The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(71)

“Luring the pigeon from the tree branch,” she said in complete confusion.

He studied her for a second before he spoke. “If you would like a pet, may I suggest a dog?”

She tried to push away from him, but he didn’t let her go. “Don’t be silly.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Isabelle, if this is about last night—”

“We don’t need to discuss that,” she rushed to say. The last thing she wanted was to argue with him again today. She’d been so relieved to see he’d left the room before she woke this morning, and now here he was.

“Yes, we do need to discuss exactly that. I returned weary last night only to find that you changed my home all about while I was out for the day. I’m not someone who enjoys surprises. I plan and implement change on my terms. I always have.”

Oh no. No, no, no, she would not participate in this disagreement. Where was a garden to flee to when she needed one? “I told Mrs. Featherfitch to cancel the changes first thing this morning.” Her heart was pounding as she looked about for any escape, but there was none.

“I know,” he said, standing firm in front of her even though she was shaking now. “I met with her and the rest of my staff after that and approved everything you set in place.”

Approved everything… Her mind raced to catch up with his words. “What?” She stilled and looked up at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I needed to do that. The adjustments were long overdue. I should have seen the issues before now.”

“I don’t understand. You’re angry over this…aren’t you? We fought.”

“Do either of us have blackened eyes?”

“No.”

“Then it wasn’t much of a fight, was it?”

“I suppose not.” Even her friend Roselyn could throw a punch, from what she’d heard. But Fallon had been stern with her. That was always how these things began. She’d seen it over and over with her parents. Father would get stern, then came the shouting, and it would end with both parties finally retreating into separate rooms in silence. But their fights never ended like this.

She stared at Fallon for a second and saw only concern in his eyes. Had she been wrong to demand a change of rooms? “You never truly screamed,” she muttered mostly to herself.

“Raised voices aren’t productive, in my experience, and I’ve settled a great many disputes. Please don’t jump from the window to be away from me, Isabelle.”

Even if he did wish to make amends, he wasn’t entirely to blame for this. “I shouldn’t have met with anyone about changing things, Fallon. You keep everything here just as…” She sighed. “You keep things just like Lady Herron left them. It was wrong for me to—”

“Isabelle,” he cut in as he moved to brush her hair from her face. “You mended my blanket so I wouldn’t be cold at night.”

“I did.” And she’d used what she suspected were Lady Herron’s sewing supplies to do so. That had been clearly wrong on many levels.

“I neglect my clothing, and you had it put in logical order and pressed. You planned out a menu for the cook to adhere to. You arranged for uniforms and a schedule for my staff.”

“And all of that was wrong. I shouldn’t have overstepped my bounds so. I got carried away. I often do that.” She stared at his cravat, unable to meet his gaze. Her family had often told her she was too excitable. She’d seen a means of helping Fallon while she was sitting about doing nothing. It would occupy her mind during the day so that she might sleep without visions of ghosts or thieves. She’d leapt onto the idea with full force. He wouldn’t mind, she’d told herself. He’d kissed her, after all. She’d thought that had meant something to him. Love was a confusing game.

“Isabelle, no one has ever cared if I was cold at night.” He tipped her chin up with a finger until their eyes met. “Only you. The uniforms needed to be updated, and the cleaning… It had been on my mind to see to, but I…”

“Have been preoccupied with an art theft?” she asked with a thin smile. What was happening? The heat she’d seen in his eyes two nights ago was back. This wasn’t like any argument she’d ever witnessed. This was different.

“I never considered that my cook might be unhappy in her employ here, that she would find it helpful to set a menu.”

“You’re not angry with me,” she stated, finally realizing what he was saying.

“No. I’m…” His lips were on hers as if he couldn’t stop himself, and all of his usual restraint was cast out the window.

She melted into his kiss, grateful that they were friends once more. Friends—perhaps that term wasn’t quite right. She slid her hands around his waist as he deepened the kiss between them.

But at the sound of a bird’s song outside the open window behind her, Fallon pulled back to look at her. “I shouldn’t ask, but why, exactly, do you want a pigeon in the room?”

“I know you’ve written to my father, but my family must want to hear from me… Don’t they? Perhaps not after that confession note.” She sighed and looked into his eyes. “They haven’t written to me. And I’m not allowed use of the post to send them correspondence. I thought… I wanted to send a note to my family.”