Chapter 21

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The memories of that night swirled and twisted in Tristan's mind like a dark, stormy fog threatening to suffocate him. The image of Henry, full of life and laughter, slowly blurred, replaced by the final moments of that disastrous duel, the ringing of gunfire, the gasp that slipped from his brother's lips.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, forcing himself to bury the past—again. He was no stranger to guilt, but what use was it now? He couldn't change what had happened, couldn't undo the chain of events that led to his brother's death. Marion Marchmont's presence only stirred the embers of his regret, but he couldn't let it consume him. Not today.

Opening his eyes, Tristan found Marion watching him, tears welling in her dark eyes, but her posture was rigid.

He sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry, Marion," he said, his voice lower than he intended. "But I can't bring Henry back."

Her lips trembled, her fingers clutching the folds of her shawl tightly as if it were the only thing holding her together. "You think I don't know that?" she whispered, her tone brittle. "You think that's what this is about? It's not about Henry—it's about you. How dare you try to wed a beautiful woman and be happy?."

Tristan's jaw tightened, but he didn't deny the truth in her words. How could he?

"I never meant to hurt you," he said softly, though even to his ears the words sounded hollow. "But I'm asking you to leave Isla out of this. She's done nothing wrong."

Marion blinked, her tear-filled gaze narrowing at him. "You're a fool, Tristan. This isn't about her. It's about you always running from the past, from your responsibilities, from the people who love you. But I'll leave her out of it—if only because I pity her."

With that, Marion turned and hurried away, her soft sobs disappearing into the wind as she made her exit.

Tristan watched her go, feeling both a sense of relief and the lingering ache of grief. There was nothing left to say. Nothing that could mend the mountains of hurt between them. Marion's heart had been broken the day Henry died, and Tristan wasn't the one who could heal it.

He could never bring Henry back, no matter how many apologies or reassurances he offered.

He exhaled sharply, pushing the memories aside, and turned toward Isla's house.

Sebastian and Miss Cressida stood to the side of the parlor, deep in a flirtatious discussion. Benedict sat stiffly in a chair, watching their exchange.

But it was Isla who drew his attention. She stood looking out the window, her shoulders tense as she worried the edges of her bonnet's ribbon.

He paused behind her, breathing in her scent of roses and garden herbs.

"Something interesting?" He murmured, leaning down until he could almost brush his lips against her ear.

Isla jumped. She whirled around and Tristan found himself gazing down at her, his lips just a breath from hers. If he simply leaned down–

"Oh!" She breathed. The relief that parted those lovely pink lips was quickly replaced with a scowl. "It's you."

Tristan straightened in surprise.

"Is everything all right?" he asked cautiously. Was she still upset about Mr. Ralston's discussion of finances the night before?

Her lips tightened. "Shall we go?" she said curtly, brushing past him toward the door.

Tristan followed her to the waiting carriage, perplexed by her sudden iciness. Surely such a small impropriety on the part of his steward was not enough to bring about the simmering hostility radiating from her?

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