What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) Read online

  “You will need to be completely honest with me,” he said, averting his gaze to glance at the floor. “There can be no secrets between us.”

  Being honest with him had never posed a problem for her. “What do you want to know?”

  He paused, swallowed audibly. “The nature of your relationship with your husband. Details of his relationship with his son. Who owns Highley Grange? Why it is Henry Fernall maintains control? Can you trust the staff here?”

  “Goodness.” She placed her hand to her chest. “Why did you not just say you wanted to know every intimate detail of my life. I am surprised you’ve not asked if I have a lover.”

  The comment was made in jest, purely to express her shock at the depth of information required.

  His expression darkened. “Do you have a lover, Isabella?” His penetrating stare made her shift uncomfortably. “Your husband has been dead these last two years. It would be a natural assumption for anyone to make.”

  She had only ever had one lover. There had only ever been one man who made her body ache at the thought of joining with him. Of course, she had given herself to her husband on numerous occasions. But that was not love. It amounted to nothing more than one’s duty.

  Straightening her spine, she decided it was best to be blunt. “You are the only man I would class as such. A lover is someone who rouses an ardent passion, someone with whom you share a deep emotional connection.” She flicked her hair in an act of disgruntlement. “So no, Tristan. Whilst I did my duty by my husband, other than you, there has been no one else.”

  He pushed his hand through his slightly damp locks, rubbed back and forth as though the motion would ease the tense expression on his face. “What … what happened between us … you must know that it meant something to me.”

  “Did it?” Her tone carried a hint of reproof. He wanted honesty, and she would give it to him. “How would I know that?”

  Pain flashed briefly in his eyes. “We were in love. It was inevitable we would find a way to express all we felt, all we meant to one another.”

  Did he not know that his words cut her to the bone? To remind her of what she had lost was akin to torture.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Birch appeared at the top of the stairs. She cleared her throat and offered a curtsy. “I’ve prepared a light repast, my lady, a broth to warm up your bones. It’s always wise to have a hot meal when caught out in weather such as this.”

  Isabella forced a smile. It took a moment for her to focus on forming a response. While her body was in the present, her mind lingered in the past. “Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Birch. We will be right down.”

  Mrs. Birch nodded and made a hasty retreat.

  “Come. Let us go and eat.” He waved his hand for her to lead the way. “We can continue our discussion downstairs, though there are certain questions you should not answer unless we can ensure absolute privacy.”

  He sounded serious, so sober. She preferred his tone playful, teasing, brimming with amusement. Though they remained silent as they made their way to the dining room, she sensed a heavy pressure in the air that suggested he was deep in thought.

  They chose to sit at the far end of the table, in the seats closest to the fire. Other than passing pleasantries (a mutual admiration for the landscape painting that hung above the fireplace, their predictions of how long it would be before the rain stopped) they ate their meal in silence. She watched him from beneath hooded lids, noted the lock of golden hair that fell to cover his brow, averted her gaze whenever he looked up.

  “You said you wanted to know who owns Highley Grange.” She could not continue to stare at him without saying something. “What made you think that I do not?”

  He used his napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth. “It is something Jacob said.”

  “Jacob? What … what did he say?”

  “I spoke to him briefly when I rode round to the stable. As I said, he mentioned that Mr. Blackwood manages the estate. That it is Henry Fernall who pays the servants’ wages.” He paused. “How do you find Mr. Blackwood?”

  “Mr. Blackwood?” She rarely saw the man. “He is hardly ever about when I am in residence.”

  During the rare occasions when their paths did happen to cross, he struggled to hold her gaze. Not that she was complaining. His thick eyebrows gave his face a wild, almost feral appearance that made the hairs at her nape stand on end.

  “Does that not strike you as odd? Surely there are matters of estate business that require some communication.”

  She shrugged. “Henry keeps him busy.”

  “As the heir, it is reasonable to expect Henry to oversee things. But something tells me his interest in Highley Grange stems from more than a need to be helpful.”

  “Henry owns Highley Grange.” And oh, how he enjoyed reminding her of the fact. “He is responsible for everything. As per the stipulations of my husband’s will, I am permitted to live here until I remarry or until I meet my demise.”

  Tristan’s eyes widened. “Why did you not mention it before? Perhaps Henry wants rid of you. It gives him motive.”

  “Perhaps it gives him a motive to frighten me but not to murder his own father.”

  “Shush. Keep your voice low.” Tristan glanced at the open door. “I assume you have been provided for financially.”

  “I have a small allowance.” She was not frivolous, and so it was adequate for her tastes. “I’m told circumstances would have been different if I’d had a child.”

  He sat back and closed his eyes briefly. “Has there ever been a child?”

  It took a moment for her to comprehend his meaning. “No. Thankfully, I have never had to deal with such a terrible loss.” Still, she felt the dull ache in her chest at the thought of never being a mother.

  “But you were married for three years.”

  The snigger of contempt was louder than she anticipated. “It takes a little more than marriage to produce a child.”

  “I know that. Are you telling me you rarely …” He waved his hand as a means of conveying the word he struggled to say.

