Page 80 of Isabel and the Rogue

Sirius shook his head. “But it—”

“Sirius, please,” Isabel cried, sidestepping him. Crossing to the door, panic and despair warring in her chest, she held his gaze as she willed herself to say, “I have to fall out of love with you, and I would appreciate it if you gave me the space to do so.”

Everything about that moment seemed suspended, the tension raising the hairs on the back of her neck. If Sirius argued with her—if he confessed his feelings for her—Isabel would not have the fortitude to push him away again. The thought of never seeing him again, of one day learning from Ana and Gideon that he had married, would be a father, threatened to reduce her to ash. Yet he could be happy here…and she could not.

So Isabel pushed down her grief, pulled her spine straight, and risked a glance at his face.

His resigned expression sent a tear streaking down her cheek.

Isabel watched as Sirius dressed silently, the only hint of the emotions roiling under his somber facade the muscle flexing in his jaw. When he put his hat on his head, he finally turned to her, his eyes devoid of the light that had long shone in them.

“I wish you the best, Isabel. You are a singular woman capable of great things. Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.”

Sirius bowed crisply, avoiding her gaze. Wordlessly, Isabel held open the door for him and watched as he slowly slipped past her. When Sirius melded into the darkness of the hall, she quietly shut her door and threw herself on her bed. The sheets still smelled of him. Gathering them to her chest, she buried her face in them as she wept.

20

Time seemed to stand still, each second, every minute of the clock painful and endless. But it also seemed to rush past with every sunrise and sunset.

Or at least it appeared so to Isabel as she watched the world pass by through her bedroom window.

In the weeks since she had ended her affair with Sirius, Isabel had left the house only a handful of times. She visited Ana María and Gideon, and attended Mass a Sunday or two, but couldn’t bring herself to go anywhere else. Isabel made no trips to the lending library or museum. No meandering walks in the park with Gabby. When her sister and Lady Yardley dressed in the evenings to attend one event or another, Isabel declined their increasingly frustrated requests to accompany them. But Isabel was incapable of feigning interest in such things any longer.

When Tío Arturo received the letter that Presidente Juárez and her parents had managed to escape before the French troops surrounded their location, he had delivered the news to Isabel in person. She’d been overwhelmed with relief, thankful the message had reached them before Maximilian’s army could, and yet Isabel didn’t cry. Couldn’t cry. Her chest felt hollow, and she could think of nothing to fill it.

Isabel wanted to go home, but home still seemed so very far away.

A soft knock on her chamber door drew her head around. “Entra,” she called.

The door opened, and Gabby stood on the threshold, her brow puckered in concern. She stepped inside, but paused, glancing about her.

“Aren’t you tired of this room?” she said, her tone gentler than her words.

“What do you want, Gabby?” Isabel said, turning back to the book in her hand.

“Viscount Westhope is here to see you.”

Isabel went still, her gaze flying to meet her sister’s. The last person she wanted to speak with was Westhope. He had called two times already, with Gabby or Lady Yardley claiming Isabel was feeling unwell. She knew that excuse would last for only so long. “Did you tell him I was in?”

“I did,” Gabby said succinctly.

“I wish you hadn’t,” Isabel said, groaning.

Gabby flung a hand up. “I thought you liked the viscount.”

“I do like him,” Isabel said, snapping her book closed. “And that’s the problem. I do not wish to hurt his feelings.”

“Why would you hurt his feelings?”

Isabel stared at the cover of the book in her hand. It was a collection of poems by John Donne. She did so love to hurt her own feelings. “Because I would have to tell him I’m not interested in being his bride.”

“That will be hard.” Gabby’s voice was sympathetic. “But the viscount deserves to know.”

She was right, of course. Westhope deserved her honesty, especially now that she had used their acquaintance to gain what she wanted. Guilt festered in her gut.

The room went silent…but the tension screamed in Isabel’s ears. When she glanced up, Gabby was considering her closely. “Lord Westhope is not why you have cloistered yourself away like a medieval nun, right?”

Smothering a chuckle, Isabel nodded. “Correct.”