Chapter 4: A Secret Meeting

The last embers of sunlight cast long, golden fingers across the grounds of Harrington Manor as Lady Isabella slipped into the garden, her every step careful, deliberate. The air was thick with the scent of earth and fading blooms, but she paid it no mind. A strain settled beneath her ribs, her senses sharpened, attuned to the faintest rustle of leaves.

She had long mastered the art of moving unseen—through corridors, through sun-dappled gardens, through the ever-watchful gaze of those who sought to control her. It was a necessary skill, honed by years of living beneath the weight of relentless scrutiny.

Her pulse quickened as she neared the secluded alcove, its entrance veiled by the scent of roses and jasmine curling in the evening air. And there, waiting as he always did, stood Duke William Crawford, his figure partially obscured by the flowering trellis.

For a moment, she simply watched him. The sight of him—steady, assured—sent a shiver through her, equal parts exhilaration and relief. As if sensing her presence, he turned, his eyes locking onto hers.

A slow smile spread across his lips.

"Isabella," he said softly, his voice blending with the rustling leaves.

"I was so scared I wouldn’t make it without being caught," Isabella whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

William reached for her hands. "You’re here now," he murmured.

They sat down on a stone bench hidden by the thick foliage, the garden shielding them from prying eyes. For a brief moment, they let the chaos of their lives fade, savoring the quiet.

Isabella eventually broke the silence, her voice tinged with frustration. "Geoffrey sent me another letter. He’s becoming more aggressive. And now there are whispers—"

William’s face hardened. "He won’t succeed. We’ll find a way to protect ourselves."

She sighed, her fingers tightening around his. "I wish it were that simple. The talk behind closed doors, the glances too quickly averted... every corner seems to hold a new threat. And now, it’s not just Geoffrey."

William gently tilted her chin so her eyes met his. "Then we face them together."

Their conversation turned to lighter matters, as they often did, trying to find solace in the chaos that surrounded them. They spoke of the future, of a life where they could be together without fear, without hiding.

"I can’t wait for the day we can be open about our love," Isabella said wistfully. "To dance in the moonlight without having to slip into the shadows."

William smiled, though there was sadness in his eyes. "One day, we will."

As the sun set and long shadows stretched across the garden, Isabella knew it was time to leave. She stood reluctantly, reality settling over her once more.

"I have to go," she said softly.

William pulled her into a tight embrace. "Stay strong, Isabella."

Their final kiss was filled with longing, a promise for the future. Isabella slipped away into the darkening garden, already thinking of excuses in case anyone had seen her. The cool night air did little to steady her pounding heart as she navigated the grounds, her footsteps light against the stone pathway.

Slipping through the entrance of the manor, she smoothed her skirts and steadied her breath—only to find her mother, Lady Eleanor Harrington, gazing at her from the drawing room. A novel rested in her lap, though it was clear she had

not been reading.

"Isabella," Lady Eleanor murmured, a note of mild surprise in her voice. "I wondered where you’d disappeared to."

Isabella forced a smile. "I needed some fresh air, Mother. The evening was so beautiful, I couldn’t resist."

Lady Eleanor said nothing for a moment, merely watching her, her expression unreadable. Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned a page in her book.

"Yes," she said softly, her voice carrying a weight Isabella couldn’t quite place.

"I imagine the night must have been… quite stirring indeed."

The words were innocent enough, yet they clung to the air between them, heavy with something unspoken.

Isabella swallowed, resisting the urge to glance away. Her mother’s sharp gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before drifting back to the page before her.

A dismissal. A warning.

Her pulse still racing, Isabella hurried to her room, the lingering tension in her mother’s voice curling around her like an invisible thread.

Lady Eleanor did not look up again, but as she absently smoothed a hand over the book in her lap, a small, knowing smile touched the corners of her lips.

***

The days that followed were filled with social engagements and carefully crafted lies. Isabella and William continued to meet in secret, cherishing each stolen moment together. But with each encounter, their love seemed only to sharpen against the quiet suspicions that gathered like storm clouds at the edges of society.

One afternoon, as Isabella sat in her room, planning their next rendezvous, there was a knock at the door. Her maid, Margaret, entered, looking unusually serious.

"Lady Beatrice is here to see you," Margaret said. "She’s waiting in the drawing room."

Isabella’s heart sank. Beatrice’s visits were usually lighthearted, but something in Margaret’s tone told her this was different. She quickly made her way to the drawing room, bracing herself for what was to come.

Beatrice stood by the window, pale and anxious, her fingers clenching the fabric of her sleeve. The room was thick with silence, save for the faint crackling of the fire, but the tension in the air was deafening. As soon as Isabella entered, Beatrice turned sharply, her expression troubled, her lips parted as if she had been holding back words too heavy to speak.

"Isabella," she said at last, her voice low, urgent. "I came as soon as I heard."

