Page 28 of My Duke, The Stranger
“With this in mind, His Grace’s mental state, as it stands, is what worries me, and this is why I am dedicating every waking hour toward seeing him healed so that he might be made whole. I wish for nothing more than to see his memories return to him and that he might return with them, and there is nothing I will not do to achieve this end. Are you listening to me, Miss Isolde?”
She did not answer immediately. But the silence stretched, she felt his eyes on her back, and Isolde had no choice but to stammer out a pitiful, “Y—yes, I am listening.”
“And so, we come to you.” Mr. Pemberton cleared his throat. “For reasons that I can only guess at, His Grace has grown attached to you beyond what should be considered reasonable. In fact, he is convinced that he remembers you…” He sighed. “Or he feels as if he should. Regardless, he is adamant that you are what holds him together and that you are the key to his memories being unlocked and returned to him. It is a strange thing…” He sighed again. “I have known His Grace my entire life, and never have I seen him so happy as when he speaks of you, Miss Isolde.”
Isolde did not mean to, but she smiled when he said that. Even the guilt that fell on her, the shame that she felt, could not hold it back.
“And here lies the problem.” Mr. Pemberton’s tone turned stern. “As His Grace slowly reintroduces himself into society, he will insist that you join him. When this happens, his friends and his colleagues will wonder about you. They will ask questions that you are expected to answer. How you met, for one. But more importantly, what on earth a duke is doing with the daughter of a vicar.”
Isolde turned stiff with anticipation.
“It is the strangest thing.” Mr. Pemberton clicked his tongue. “Truly, beyond anything that I could have expected, but I did a little digging, and would you believe that I learned of a noble lineage from northern Scotland that connects to your father?”
“What?” Isolde turned quickly in her bed. She found Mr. Pemberton looking pointedly at her; his no-nonsense expression demanding that she listen.
“That name, Whitmore, is undoubtedly related to the Whitemuir’s of the Scottish isles,” he explained to her. “Indeed, in tracking that name, there can be no doubt that your bloodline is noble.” He met her eyes, held them, letting the meaning be known to her. “Which leaves me to believe that when you and His Grace met, you told him this, which is what allowed for his courtship of you…”
Isolde hesitated as she held Mr. Pemberton’s eyes. It was dark in the room. It made his expression hard to read. But she heard his words, she recognized the implication, and she knew what he was doing.
Should I trust him? Not that I am in a position to ask if someone is trustworthy…
“That is right,” she said slowly and carefully. “My father…” She swallowed. “He told me of this connection years ago and when…” She swallowed again, her heart trying to escape through her throat. “When I met His Grace, I was sure to let him know.”
Mr. Pemberton nodded. “As I assumed was the case. A lucky circumstance, I think. For surely, was it not the case, you would have never wasted his time or your own.”
“I would not have dared.”
Mr. Pemberton held that silence. He let the implication sit between them. He made sure through a single look that Isolde knew what he was doing for her. Or rather, what he was doing for the duke.
“Good,” he said. “His Grace wears a strong mask. It might seem to most that he is confident and assured of himself. With his memories being what they are, he might even believe it. But I know more than most.”
“What…” She hesitated. “What do you mean?”
“Only that His Grace is not the man people think he is. He has had a hard life, far harder than he ought to have had. What is more, time and time again, those whom he thought loyal to him proved otherwise. I would hate for the same to happen again.”
“I would never,” she said. “I… I only want to help.” She spoke the words, and she knew they were truthful.
“I am glad we could clear the air…” He sighed and pushed back his chair as he stood. “And now that we have, I look forward to hearing of how you two first met, and why your engagement was kept a secret. A tale to mull over, to think on carefully, before reminding His Grace.” Another pointed look as he stood over her.
“I will be sure to let him know,” she said. “Anything to help with his memory.”
“All I do is for His Grace,” Mr. Pemberton said. “No more, no less. My hope is that this here is an action that I will not come to regret. As I assure you, that you will hope the same. Be wary, Miss Isolde, I will be watching you both. Do not make me regret this.”
He turned and walked across the room. However, when he reached the door and opened it, he turned back.
“Now, as to this illness. I pray that it passes quickly. His Grace misses you; he has been rather sullen since you fell ill, and I just know that seeing you well again will light a fire inside of him that he desperately needs.”
“I think…” She cleared her throat. “I think I am feeling better already.”
“I thought you might be.” With that, Mr. Pemberton left the room and closed the door behind him.
Isolde remained in bed for some time after he left.
She stewed over what had just happened. She had been given a life raft, tossed to her in a storm; a way for her to keep her head above water for a little while longer. It would not save her completely. There was still ample time for her to drown, should she not be on her guard. But it was something…
What she chose to focus on as she slowly climbed out of bed and moved to the window to open the curtains was why Mr. Pemberton had decided to lie for her. He was determined for Cassian’s memories to return, and he seemed to think that she would help somehow.
Obviously, should his memories return, it would spell her doom. Yet, Isolde found that a part of her wanted to help him. What was more, she wanted to spend more time with Cassian. Three days alone and she missed him… as tragic as that was to admit.
