Page 58 of Engaging Sir Isaac

Isaac’s good humor did not falter as he drove her down the beach, then back again to Esther’s hospitality. He laughed with Millie over his nephew’s antics. Ignored Esther’s knowing glance. Escaped to Silas’s study and put Millie out of his mind until the time came to take her back to the Alderton house.

Until he was safely in his own home, in his room with his back pressed to the closed door, Isaac did not examine his heart.

He had no chance at making her love him. Millie had made that clear when she told him of her whole plan, of her need to reenter Society. Of course she would wish for the most advantageous marriage possible. And what was he?

A crippled baronet, with holdings that barely provided enough to remain self-sustaining.

Isaac went to the mirror which hung over a chest of drawers, staring at himself. He unbuttoned his coat and tossed it upon the bed. Then pulled off his cravat and threw it to the floor.

He stood before the glass, the white sleeve of his shirt hanging loosely on the left.

It wasn’t just the arm, though that was what people saw. There were scars lining that side of his body from the shrapnel, from the blast that took his arm and the lives of men standing near him. Scars along his torso, his hip, his legs. Then the invisible scars upon his mind and heart, slicing their way across his dreams.

He would never be whole again. What woman would want him? Not someone like Millie, forced into a corner and fighting her way back to the top of Society’s battlements. Little fox she might be, but the woman had ambition. And he did not even like to stand in crowded ballrooms.

Broken. He was broken.

Isaac undressed to his waist and forced himself to look in the mirror, to look at where his left arm ought to attach to the rest of him. How had he deluded himself into thinking he had a chance at a proper romance with that physical reminder ever present?

Tears burned in his eyes, but he refused to let them free. Refused weakness.

A drink would help. But that was the coward’s way out. Essie had made that clear to him years ago when their mother had died. He could not go that route.

Each of his friends had found and claimed a love match. Their happiness had taught him to yearn for the same. But it could not be.

A knock on the door interrupted his morbid, pitying thoughts.

“Come.”

Harper, the valet, entered. “Sir Isaac, do you wish to dress for the evening?” Harper eyed his undressed state with polite confusion.

The musical performance. He had that to go to directly after his dinner.

Isaac ran a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble coming in. He needed to shave. Dress again. Compose himself. “Yes, of course. My dark blue coat tonight, I think. And the silver waistcoat.”

His valet nodded and began his work, speaking all the while of mundane things. Asking about cravats, stick-pins, shoes. They worked through the motions together, and Isaac approved the product of his valet’s work at the end.

Still, he did not quite meet his own eyes in the mirror. He could not allow himself another moment of weakness while Millie still needed his help.

Chapter 20

My Dearest Daughter,

Your letter has left me most distressed. Your father and I quite depend upon you to set things to rights. Surely you are safe under the protection of the Marquess. You must remain and see this thing through, as you agreed….

Millie folded the letter, running her fingers over the crease. She walked from one end of her guest bedroom to the other. The letter had been penned before her mother knew the worst of it. Millie had written to her parents after Mr. Weston’s attack.

She could not return home.

The night before, during the musical performances, Isaac had played his part admirably. He sat on her left, his sister on Millie’s right, during each exhibit of musical talent. Isaac bent to whisper in her ear his thoughts on each performer, some of them not entirely charitable remarks, but anyone who watched the two of them had no way of knowing how intimate or casual their conversation.

Despite the unremarkable evening, Millie had barely slept. Her nightmares were growing worse with her repeated exposure to Lord Carning. Mr. Weston’s unexpected advances likely contributed to the overly distressing dreams, too. Most of the night she dreamed of being hunted, running through trees with hounds baying, with hands grabbing at her, as though she was the prey they chased.

Another day of the house party upon them, Millie did not have much time to accomplish the tasks set by Lady Olivia. Her mother’s letter made everything worse. Her exhaustion had drained her emotionally. There was no escape.

“Miss?” Sarah stepped into the room, her eyes bright. “Sir Isaac is downstairs. To call on you.” The maid bounced on her toes as she made the pronouncement. Then she hurried to the small wardrobe and snatched up Millie’s favorite bonnet. “You must take him for a walk in the gardens, miss. You will have privacy there.”

Millie looked down at the letter in her hands, turning it over again. “Sarah. You know there is nothing between Sir Isaac and myself except friendship.”