Royal Regard

Chapter Thirty-Four

My Dearest Lord Duke,

It is with greatest sadness I leave my heart in Grosvenor Square tomorrow morning, in the hands of a man whom I love deeply—now tragically. Should you read this letter rather than consign it to flames, I repeat the same words I shall each day until we are reunited, even to the end of my life: I adore you, Your Grace. You are the greatest love of my life, and I foresee no time when I will not yearn for you and weep for the loss of your affection.

As you know, my love, I dearly hope my departure from London will be the last, leaving nothing I regret, but you. I have surely ruined any possibility you might return to my side one day, and in the process destroyed my own life irreparably. I shall spend my days in Saltash craving the return of your most tender sentiments.

Many believe I married my husband for his money and his nouveau title, that we could not possibly have common interests, given his age. Those same gossips say his interest in me was entirely lecherous, since I cost him a bride-price and was of dubious nobility. None of these assumptions are accurate, and if you have chosen to accept any as true, you will naturally misunderstand my deep respect for his memory, even to the detriment of myself.

As a girl, I spent years wishing for any means to leave behind a father and brothers who cared nothing for me, my aunt and uncle whose primary concern was ensuring I would not starve outright in adulthood. I wanted nothing more than to be liberated from a near-certain life of drudgery.

When I met Myron, he made it possible for me to leave not only my family, but also my tenuous place among the aristocracy, my failure as a debutante, and the surety of social ruin when my father and brothers were caught out in their schemes. And Myron offered me travel, a lifelong fantasy I had never dared voice. My gratitude to him was the basis for our marriage.

He needed to accomplish two opposing goals to maintain the favor of the Prince of Wales: beget an heir for his fortune and barony, while still travelling wherever the Crown chose. He was socially rough, more sailor than ambassador, so also required my assistance as a gentlewoman to help him become a proper envoy. His gratitude to me was the basis for our affection.

The great sadness of our marriage was lack of children. We lost no fewer than six, the last Arabella. Each time, and for the many months in between, my husband protected, supported, and cherished me, even to the point of doing harm to his business. Even to the point of giving up his desire for an heir.

I have told you before a thousand times, he was the kindest of men and the gentlest of husbands. He provided for me in so grand a fashion that I will never want for any material thing again. And he did his utmost, with you, to ensure my heart's passions would be equally fulfilled. He never made my pulse race as you do, dearest, for he was not the same type of man, but my happiness today would be naught but ash had he not come before you. He is more deserving of my respect—and yes, love—than any other person in my life, excepting you.

Further, he would want no uncertainty about the inheritance of his title or yours; there must be no question I am not increasing, although I am more aware than any it is no possibility. He would hate to hear gossip about a seven-month child, which will begin as soon as a wedding is announced and follow any such child for a lifetime. He would have given your natural child his name to keep my reputation from being tarnished. I know this, as he knew I would never take you as a lover until after he was gone. I am deeply ashamed to have betrayed him.

For these reasons and more, though the ton deems it improbable, I genuinely grieve my husband. I feel deeply the loss of his presence from my side: strength that saw me through horrendous circumstance, wit that entertained me in my darkest days, his protective nature that sheltered me in situations with no measure of safety, including the marriage mart in London. Baron Holsworthy, Lord Huntleigh, was a balm to the harshest of lives, and the answer to my lifelong prayers. That ours was not a passionate marriage has no relevance to what we were to each other.

There are not enough widows' weeds to honor his memory, to rid myself of the pain of never having said goodbye. Social convention is nothing to the sorrow that weighs on me at the thought he died alone while I was in my lover's arms, and was interred while I lay sleeping. Wishing nothing more sincerely than your touch, in my heart I know I cannot agree to join my life with yours until this burden is removed between us.

I do not fool myself that you will come to love me again, now I have broken your heart so many times, with seeming disregard for your acts of tremendous honor, sacrifice, and principle. Not when you believe I cause you pain out of obstinacy or disrespect or even outright malice. I can only hope, pray on my knees in the most abject entreaty, that you may forgive my desire to honor a husband who had first claim to my affections, with the knowledge that my deepest passion, my greatest love, my entire heart belongs to you. Please know, my beloved, as I have said in every missive, your pain is shared.

Your devoted servant,

Isabella, Lady Huntleigh

***

To The Right Honorable Countess of Huntleigh

Madam:

Please refrain from contact. Your false sentiments are wasted ink, and I tire of finding your seal in my correspondence. My solicitor will be in contact regarding your contractual obligations.

Sincerely,

His Grace, The Most Noble Nicholas Northope, Duke of Wellbridge, Marquess of Abersham, Marquis de Taillebois, Earl of Baxton, Conte di Pietranego, Viscount Yoakefield, Baron Harbury, and Baron Ostelbrooke