Page 48 of Lord of Loyalty

Chapter Twenty-Six

Isobel put another stitch into her embroidery, then stared—as she had done every day for the last week—out of the solar window down onto the busy thoroughfare of Holborn. She was sure Will would come, sooner or later, just as she was sure their meeting would not be a comfortable one. He would come because he was too proud to be bested by a woman.

And because he probably wanted his housekeeper back. Goody Cooper had arrived as soon as Manners had sent for her. She had brought tidings of Will—his leg pained him, apparently, and was too stiff to allow him to either ride or walk much distance. The housekeeper came with Will’s blessing—allegedly.

Truth was, he’d not want to be humiliated in front of his household, and would have made it appear he had full knowledge of Isobel’s removal to Marston House and approved of it. She still hadn’t told Manners she had no intention of going on to Hertford in search of Mistress Hollingsworth, though she suspected he’d realized it by now. He’d said nothing, not even when she was up and about and putting the house to rights, clearly no longer suffering from a megrim.

Will must have tacitly agreed to Manners staying with her for the time being. However, she couldn’t believe this was the end of their story. Will was too stubborn not to want the last word.

Which was why she was waiting for the first sight of him, so she could ready herself for their meeting. She kept telling herself he wouldn’t hurry, even when his leg was better—he must be glad to have her out of the way. She’d caused too much turmoil in his life already, even if most of it was accidental.

Despite the compliments he’d paid her, with both his words and his touch, he could never return her love. He’d made that clear enough when he’d banished her from his sight. Yet even after the lapse of a sennight, she could still recall the feel of his lips on her skin. Time and again—when she took a moment’s ease—she re-enacted the moments they’d shared, desperately seeking a single grain of proof he truly cared for her.

It was folly to think it—she knew that. Mayhap he had liked the lunatic, untamed Eurydice, with her fantasies and thrilling unpredictability. He barely even knew Isobel Marston, the gentlewoman with a good bloodline, whose family had prospered through the wool trade. She would be too proper for him, too dull, her only accomplishments her stitchery and her ability to play on a harpsichord—which she no longer possessed.

She couldn’t see the street below any longer because her eyes were blurred with tears. The sun had passed behind a cloud, sucking all joy from the day.

A sudden knocking at the front door made her pulse throb in anticipation. Before she could regain control of her nerves, Goodwife Cooper was at the solar door, telling her Sir William had arrived to see her.

There was no denying him—she’d known this moment must come. Whatever he had to say to her, there was one point on which she would remain steadfast. If he proclaimed affection for her, even love, she couldn’t trust him. If she were ever to unite herself with a man, it would not be a ruse to evade the unwanted claims of another woman.

Shakily she rose, then turned so the light from the window wouldn’t reveal the pallor in her face, nor the mistiness in her eyes. When she heard Will’s familiar uneven tread on the stairs, she grabbed up her needlework and pretended to be absorbed therein.

As he limped into the room, she felt a moment’s pity. His leg was clearly worse—he must have taken an infection in it. How could she have left his house without first ascertaining that he was well? Infections could kill.

Her compassionate feelings were soon dispersed by the chill atmosphere that accompanied him. He made her only the briefest of bows, shot her the merest glance from his icy blue eyes, then took up position before the chimneypiece.

“Sir William.” She seated herself, plastering a welcoming smile on her face. “I’m sorry to learn you’ve been unwell.”

“Not as sorry as I. I would have come sooner, else.”

A wave of delicious awareness coursed down her spine—what a delight to hear his voice again! She was evidently not yet cured of her particular affliction.

Her smile was met by a baleful glower. She continued to stare at him, taking in the disheveled state of his hair, the growth of dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. He looked more like a rogue than a gentleman, but the sight of him still made her treacherous heart beat faster.

“Will you not sit if your leg pains you? Did you ride here? Shall I ask Goody Cooper to bring up some wine? We discovered some in the cellar, a cache which my cousin failed to find.” She was gabbling, her voice sounding unsteady.

“I’d rather stand, and I don’t want any wine. I simply want to talk.” His voice was deceptively quiet, but from rage, or hurt?

She picked up her sewing again and began raggedly finishing the seam—it was the best excuse she could find for not looking at him. “Pray, say what you must. I’m listening.”

“Why did you leave my protection? Did you not think to discuss your plan with me?”

“I’m sure I’m well enough now to make up my own mind about things.” Hopefully, she sounded convincing. “That last night—an exceptional piece of folly on my part that I would not wish to repeat. I assumed you’d have no objection to my leaving.”

“No objection?”

His voice was louder now, and he’d moved nearer, but she kept her eyes on her sewing.

“No objection, when there is a would-be murderer out there, after your blood—against whom I’ve sworn to protect you? No objection, when you’ve willfully put yourself where he’s most likely to find you? If you think I don’t object to that, Isobel, you do not know me at all.”

She flinched, then abandoned her stitching and glared up at him. He didn’t seem concerned about what had happened between the two of them—he only cared about Hubert. Why were all men so impermeable when it came to the issue of feelings?

“Well? Have you naught to say for yourself? Do you not understand how much I’m insulted by your thoughtless behavior?”

Raising her chin, she let her anger surface. “My behavior wasn’t thoughtless—it was carefully calculated. I suppose I ought to apologize for hurting your pride and your precious honor. But I wasn’t going to stay where I wasn’t wanted, and where I might be a danger to others.”

She dragged in a breath and straightened her shoulders. “I release you from your promise to my brother. I’m now in my own home, and will soon have a houseful of servants to protect me. Nor am I friendless—I just need to rekindle friendships with those my cousin turned away, and to whom he lied.”

There. She’d released him, sundered the chain that linked them. Now, she could be free from the complication in her life that was Sir William Cavendish—and must say whatever it took to be rid of him before her resolve wavered.

“It was you who sent me away, Will, after what happened that night in the parlor. I have done no more than oblige you.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You know why I had to send you away, curse it. But I meant you to go no further than your bedchamber—you understood full well I never intended you to leave the house.”

Her head went back, then jerked forward. “What did you intend, Will? And what do you intend now? Because you’re not winning me over to your cause, whatever that may be.” She sounded like a hissing Medusa, full of snakes and venom. A lady should never lose her temper so—especially not when each stab at Will felt like a self-inflicted wound. But nothing she did or said had the desired effect.

He sighed and collapsed into the chair opposite. If only he would open his heart, then the world might be changed. But he was too proud a man. And too devoted to his accursed duty and his loyalty to Edward.

“I was furious when I woke to find you gone. Then, because of this benighted wound of mine, I was forced to keep to the house, and my fears and frustration grew. I’m glad you had the forethought to take Manners with you, and that you accepted the assistance of Goody Cooper. Forgive me for losing my temper—I can’t bear for us to quarrel.”

His apology was not unwelcome, but there were no signs of tenderness. If he felt so little, if his kisses were just born out of lust and drunkenness, she would never tell him how much their encounter had affected her, how she had tossed and turned that night and struggled to understand what it all meant. Her reaction to his nearness now, that coiling of sensation in her stomach, warned her that—despite her best intentions—her heart was still not safe. He must keep his distance, not touch her, or she would never know peace again.

Her hands clasped and unclasped in her lap. She should take up her sewing, ignore his presence, wait for him to leave. The longer he remained, the more desperate her need to hold him.

Lifting her head, she kept her voice as level as she could. “I accept your apology for being unmannerly. There are more things you should do penance for, but I’ll not have you think me ungrateful for all you’ve done for me, so I’ll draw a veil over those. Now, if there is nothing further to say, I’m sure you have much to do. God give you good day, Sir William.”