The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(73)

Fallon’s shoulders seemed to sag under a great weight as he turned from the fire and crossed the rug to sit beside her. “The man who did this is a bad person. He isn’t like you.” He reached up and slowly tucked away a lock of her hair, his fingertips grazing the rim of her ear as he moved. “He doesn’t see the world through these beautiful eyes, doesn’t see the promise of hope—only what could be his if he presses his luck.”

“You think my eyes are beautiful?” she asked, taken aback by his statement.

“Not just your eyes, but the way they view the world. You’re a lovely person, Isabelle. A lovely person who was assaulted and left at the scene of a crime for the sake of the price of some paintings. You simply stumbled across the wrong path. This was not the result of anything you did or didn’t do.”

“I’m not perfect, you know. I once climbed through a window to attend a masquerade ball on my neighbor’s estate.”

“Not a crime worthy of a head wound.”

“I shoved my sister quite hard a month or two ago and made her drop her wineglass on the parlor carpet. And then I moved a chair to keep my mother from noticing the stain.”

Instead of being shocked as he should have been, Fallon laughed. “What had your sister done to anger you so? I can’t imagine you in such a rage.”

“I thought she’d stolen my new fan. My skill with a fan is a bit of a sore spot between us, but I searched her things after that and didn’t find it. See? Yet another fault. I get curious and look through drawers. I can’t seem to stop myself. I see a closed door and think of all the mysteries it must conceal.”

“What did you think when you looked through my belongings?”

“That you don’t give a care for your appearance,” she teased. “And you have no personal possessions other than a few books. I’ve never seen someone live with so little evidence of that life lying about. You’re a mystery, Fallon St. James. A man full of secrets.”

“So they say,” he mumbled. Though his gaze met hers in the quiet room, it was as if he’d placed a great wall between them in an instant.

The longer they sat there, the more Isabelle wondered if there were more secrets about him that she’d yet to discover.





Fourteen


Dear Victoria,

Though I can’t send this letter to you, I need to write it. I have so many things to tell you, yet I don’t know where to begin. I realized this morning that this is the longest we’ve ever been apart. Remember that time when I was sick and Mother wouldn’t allow us to spend time together lest the fever spread in the house? We wrote notes and created that guessing game. I’m still surprised our maid kept that a secret. I miss you.

I tried to send you a message by pigeon earlier this week. It wasn’t successful, though I’m certain you would have guessed as much. I wish we had that maid to pass notes between us now. I don’t like that we parted at such a straining time. I heard that you didn’t go through with the wedding. My feelings about Hardaway have changed a bit since I’ve been here. Many things have changed during my stay, in fact. But I’m pleased you didn’t marry him—not because of me but because of you. I can’t imagine you married to a man not of your choosing. I know you don’t wish to marry at all, but perhaps truly knowing someone and sharing your life with him every day would suit you if you met the right gentleman.

I met someone. Well, I’d already met him, but things are different between us now. I can scarcely explain it since I don’t quite understand it myself. But know that I am happy and I am happy with whatever choices you make in your life. I’m sorry I was so angry with you. Forgive me? I hope to see you soon.

—Isabelle

P.S. Solitaire is a horribly boring game, and I don’t know how you can abide it.

? ? ?

Fallon walked into his bedchamber and blinked at the abundance of color that assaulted his eyes. He was used to the flowers that covered every surface, but there were quite a few additions to the decor now.

“I see you received the canvas and paints I sent up this morning.”

“My captor has returned! You didn’t abandon me to wither away like a flower past its bloom!” Isabelle exclaimed, twirling around to greet him with a brush laden with pale-green paint still dangling from her fingertips.

He chuckled at her comment but didn’t respond to it. Since he could barely leave her long enough to complete a single task, withering was hardly a problem. And he didn’t think Isabelle capable of fading in the sunlight anyway. She would simply bloom brighter. Focusing instead on the four paintings that were leaning against various surfaces around Isabelle, Fallon moved forward. Colorful blobs of paint danced on fields of green and blue. Were they garden scenes? Surely she wasn’t quite finished with any of them. “Were my private quarters lacking in flowers?”

“No, you have walls full of those,” Isabelle countered as she placed the brush down on the palette of paint colors beside her. “I thought with these you would have some variety.”

“Indeed.” Fallon moved farther into the room, looking down at the closest canvas leaning against the legs of a side table. “They’re all quite…cheerful. I like this one with the roses the best.”

Isabelle moved to stand beside him and appreciate her work. Leaning her head on his shoulder, she studied the piece for a moment before she said, “Those are apples.”