The words came as such a blow to her, she actually fell back a step.
“I am here for you,” he said, taking her by the waist. “Izzy, if we marry, it doesn’t matter what they do to me. They can throw me in Bedlam and swallow the key. As long as my child is in your womb, you’ll be protected.” His hand slid to her belly. “We both know you could be carrying my heir already.”
She lowered her voice to a horrified whisper. “I can’t believe you just said that. Aloud, in front of everyone.”
She couldn’t even bring herself to look around for the handmaidens’ reactions. Much less Abigail’s. Unshed tears burned at the corners of her eyes.
All this effort. All this work. All this love in her heart. And it was nothing to him. He was throwing it away. She’d been hoping they could make it through tomorrow together—and they couldn’t even make it through this afternoon.
And to make it worse, he’d just ruined her in front of the only friends she had left.
“You need to break free of this, Izzy.” He tilted his head toward the shocked onlookers. “For that matter, so do they. You do them no favors by hiding the truth. Are you afraid they’ll find out that fairy tales are a load of bollocks, all their ‘oaths’ and vows are worth precisely shite, and happy endings only exist in your father’s storybooks? Good. I hope they do learn it. It might save some other man in my position a great deal of trouble.”
She pulled away from him. “So that’s it. This isn’t about The Goodnight Tales or your solicitors. And it’s not about me. This is about your pride, and Lady Emily Riverdale.”
Duncan coughed, loudly and frantically.
“Lady Shemily Liverpail,” she corrected. “Sorry. Either way. This is revenge for you. Is that it, Ransom? It wasn’t enough to ruin England’s precious sweetheart. Now you want to marry me, just to even the score.”
He shook his head. “It’s not about scores.”
“You are the deluded one.” She jabbed a finger in his chest. Poking right at that empty place where he ought to have a heart. “She didn’t leave you because of my father’s stories. She left you because you were cold and unfeeling toward her. The reason you find yourself alone and blinded and helpless is the fault of exactly one person in this room. You.”
“Izzy . . .”
She swiped a scalding tear from her cheek. “And do you know what? She was right to run away. She deserved better. I deserve better, too.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The men and women filling the dining hall were utterly silent as the last of Izzy’s footsteps faded. Ransom could feel their collective condemnation.
The echoes of her words still rang in the ceiling vaults.
She deserved better. I deserve better, too.
Ransom tugged at his cravat, loosening the restrictive knot.
It came as a sick sort of relief to hear that sentiment voiced aloud, and to know everyone around him agreed. These past few days of amiable assistance and cheerful industry had made him feel like a stranger in his own house. Dozens of people organized to help him, for no wages or discernable reward? He scarcely recognized his life.
But this sense of empty, echoing isolation . . . ?
This was familiar. This was what he’d always known. What he’d been told, since before he could understand words. There could be no comfort for him. No kindness, no mercies. No one had ever loved him, and no one ever could.
You don’t deserve that, boy.
Ransom wouldn’t argue.
As he left the room and made his way to his dressing room, only Duncan followed.
“Duncan, draw me a bath, prepare my finest suit, and pack everything else. We’re leaving tonight.”
“For Scotland?”
“No. For Town.”
Ransom crossed the room and began tugging loose his cuffs.