  “Yes. Rarely is the appropriate term.”

  He searched her face, his gaze falling to her neck, slightly lower. “Was Lord Fernall blind or simply stupid?”

  The indirect compliment caused a warm glow to flow through her. It felt as though someone had wrapped her cold and aching limbs in a blanket of soft, fluffy down. Though she tried to suppress it, the corners of her mouth curled into a smile.

  “We were unsuited. I suppose he hoped that taking a younger bride would solve the little problem he had.” Samuel Fernall’s preferences in the bedchamber beggared belief. “Well, I speak of the problem he had when trying to perform under normal circumstances.”

  Tristan’s quizzical stare turned menacing. “Please tell me he did not hurt you.”

  Various images forced their way into her mind: the times Samuel begged her to pleasure herself whilst he watched from the shadows. His puffy, red face swollen in anger as the insults burst cruelly from his lips. Like an annoying fly, she could not quite bat the visions away. Had her heart been whole, had her confidence not been left in tatters, Samuel would have hurt her terribly.

  “I was immune to his cutting remarks. I was immune to the humiliation any wife would have felt upon discovering her husband kept a house purely for his sordid little parties.”

  Tristan glanced around the room. The frown marring his brow convinced her that he was perhaps more perceptive than she thought.

  “Am I correct to assume you speak of this house?”

  She swallowed another spoonful of broth and nodded. “I suspect he meant to torment me for his many failings. It is strange how men blame their own inadequacies on their wives. In forcing me to live here, he is still able to punish me even from beyond the grave.”

  A tense silence filled the room.

  After what felt like an eternity, Tristan stood abruptly. “Come. I believe the rain has stopped,” he said glancing out of the window. “Let
us take a walk as we are both in need of some air.”

  “That is an excellent idea. There is something about this house I find quite suffocating.” She forced a smile. She needed a little light relief after the pressure of such heavy scrutiny. “I will give you a tour of the gardens. It will do us good to stretch our legs. And now we have warmed our bones I doubt we will be in danger of catching a chill.”

  His curious gaze scanned her plain grey dress. “I will wait while you fetch your jacket.”

  “I shall be fine in this,” she said tugging at her sleeve. “The material is far too thick for this time of year.”

  She noticed his raised brow and knew another question was about to fall from his lips.

  “I cannot help but notice you seem to prefer dressing in black or grey. The mourning period for your husband passed long ago. Does your subdued attire stem out of respect for Andrew?”

  The question came as no surprise. He knew she once favoured bright colours: yellow ribbon on her bonnet, bright pink rosebuds embroidered on her shawl. She often made him wait while she picked vibrant flowers to fill the vase in her bedchamber.

  “I do miss Andrew, but no. Over the years I suppose I grew accustomed to the drab colour.” She did not want him to know that, since their separation, she could not bear anything that reminded her of their time together. “And it is so easy to coordinate on a budget,” she added with a hint of amusement as he followed her into the drawing room and out through the doors leading to a small terrace.

  He smiled at her last comment. “When we have found a plausible explanation for the strange happenings in the house, perhaps you should accompany me on a shopping expedition. We shall find material for a dress, something bold, something striking in a hue of rich golden yellow.”

  It took every ounce of strength she had to hold the tears at bay. A year after Tristan had left, and in an act of defiance, she’d had a gown made in daffodil yellow. Although try as she might, she could not wear it. “I would like that,” she said, though her throat felt tight and it proved difficult to swallow.

  They spent a few hours strolling in the garden. The sun made an appearance, the brilliant rays working to soothe away any tension. As they meandered through the avenues of sculptured topiary, he told her of the changes he wanted to make to the gardens at Kempston Hall.

  “During my time at the monastery, I often spent time in the garth. With walls on every side, it forces you to stare up at the sky. The longer I sat there, the more my soul felt lighter, free.”

  “So you would not plant shrubs?”

  “No. I would do nothing to distract the eye.”

  She led him to the walled garden, agreed that the roses did indeed draw one’s attention away from the vast blue canopy above. He persuaded her to pick the flowers from the beds, to be arranged in a crystal vase and placed in her room. They laughed over silly things, walked in companionable silence.

  It was as though they had never been apart.

  After dinner, they sat in the drawing room. He spoke of his wild escapades in France. Imagining him in his French lover’s arms had kept her awake at night many times over the years. Indeed, the thought plagued her even now.

  “What should I do if I hear or see anything strange tonight?” she asked as they climbed the stairs. Being in his company made her forget all about her woes. It wasn’t until he suggested they retire early that the morbid thoughts returned.

  “If you’re able, knock on my door. Call out if you fear leaving your bed.” He opened the door of her chamber and stepped aside for her to enter. “Would you like me to check your room?”

  Panic flared. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest at the thought of being alone with him in her private chamber. Just a few days ago, she had sat across from him in her carriage believing herself lacking when it came to feeling any genuine emotion. Now, desire blossomed, unfurling slowly like the petals of a spring bud.

  “No. I’m confident it will be fine. And you will be just across the hall.”