A chill settled in Isabella’s chest. "Heard what?"

Beatrice hesitated, her eyes darting toward the door, her breath shallow and uneven. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, as if something unseen lurked just beyond the threshold, listening. She swallowed hard and took a trembling step forward, her fingers twisting together in a desperate knot.

"There are rumours," she whispered, the words barely carrying past her lips. Her voice wavered, brittle with fear. "Spreading like wildfire."

She stopped, her throat tightening as if the truth itself had lodged there, clawing to be released. The room seemed to grow colder. A shadow flickered in her eyes—not from the candlelight, but from something deeper, something she wished she had never heard.

"People are saying—"

Her voice broke. She shook her head violently, as if she could unmake the words before they left her mouth. But the horror was already there, lingering, waiting to be spoken into existence.

"Beatrice," Isabella pressed, her pulse quickening. "Tell me."

Beatrice met her eyes, regret flickering across her face. "They say Duke Crawford was seen with another woman. Someone from his past."

The words struck like a blow, stealing the breath from Isabella’s lungs. The warmth of the room suddenly felt suffocating, the walls closing in. No. Not William. Not after everything.

"What?" she whispered, her voice barely her own. "That can’t be true. William would never betray me."

Beatrice stepped forward and took her hands, her grip firm despite the tremble in her fingers. "I don’t believe it either," she said softly. "But the rumours are everywhere. You must confront him, Isabella, before this gets out of hand."

Isabella swallowed hard, nodding even as doubt clawed at the edges of her mind. "I will. Thank you for telling me, Beatrice."

Beatrice pulled her into a tight embrace. "I’m always here for you. Stay strong, and trust in your love."

But as Isabella stood there, her friend’s words meant to comfort, she couldn’t ignore the seed of fear now planted deep within her heart.

First Geoffrey had spoken of Paris, Naples, and Vienna—and now, a woman from William’s past.

Why did his history cling to him so persistently? she wondered. Why did it feel as though no part of it would stay buried?

Would that be for the best—or not at all?

***

Determined to get to the truth, Isabella made her way through the garden, the last traces of daylight clinging stubbornly to the horizon. The air was thick with the lingering warmth of the afternoon, yet a creeping coolness signaled the coming night. Shadows stretched long across the manicured paths, the flickering lanterns barely chasing them away.

As she approached their usual spot, she saw him—waiting, just as he always did. For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her. Then his face lit up at the sight of her, and just as quickly, the smile faded.

"Isabella," he said, stepping toward her. "What’s wrong?"

His voice was gentle, but she heard the shift in his tone, saw the way his brows knit in concern. He could see it in her—the worry, the hesitation, the fragile trust being put to the test.

Her throat tightened. The words felt heavy—accusatory, treacherous. But if she didn’t speak them now, the doubt would fester. "There are rumours, William," she said, her voice nearly breaking. "They say you’ve been seen with another woman—someone from your past." She exhaled shakily. "Please, tell me it’s not true."

For the briefest moment, his expression wavered—blank, unreadable.

Then his eyes widened, the faintest flicker of disbelief flashing across his features before giving way to something sharper, more guarded.

But just before he spoke—just a breath’s hesitation—his throat moved in a tight swallow, his jaw tensing, as though wrestling with words he could not, or would not, permit himself to speak.

"That is absurd!" he snapped, anger rippling beneath the surface of his words. "I give you my word, Isabella—those rumours are false. There is no other woman. You are the only one I care for… the only one I love."

A wave of relief crashed over her, but doubt still lurked in the shadows of her mind, refusing to fade entirely. "Then why?" she whispered. "Why are these rumours spreading? Who would go to such lengths to tear us apart?"

William’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. "I believe Geoffrey is behind this. He will stop at nothing to drive a wedge between us."

He hesitated. Just for a breath. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, as though weighing whether to say more.

Isabella saw it—the hesitation, subtle but familiar. The same pause that slipped between them each time she so much as mentioned the things Geoffrey had said about his past.

She drew a steadying breath, then ventured, her voice low and cautious, “Does this… have anything to do with the time you spent abroad?”

She wasn’t certain which answer she feared more.

“These rumours. The things Geoffrey has said—I don’t want to believe him, William. Truly, I don’t. But sometimes…” Her voice faltered, the words fragile as glass. “Sometimes I wonder.”

His eyes darkened, but whether from anger or something else, she couldn’t tell.

"There are always whispers," he said at last, his voice quieter. "People love to twist what they don’t understand."

It wasn’t an answer. Not really.

Before she could press further, he spoke again. "But I fear there’s more at play." His tone changed—firmer, almost urgent. "There’s a noblewoman—Lady Catherine Montford."

The name sent a prickle down Isabella’s spine.

William continued, his voice quieter now, as if speaking her name aloud would summon her. "She has long harbored an infatuation with Geoffrey, though he barely acknowledges her. She’s always been watchful, calculating. Envious of your beauty, your position."

