The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(59)
The truth was no lady in society would ever mix well with the lifestyle he’d chosen. But as Fallon climbed into his carriage, a question Hardaway had asked tapped at the edges of his already-frayed thoughts. Would she? Would Isabelle force him to move away from headquarters and give up everything he’d built if she knew the truth about him?
No lady would fit well into the life he’d carved out for himself, but Isabelle was no average lady. He would never admit that Hardaway of all people had been right, but perhaps by closing Isabelle off and keeping his distance he’d undersold her. After years of assessing gentlemen to discover their talents, he had to admit that he hadn’t given her the same courtesy.
Perhaps the connection between them would break on its own. Perhaps she would grow weary of his company. Perhaps a million things, but Isabelle was worth the risk of discovering the answer.
He opened the door to his carriage and braced his boot on the step. With a glance up to his driver, he called out the one place he wanted to be more than anywhere else. “To headquarters.”
*
“I don’t require anything further, Mrs. Featherfitch,” Isabelle called out when she heard the door open. “Enjoy your evening.”
She’d played more hands of solitaire than she could count over the past few days, just as Victoria had taught her to do on long rainy days at home. Unfortunately the game appealed to her sister more than it did to her. She’d even lost interest in the book she was now reading, but with nothing else to occupy her time, she didn’t look up. She enjoyed a good story, but one could only read so many books in a day without conversation with a real person before losing one’s mind altogether. Mrs. Featherfitch was thawing to Isabelle by minute degrees, but she still wasn’t someone Isabelle would want to spend the afternoon chatting with. She wanted to see Fallon.
He hadn’t come back to see her in two never-ending days. Was telling a man you loved him so terrible a thing to say? And she hadn’t even gotten the words out. Imagine if she’d finished her sentence. Then he would burn his own home to the ground with her in it just to avoid seeing her.
She sighed and ran a hand through her loose hair, cringing at the thick weight of it around her wound. She hadn’t been able to wash it since the day before Victoria’s wedding, and she didn’t want to think about what might still be matted above the slowly healing cut. “Rapunzel’s hair must have been positively filthy,” she mumbled to herself. Her own hair hung in a thick clump down her back. She twirled it into something resembling a braid and shifted it to lean back on the sofa.
“I would think so.” A deep voice rumbled from across the room. “After years of a witch’s dirty feet and hands dragging against Rapunzel’s hair as she climbed the tower…”
Fallon! She grinned and sat up. He hadn’t left her forever! “You’ve forgiven me? I shouldn’t have said—”
“I’ve been busy,” he cut in. “I shouldn’t have left you alone so long. Have you turned into Rapunzel in my absence?”
“Unfortunately I have her hair… In condition, not in length,” she clarified.
“Do I have a witch to kill?” he asked with a wry grin.
His steps seemed lighter as he crossed the room to her, the expression on his face more pleasant than when he’d abandoned her days ago. But she was so grateful he’d returned, she didn’t question the change.
“I hadn’t even considered the grime the witch would have added to her flowing tresses.” She tossed her book aside and turned to look up at him as he neared the back of the sofa where she’d spent the day. “Poor Rapunzel. She must have longed for a lady’s maid if only for her dirty hair. You’ve only had me locked away for near a week.”
“This is hardly a doorless tower, Isabelle,” he said even as he glanced back to the closed and locked door and winced.
“Nevertheless…this cut isn’t becoming any cleaner with time.”
“I could have Mrs. Featherfitch bring a bath. She’s no lady’s maid, but I’m sure if pressed, she could assist you.”
“No!” Isabelle scrambled to her feet.
“Did something happen with Mrs. Featherfitch?” he asked, moving closer. Concern drew his brows together as he studied her.
How did she explain that though the woman was pleasant, Isabelle didn’t want to spend the evening listening to stories of Fallon’s love for the previous owner of this home? She could handle the woman’s misconceptions about why Isabelle was here, but conversations with the housekeeper always ended with tales of Fallon’s great love for another lady. She looked down at her hands as she muttered the only thing to be said in difficult situations—the truth. “I don’t like the stories she tells.”
He rounded the sofa, nearing her with slow steps. “You have her reading to you? I underestimated your boredom. I should have come sooner.”
“No.” Isabelle forced herself to look up and meet his gaze no matter how difficult it was. This was Fallon, her friend. And no matter who still held his heart, for her part, she loved him. “She tells me… She talks of the past, the history of your home.”
“Oh.” He had the good grace to shift uncomfortably on his feet for a moment before he said more. “I apologize for that. She should know not to speak of such things.” Some emotion crossed his face for only a fraction of a second, but Isabelle could have sworn it was disappointment mixed with frustration.