A March to Marquess | A Regency Romance

Chapter Seventeen

The color around her cheek was improving. The angry black bruise was finally giving way to a soft pale yellow that was hardly noticeable.

She touched the shriveled up petals in the dying bouquet that Lord Dunmore had sent her as she looked herself in the looking glass. Was she slowly dying like the hothouse flowers? Doomed to be plucked when she is young and pretty only to wither away while attempting to bring others joy? Would today be the day she finally ventured downstairs to re-enter the world knowing the path she had to take?

Isabella didn't dare leave her room for a week. She feigned sickness, shielding her injuries from the prying eyes of her parents. Whenever they would enter to check in on her, which was infrequent since they were worried about their own health, she would roll herself onto her side. This effectively hid the dark bump from them and kept her safe from any questions they might have.

Most of the time was spent in a deep slumber where she dreamed of duels, princesses, and even pirates. Her interesting dreams could be attributed to the novels she had Matilda grab from the library. She spent the time she laid awake building a world around her where she was not herself and she wasn't attacked by anyone or thinking of a man who didn't want her.

When she returned to the breakfast table, it was without fanfare. Her father was not in the room, probably out on business, and her step-mother took her morning tray in her room as she always did. She grabbed the pastry, an egg, and a slice of ham from the trays on the cherry buffet table.

She was buttering her pastry when her father walked in. She looked up, ready to bid him good morning when another man walked in behind him. When he became visible, she noticed that any damage to his face was healed much like hers.

She scrambled to her feet, not to be lectured for poor manners, and bowed her slender neck to the gentlemen.

"Good morning, Isabella. I see you are feeling well enough to join us for breakfast."

"Good morning, father," she paused. "Lord Dunmore, good morning to you as well."

"Lord Dunmore has been staying with us under our most intense care," her father filled his plate with the breakfast offerings and sat down across from her. "It appears you both have been influenced by the same illness."

"Yes," Lord Dunmore said as his back was turned to them. "What a ravaging beast it was. I have not been that sick since I was a young child."

Her stomach dropped as he spoke. The emphasis he put on his words felt like a warning.

He set his plate down on the white linen and lace tablecloth and sat down on the chair. The breakfast table was organized for four, making it to where he sat to the right of her.

"He was feeling better yesterday, so I offered for him to stay another night. Make sure he was well enough," her father said through bites of his breakfast. "He accompanied me on some early morning business I had to attend to. I believe it is becoming popular to handle important business at unfashionable hours of the day. I wish it would stop," he chuckled. "Some hours I do not want to see."

Lord Dunmore agreed with her father and focused his attention to his own plate of breakfast.

"I am so sorry that you have not been feeling well, Lord Dunmore," it took all she could to speak this line to him. "What were your symptoms?"

"Mild symptoms. Appears that something had bothered my nose and my mouth," Isabella noticed that his expression darkened the more he talked. "I shall not encroach on your womanly sensibilities. I know they can be most delicate."

"We are glad you are on the mend, my friend," her father clapped the man on the shoulder.

"Yes, I am glad you are feeling better as well," she said. Once she was done with her breakfast, Isabella excused herself from the table.