But how could he know so much? Had he encountered her abroad? Or had something... bound them once?

He could see the doubt in her gaze, and the words rose in his mind like a prayer unspoken: How could I leave you unprotected, unwatched, while I was away?

I had no choice but to go when I did—there was too much to set in order.

These machinations began long before, Isabella—and only now do they begin to show their face. You were never meant to see them until it was far too late.

He met Isabella’s gaze. "If Geoffrey convinced her that keeping us apart would serve her interests, she wouldn’t hesitate to act."

A thread of wariness wove through Isabella’s thoughts.

Lady Catherine… yes, she was perceptive, a quiet observer of the ton’s affairs, but was she truly behind this?

It was possible. And yet—was William offering this explanation too quickly? Too easily?

Her instinct told her to be wary of Catherine, but another thought crept in, unwelcome but insistent.

Was he trying to divert the conversation?

She studied him carefully, searching for any sign that he was withholding something. He looked sincere—his jaw tight, his gaze steady—but hadn’t he looked just as steady before, when she had asked about his time abroad?

"She was always polite," Isabella murmured. "Composed. But distant. I never thought she would involve herself in something like this."

William’s expression remained grim. "She is not someone to be underestimated. Jealousy can drive people to terrible things, but I suspect her motives go beyond that. She moves in quiet circles, whispers in the right ears. It wouldn’t surprise me if this was not the first time she’s orchestrated something from the shadows."

Isabella nodded, but doubt gnawed at her.

Lady Catherine might very well be dangerous, but was she the true threat? Or was William letting her believe she was, steering her away from questions he didn’t want to answer?

A slow unease curled in Isabella’s stomach. How much did Lady Catherine know? How far would she go?

William exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "We’ll need to be even more cautious now. Geoffrey is dangerous, but Catherine... she’s something else entirely. She doesn’t rage. She doesn’t threaten. She waits. She watches. And when she strikes, it’s already too late."

Isabella stiffened. His words were spoken with such certainty, such quiet authority—as though he knew her methods firsthand.

But how?

William had only recently returned to England. If Catherine was as insidious as he claimed, if she had been weaving destruction from the shadows all this time… how could he know so much about her?

She studied him carefully, searching for hesitation, for any flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. But there was none.

A chill settled in her chest, something unspoken stretching between them like a thin, invisible thread.

Had he been keeping watch from afar? Or had his past entangled with Catherine’s in ways he hadn’t told her?

She wanted to ask—how do you know this? But the words sat heavy on her tongue, unmoving.

If she voiced the question, if she pressed too hard, would she hear an answer she wasn’t ready for?

Instead, she forced herself to nod.

"Then we’ll be careful," she said. But the unease did not fade. It sat there, quiet and insidious, threading itself through her resolve like an unseen hand tightening its grip.

***

As night fell, Isabella and William parted ways, each carrying the weight of what lay ahead. Geoffrey’s influence was creeping further into the shadows, tightening its grip, and now Lady Catherine had stepped into the fray—a woman whose machinations were far more insidious than any open threat.

But as Isabella made her way back to Harrington Manor, another thought pressed heavily upon her chest.

William had spoken of Catherine with such certainty, such quiet knowledge, that it gnawed at the edges of her mind. He hadn’t been in England for years—so how did he know the depths of her cunning? The patterns of her deception? His warning had been laced with something more than caution.

Experience.

She told herself not to linger on it. That she was tired. That suspicion, once entertained, had a way of growing teeth. But the thought nestled there nonetheless, sharp and persistent:

Had he known Catherine before?

She tried to dismiss it—tried, as any sensible woman might, to attribute it to imagination, to nerves, to the slow erosion of trust that came when too many questions went unanswered. And yet, a woman learns to read what is left unsaid.

And what wasn’t said often spoke the loudest.

A chill settled deep in her bones.

Had he been watching from the outside? Or had he once walked within those very shadows, learning their ways before stepping into the light?

The estate loomed before her, standing silent beneath the deepening twilight. Her heart was heavy with thoughts of William—echoes of his voice, the memory of his gaze—yet her resolve, though worn thin, did not falter.

She told herself that so long as she and William stood together, they could weather any storm.

But telling herself was not the same as believing it.

And still, the hush of scandal would not fade. It crept through corridors, bold and insidious, pressing in like unseen eyes. Someone was watching. Waiting. A chill curled down her spine.

She told herself there was still time. There had to be.

But lies unravel faster than the truth.

The scent of suspicion hung heavy, twining through the air like overgrown ivy, slipping beneath doors, curling through keyholes, coiling in the dark.

The garden—once perfumed with late-summer blooms—now lay choked with shadow.

The noose tightened. Breath turned shallow.

The hush before the storm was fading.

And when it broke, it would not merely scatter the lies like petals on the wind—

It would uproot everything.