  He raised his chin in acknowledgement. “I suppose I should wish you a peaceful night, but it would help our cause if something unusual did happen.”

  She hugged the edge of the door, watched him as he walked across the landing to open his door. “I’m sure it will be a long night. I doubt either of us will sleep.”

  Stepping inside his room, he turned to face her. “After all my probing questions, you’re bound to be in need of a little rest.”

  It was her cue to yawn and bid him goodnight, but something kept her there.

  “My head is throbbing from your relentless prying,” she said with a chuckle. “Perhaps it is only fair I get to ask a question of my own before we retire.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “We did agree to be honest. You may ask whatever you wish.”

  Why did you not want me?

  What did I do to make you stop loving me?

  The questions did not suddenly spring into her mind. She carried them around with her always. A permanent reminder of her inadequacy. But she would not demean herself by demanding an answer.

  “You asked me something extremely personal, something intimate. I would like you to answer the same question.” She stood rigid, hoping her taut muscles would shield her from the blow she knew was coming. “Do you have a lover? Is that why you do not appear enamoured with Miss Smythe?”

  Tristan stared at her; his expression wavered. One moment she saw a glint of pleasure in his bright blue eyes, the next she saw sadness and pain. A heavy tension hung in the air.

  “No. I do not have a lover.”

  Despite his melancholic tone, relief coursed through her. Why should she feel so elated? Why did she want to clap her hands, sing and jump for joy?

  She scrambled about in her mind, trying to find the right words to reflect her surprise without revealing anything more. But Tristan took a step back.

  “I do not have a lover,” he repeated as he closed the door slowly. “There has never been anyone other than you.”

  Chapter 8

  Tristan pressed his back against the bedchamber door and closed his eyes.

  Bloody hell!

  He exhaled deeply. The long weary sound drifted through the room until all the air had left his lungs.

  Of all the things he could have said, the declaration proved that he had not been able to move forward with his life. Revealing his secret roused an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability that did not sit well with him. Muttered curses continued to fall from his lips.

  Whilst perhaps appearing rude, his sudden retreat was merely a defensive manoeuvre.

  Should he open the door and offer an explanation? Should he demand she put him out of his misery, tell him what he had done to force her into the arms of another man?

  Pushing away from the door, he raked his hand through his hair. One thing was certain. He could not go on pretending the past didn’t matter. Although bitterness lingered deep within, he still wanted her. More than ever.

  God, he was a damn fool.

  Perhaps Chandler was right. A discreet liaison would serve his purpose. Burying himself inside Isabella’s tempting body would help him to banish the demons of the past. But she had rejected him once before. Why would she want him now?

  Feeling a desperate urge to find a distraction from his conflicting thoughts, he scanned the dimly lit room. From the drapes to the bed hangings, the various shades of blue created a cold, detached feeling, one so opposed to the fiery heat coursing through his veins when he thought of the tempting lady just across the hall.

  So this was the room Lord Fernall slept in before he died.

  Isabella had given him the option of choosing a different bedchamber, but logic dictated that he remain close. Besides, his time in France had seen him sleeping in barns, stables, a blanket laid out on the forest floor. And so he was grateful to have a bed. Sentiment played no part in his decision.

  Stripping down to his breeches and shirt, he climbed onto the bed and lay back
against the mound of pillows. He crossed his arms behind his head and surveyed the room. Nothing captured his attention. Everything was exactly as one would expect. There was a washstand, his shaving implements laid out in an orderly fashion on top of the marble surface, an armoire which he assumed now contained the spare shirt and breeches he had brought with him in a saddle bag. The tall bookcase opposite the bed was crammed with a collection of dusty old tomes.

  Well, at least if he struggled to sleep he would have something to read.

  Reaching for his pocket watch, which he had placed on the side table next to the bed, he noted it was only eleven o’clock. Most ghosts and spectres chose to wait until after midnight before performing their devilish tricks. There was something about the early hours that created a perfect setting for a haunting. Perhaps it had something to do with the depressingly dark atmosphere or the eerie sound of silence.

  Knowing sleep would elude him, he closed his eyes and attempted to clear his mind.

  An hour passed.

  The distant chimes of the clock in the hallway downstairs indicated the witching hour was upon them.

  There was a chance his presence would prevent the perpetrator from acting. Then again, fear was contagious. Having a witness to corroborate the terrifying events would only help to strengthen their cause.

  While he tried to piece together what little he knew, he found his thoughts wandering back and forth. Whimsical dreams of Isabella pushed to the fore. Lost in the warm, pleasurable feeling such visions evoked, he must have missed the single chime to indicate it was one o’clock.

  However, it was not the chimes for two that captured his attention. The sound of approaching footsteps forced him to sit up. Sliding quietly off the bed, he crept to the door, pressed his ear against it and tried to distinguish any obvious characteristics.

  The steps were not the heavy tread of masculine feet, but more a light patter. The short strides indicated a woman of small stature. They stopped outside his door. The hard lump in Tristan’s throat made it difficult for him to swallow. His blood rushed through his veins. Only a fool would open the door.