The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(20)

“Once seen, you cannot unsee, no matter how much you wish it to be otherwise.”

“Do you think it contains a scandalous miniature?” she asked, laughing. “That would be quite the shock.”

“Perhaps.” Or it could contain an image of the woman to whom it had once belonged, which would raise more questions. That blasted locket needed to remain closed. Then Isabelle would lose interest and move on to her pearls or some other accessory next time.

Isabelle shrugged and dropped the locket back to rest against her body, clearly still curious about what she would find inside the piece of jewelry. “I hope it isn’t something awful. That would be quite disappointing.”

“Return it,” he said, hoping she would heed his words.

“I…I can’t.”

“If you discovered it among your father’s things, simply put it back where you found it.”

“It…isn’t that simple. And I rather like it.”

“Not all treasure is worth the price involved in its possession.”

“Is that the warning posted on treasure maps beside the large X?” she asked with a grin.

“Unwritten wisdom. Disappointed?”

“I am a bit.” Isabelle elbowed him in the arm and laughed again. “I’ve quite lost count of the stars, and it’s entirely your fault, sir.”

“Thirty-four.”

She turned to look at him. “Was that the number? Do you recall all facts with that speed?”

“Only the important ones.”

“How do you decide which are important and which are rubbish?”

“Your words are all important.”

She blinked in shock as she looked up at him. “Do you think so? You’re the only one. I’m told I need to remain focused on reality if I’m to find a husband.”

“But you prefer the gentlemen in stories to the ones in that ballroom…aside from Mr. Brice, of course.”

“Is it so wrong to want the sort of love that’s written about in books and portrayed in paintings? The kind of love that inspires song in an opera? I don’t want a marriage to a lord only to gain his title for my family’s connections. No. I want a worthy knight with armor that gleams in the sunlight. He would rid the kingdom of all our enemies, then gather flowers from a field, smile warmly to all around him, and lead his lady in a dance—that is all I want. And I know I’ll find it. Perhaps soon.”

Fallon knew the true nature of gentlemen better than most, and he’d yet to meet a man who both slew enemies and showed any interest at all in flowers and dance steps alike. Isabelle’s quest was horribly flawed. And the very idea of Brice fitting that description was laughable. Brice had his skills, and Fallon was thankful for them, but the main skill his friend had honed since his youth was the art of fooling everyone around him—Isabelle included, it would seem. If she knew Brice at all, the spell would be broken.

Was that what kept her hiding behind cakes and not speaking to the man? She kept the world at bay, choosing to live within her dreams instead. Her actions made complete sense and yet at the same time no sense at all—just like Isabelle. He fought back a smile.

“I want to live my life in happiness. Marriage without gifts, longing looks, and laughter every day from an honorable gentleman will only lead to sadness. And sadness breeds anger. I don’t like fighting.”

“I don’t believe anyone enjoys fighting.”

For as opposing as Fallon and Isabelle were in how they viewed the world, their childhoods were remarkably similar. Her parents held no great affection for each other. Everyone who had eyes on society knew there was no love lost between the Fairlyns. But Fallon had never considered the effect that Knottsby’s discontent had on his own family. He should have. Isabelle’s life mirrored Fallon’s own in many ways.

“Many homes aren’t happy ones.”

“How did you know?” Her eyes were wide as she watched him. “I only said I want to be happy in marriage. I didn’t intend to say anything against my family.”

He shrugged and moved to the terrace wall. He braced his hands on the low top cap and stared out into the darkness. “My mother died when I was young. I’m unsure if my father’s drinking began then, or…perhaps it had always been his weakness. It was a private matter, and at one time I thought it to be the usual thing.

“When I was eleven, my father came home from the local tavern particularly foxed. Even for him. He fell in the hall, sprawled across the bottom of the stairs. My older brother was no stranger to drink either and found Father’s state amusing. I spoke up, took charge of the situation. Called for servants to be awakened to assist him. Coffee to be made. Then I told him what I thought of the mess he was making in our home, and by that point around town as well. A blackened eye later, I vowed that I wouldn’t become like him. My brother followed in my father’s footsteps. He has wealth, the title, the estate, and he spends his life in a tavern.”

“And you don’t partake in liquor at all,” she finished for him. “Always the responsible one in control of the situation. Always on to the next meeting, the next item on a list.”

Fallon swallowed. He’d never told anyone that story. What was he doing with this lady? It was as if the binding on all of his personal thoughts unraveled in her presence, yet there was something he quite liked about the freedom. “I understand your wish for happiness,” he said, turning to look back at her. “Fighting is your bottle of spirits. You should have a happy life. You deserve that.”