What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (2 page)

“Isabella.” Years of torturous agony hung within that one word, years of longing, years of living with her betrayal.

“I must speak to you,” she said, her breath coming as quick as his.

He suppressed a snigger of contempt. She’d had nothing to say to him when she left him and married another man. During the five years since their separation, she could have written to him many times. She could have found him in France if that was what she’d wanted.

Why here?

Why now?

“After all this time, I doubt there is anything left to say.” His tone was deliberately cold, blunt. The memories of her were like painful wounds that refused to heal and so he had no choice but to hide them beneath bandages of indifference.

“I did not come here for the music,” she whispered, but he noted anger infused her tone.

What the hell did she have to be angry about?

The gentleman in front turned his head. “Shush.”

Tristan cast him an irate glare. “And I did not come here to revisit the past,” he muttered to her through gritted teeth.

“But this is not about the past.” She gave a weary sigh as though she would rather be anywhere else than sitting talking to him. “This is about Andrew.”

“Andrew?” He could not hide his surprise.

During the two months since his return, she had not called at the house. She had not come to pay her respects or offer her condolences.

“I cannot speak about it here,” she said as she placed a hesitant hand on his arm. His traitorous body responded immediately as a familiar warmth travelled through him. “My carriage is waiting outside.”

Without another word, she stood and walked out through the door.

His heart lurched. The urge to run after her would never leave him.

He should tell her to go to the devil, let her husband be the one to listen to her pitiful woes. Turning back to face the musicians, he closed his eyes in the hope the melody would ease his restless soul. But the haunting harmony only served to remind him of all he had lost.

Perhaps if he went to her, she would offer an explanation for her lies and deceit. Perhaps then he would be able to move forward, take a wife, and produce an heir.

Straightening his coat as he stood, he crept out of the room.

When it came to Isabella, he would always be too weak to resist.

Chapter 2

Isabella Fernall flopped down into the carriage seat and exhaled deeply. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest the thumping echoed in her ears. She did not need to put her fingers to her cheeks to know they flamed berry red. Besides, how could she when sitting on her hands was the only way to stop them from shaking?

She glanced at the empty seat opposite, at the closed carriage door. Her vague plea had failed to rouse Tristan’s enthusiasm. After noting the contemptuous expression on his face, she doubted he would come. Whilst he grieved his brother’s passing, the men had never been close. She did not know or understand why. During the last few years, and until his untimely death, Andrew had been a good and loyal friend to her.

The sudden tap on the window made her jump and gasp for breath.

Good Lord. The ghostly hauntings at Highley Grange had turned her into a shivering wreck. Sucking in a breath, she leant forward and opened the door ajar. Catching a glimpse of the gentleman’s golden hair and black coat, she sat back in the seat in a bid to compose herself before he entered her conveyance.

With swift efficiency, Tristan climbed inside the carriage and slammed the door.

Time stopped. Just for a moment.

He sat down opposite, his glacial gaze scanning the interior as though he would rather observe the quality of the leather than look at her.

“What is this about?” His blunt tone sliced through the air.

In her mind, she imagined slapping the sour look from his face. “It is about your brother.” Her reply was equally as cold and direct.

He sat back in the seat, folded his arms across his chest and stared right through her. “What could be so important you would wait two months before approaching me? You could have called at the house rather than accost me at a concert.”

She searched his face, struggling to find the kind and carefree man who had once stolen her heart. Hostility did not come naturally to him. It was an ill-fitting mask, worn to hide his true feelings.

“I’m sure you know the answer to that,” she said haughtily, refusing to let his frosty tone penetrate her composed demeanour. “I tend only to call where I know I will be welcome.”

He raised an arrogant brow. “As family, you are always welcome at Bedford Square.”

“Family?” She could not help but give a contemptuous snort. “Was I ever anything more than your father’s ward? We are not related by blood, and you once said that two summers spent living under the same roof hardly quantifies such a connection.”

“My father promised your mother he would care for you, and he was true to his word. You should have made some attempt to repay his kindness by calling on my mother in her hour of need.”

Bitterness dripped from every word. Good Lord. Had it not been for the mop of golden hair and the dimple on his chin, she would not recognise him.

“Perhaps you should consult your mother before condemning others,” she said in a superior tone. His arrogance was infectious. “I believe she is not of the same opinion when it comes to who she permits entrance into her home.” Indeed, Lady Morford had written to her and specifically asked her to stay away.

“You could have asked to speak to me.” He examined his fingernails as though he found the conversation highly tedious. “My mother does not dictate whom I see.”

“Really? I hear Miss Smythe is your mother’s current lady of choice and that you have been instructed to stop and pet her whenever she holds up her paw.”

Isabella regretted the words as soon as they’d left her lips. She was not a bitter or resentful person. She did not parade around the ballrooms partaking in spiteful gossip. All she asked for was a little consideration. It took a conscious effort to suppress the pain of the past. She would not have approached Tristan had there been any other option.

“As I said, my mother may do as she pleases. Her actions have no bearing on my decisions.”

Isabella sighed wearily. Trading quips with him proved mentally exhausting. That was not the reason she had asked to speak to him. “Then let me take this opportunity to express my condolences for your loss. Indeed, I shall miss Andrew terribly and would have come to pay my respects had I thought I would be welcome.”

He straightened, his countenance remaining rather stiff. “I assumed your lack of compassion stemmed from your feelings towards me. I had no idea you were so fond of Andrew.”

