her he would support her.
His family needed a duchess like her, a woman who stood next to him, proud and strong. Hell, he needed a woman like her, as selfish as it sounded. She made him want to be alive and laugh again. She saw things he didn’t. Her light would balance his darkness.
His last entries in his diary were all about Isabella and the joy she brought to his life. He felt like a thief, stealing her merriment and laughter.
He wasn’t sure what to do about his supposed betrothal to Helen, and reading the report from his steward didn’t improve his mood.
The steward had quietly inspected Maiden Hill, and the result had been abysmal although not surprising. The roof was unstable. A side of the house had collapsed as the result of having meddled with the underground tunnel. Maiden Hill would need months of work to be rebuilt. The grounds would require an army of workers to be cleared.
The more Maiden Hill rotted, the more guilty he felt. His parents were buried in the family’s crypt in London, but their souls rested in that manor.
Von Gruner didn’t care about Maiden Hill and what it meant to the Beauforts. Or rather, he knew exactly what it meant and tortured them on purpose.
He folded the report and pushed his anger down.
“Bonjour.” Patrick entered the study, chomping on an apple. “Want some?” He offered him the apple. “It comes from our orchard. It’s so delicious you’ll write about it in that gloomy diary of yours.”
He leant back in his chair, not at all amused.
Patrick had the decency to stop smiling. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to make fun of your condition.”
Condition. The word made everything sound more serious.
“Never mind. Sit.”
Patrick pulled a face. “Oh no. What is it now? Can’t you ask your secretary? He’s more prepared than I am on whatever you’re about to ask me to do.”
“I know he is. I want to talk about Isabella.”
“All right.” Smirking, Patrick eased back on the chair. “Do you want to have a tumble with her before marrying her sister? I approve and understand. That’s interesting.”
“That’s shameful. Stop thinking with your bollocks for a moment.”
“Sure.” He lobbed the apple core into the hearth. “Tell me everything. Did she cause trouble? I hope she did. She’s one wild lady. I’m sure she’s just as wild in the bedsheets.”
“Dammit!” He thumped the desk, causing the ink bottle to rattle. “Stop talking about her in these terms, or I swear I’ll cut all your expenses and you’ll have to work.”
Patrick held up his hands. “Fair enough. I had no idea you cared about her so much. What about Isabella?”
“Do you have any intentions of courting her?”
The smirk disappeared from Patrick’s face. “Courting her? I like her, but why are we talking about marriage after I play one chess game with her?”
“I just want to make sure you don’t hurt her in any way.”
“I won’t. I promise. She’s going to be part of this family, and I’m not stupid enough to bother her.”
“So you aren’t interested in her.”
Patrick shook his head. “No, I’m not.”
“Good.”