It hadn’t always been the case. She had despised Andrew for the part he’d played on the night she had eloped with Tristan. But he had reached out to her when Lord Fernall died, and she had been so desperately short of friends. Indeed, she would never sully Andrew’s memory because of her feelings over Tristan’s shortcomings.

“He was there for me when I needed him,” she said solemnly. “He was there for me when I had no one else to turn to.”

Tristan snorted. “Well, he always knew what to say to win a lady’s affection.”

Do not retaliate. That is what he wants.

“Yes.” She smiled as she remembered Andrew’s words of reassurance when she told him how frightened she was of living alone at Highley Grange. “He also knew what to say to bring a lady comfort.”

Tristan dragged his palm down his face and sighed. “Well, I am pleased he proved helpful to one of us.” His tone conveyed a trace of sincerity. It was the first time since the moment she’d sat next to him at Lady Mottlesborough’s concert that he sounded somewhat like the man she remembered.

She had expected him to offer another cutting comment and had prepared a response accordingly. Now she did not know what to say. Plunged into an awkward silence, she took the opportunity to examine her feelings.

Tristan was the love of her life.

She supposed she would always love him. One did not give themselves to a man they presumed would be their husband and feel nothing. But the flaming passion she’d once felt in her chest no longer burned with any intensity. Her heart did not skip a beat at the thought of his touch. The desperate ache to be near him, the long, endless hours of agony while she waited to hear his voice, had all abandoned her, too.

Now, there was nothing left but a cold, empty shell.

In those wistful hours before sleep, she often imagined loving another man. It would not be an intense, all-consuming passion. It would be a different sort of love: a shared appreciation for life, a mature feeling of warm companionship and mutual respect.

“I hear your sister has married and moved to Ripon,” she said, deciding it was childish to be bitter and to dwell on an incident that happened so long ago. One of them had to offer the proverbial olive branch. And whether she liked it or not, she needed his help.

“Catherine prefers a life with few distractions. She has never been one for pomp and ceremony.”

Isabella understood completely. “And you have spent the last five years in France.”

He sat back, his shoulders relaxing a little. “I would still be there now if I had my way.” A faint smile touched his lips, and his blue eyes sparkled. For a brief moment she caught a glimpse of the man with whom she had fallen in love. “The monastery is the only place I feel at peace.”

“The monastery?” She could not hide her surprise. Had he spent all those years living with monks? “Surely you don’t mean you stayed there, that you lived in seclusion, prayed for hours every day.”

“Of course not.” He offered a mocking snort. “I have never been the pious type. The religious community who once occupied the monastery abandoned it long ago. My good friend, Marcus Danbury, purchased the property. We were in business together. We had the same goals, the same ideals. Our work proved fulfilling.”

“Work?” Isabella shook her head. “But you are the son of a viscount, a viscount yourself now. Why would you have a need to work?”

He did not reply immediately. There was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes before he said, “It is of no consequence. Andrew’s death forced me to leave a place I regarded as my home. And so I had no choice but to give up a life I found satisfying.”

It suddenly occurred to her that he could not possibly be the same man she once knew. They had spent five years apart, separated by the sea, the language, by circumstance. During that time had he known love, heartbreak? What events had shaped and moulded his character? Would anything else ever compare to the level of satisfaction he had experienced elsewhere?

“The title and land are yours whether you reside in London or not,” she said. In his youth, he had been a little reckless. He’d thought nothing of disobeying his family then. “You should follow your heart rather than what society expects or your position dictates.”

His expression darkened. “Do you truly believe that? When people depend on us, how can we ever be free? I’m afraid duty and responsibility are hats I must learn to wear comfortably and with pride.”

“You sound so different from the man I used to know.” The words fell from her lips without thought or censure. She sucked in a breath, wishing they would somehow find their way back. “What I mean is maturity alters the way we view the world. We have come to realise our options are limited.”

He snorted in both amusement and mockery. “Indeed, life no longer feels like a glorious adventure filled with endless possibilities.”

Isabella sighed. Whilst she recognised the truth to their words, a part of her wanted to kick off her slippers, take his hand and run through the garden like they used to do. The moon would be full and bright. They would sit by the fountain, splashing water, laughing. He would kiss her beneath a blanket of heavenly stars. Life would be perfect, just as it was then.

Good Lord. She was but three-and-twenty, yet she suspected every new experience awaiting her would fall hopelessly short of that one magical night. A surge of raw emotion sought to draw all the air from her lungs. She put her hand to her mouth, coughed against her gloved fingers.

“Listen to us.” A weak chuckle left her lips. “We sound so miserable, so morbid.”

He stared at her for a moment, the tightness around his jaw relaxing somewhat. “In France, my friends often remarked on my cheerful disposition. I am known for my optimism, for my carefree attitude to life. Yet I do not recognise myself when I am here. The words that fall from my mouth sound foreign to me. Everything feels like a lie.”

Isabella felt a familiar tug in her chest upon hearing his honest words. In an instant, she was transported back to the night at the coaching inn, when they realised it was his father’s carriage rumbling into the courtyard. She had put her hand on his cheek, told him nothing would ever keep them apart. Their ability to be honest and speak so openly to one another was just one of the things she loved about being with him.

How ironic that he should deceive her but a few hours later.

“It can take time to settle after years of living a different life,” she said, though she wanted to say that she understood what it was like to deceive oneself, that her life had been one huge lie, too. “Things are bound to feel strange, certain modes of conduct uncomfortable.”