Chapter 3 Dinner with Shadows

# Chapter 3: Dinner with Shadows

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven as I descended the staircase for dinner. I'd spent the afternoon in my room, turning over the morning's strange events in my mind. Malcolm's tearful reaction haunted me—the way he'd looked at me as if I were a ghost made flesh. Who had I reminded him of? And why did everyone seem so determined to keep this person's identity from me?

I'd chosen my finest dress for dinner—a deep blue that brought out my eyes. Not that I was trying to impress Gideon, I told myself. This was merely armor for whatever lay ahead.

The dining room was illuminated by candlelight, the long mahogany table set with silver and crystal that reflected dancing flames. All seven brothers were present, an unusual occurrence according to the hushed comment from one of the servants.

Gideon rose when I entered, his eyes briefly widening as they took in my appearance. "Isolde," he said, pulling out the chair to his right. "You look lovely."

The unexpected compliment caught me off guard, warmth spreading across my cheeks. "Thank you," I murmured, taking my seat.

As soup was served, I felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes upon me, each man watching with his own particular interest. Jasper seemed calmer tonight but kept his gaze fixed on his plate. Malcolm couldn't look at me without his eyes growing misty. Theodore maintained a polite distance, while Cyrus observed with scholarly interest. Alistair flashed occasional charming smiles, Ezekiel's attention was far too appreciative, and Phineas... Phineas watched me as one might watch a puzzle needing solving.

"So, Mrs. Marlowe," Phineas spoke suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Tell us about yourself. What sort of woman has captured our brother's heart?"

The question hung in the air, its premise so obviously false that I almost laughed. Captured Gideon's heart? The man barely acknowledged my existence.

"I'm afraid I'm not very interesting," I replied carefully. "I grew up in St. Catherine's Orphanage, where I later worked as a teacher's assistant."

"Ah, but everyone has secrets," Phineas continued, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. "Everyone has a past... even those who cannot remember it."

I felt Gideon tense beside me. "Phineas," he warned.

But his brother continued, leaning forward. "Tell me, Isolde—do you believe in fate? In threads that connect us across time and circumstance? In the way certain souls seem to... return to where they belong?"

"That's quite enough," Gideon said sharply.

I placed my hand on Gideon's arm, surprising both of us. "It's all right. I'm curious what your brother is implying."

Phineas smiled enigmatically. "Merely that sometimes what we seek has been seeking us in return. The circle completes itself, doesn't it, Gideon?"

Before my husband could respond, Alistair deftly changed the subject, regaling us with tales of his recent hunting expedition. Yet throughout the meal, Phineas's words echoed in my mind. What circle? What was completing itself?

As the evening progressed, the atmosphere relaxed somewhat. Wine flowed freely, and even Gideon seemed less rigid than usual. His shoulder occasionally brushed against mine as he reached for his glass, each contact sending an inexplicable current through me. Once, when our fingers accidentally touched while reaching for the salt, he didn't immediately withdraw—instead, his eyes met mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

After dessert, Malcolm rose to propose a toast. "To new beginnings," he said, his voice thick with emotion as he raised his glass toward me. "And to homecomings long awaited."

"Malcolm," Theodore cautioned.

But Malcolm's eyes, bright with unshed tears and too much wine, remained fixed on me. "You have her smile," he said softly. "Exactly her smile. It's like seeing the sun rise after the longest night."

The room fell silent. I looked to Gideon, whose knuckles had gone white around his glass.

"Who am I supposed to remind you of?" I asked directly, my patience worn thin.

Malcolm opened his mouth to answer, but Gideon cut him off. "This isn't the time or place."

"When is the time?" I challenged. "You brought me into this family, yet you all speak in riddles and half-truths. I deserve to know why I'm here."

Gideon's jaw tightened. "You're here because you're my wife."

"A wife in name only," I retorted, the words escaping before I could stop them. A flush crept up my neck as I realized what I'd revealed to his brothers.

Ezekiel let out a low whistle. "Trouble in paradise already, brother?"

"Enough," Gideon snapped, standing abruptly. "If you'll excuse us, gentlemen, I have matters to discuss with my wife. In private."

He didn't wait for my agreement, simply taking my elbow and guiding me firmly from the dining room. His touch was controlled but electric, sending conflicting signals through my body—wariness at his sudden assertiveness, yet undeniable awareness of his proximity.

Once in the library with the door closed behind us, he released me and paced to the window, moonlight casting half his face in shadow.

"I apologize for my brothers," he said after a moment. "They can be... overwhelming."

"They're not the problem," I replied, standing my ground. "It's the secrets, Gideon. The way everyone looks at me as if they know something I don't. As if I'm someone else."

He turned, his expression unreadable. "What do you want from me, Isolde?"

"The truth. Why did you really marry me?"

He studied me for a long moment, conflict evident in his stormy eyes. Finally, he sighed. "I have business in London. I'll be gone for two weeks."

The abrupt change of subject felt like a slap. "You're leaving?"

"There are matters that require my attention. Theodore will see to your needs while I'm away."

"So that's it? You're running away rather than giving me answers?"

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes as he closed the distance between us. "I am not running away," he said, his voice low. "But there are things about this family—about your place in it—that cannot be rushed."

"My place?" I echoed. "What exactly is my place, Gideon? Ornamental wife? Living ghost? What?"

His hands came to rest on my shoulders, not roughly but with unmistakable intensity. For a wild moment, I thought he might kiss me—might finally drop the mask of cool indifference. His eyes dropped to my lips, and I felt my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Your place," he said softly, "is here. Protected. Safe."

"Safe from what?" I whispered.

"From the past," he answered cryptically. "And perhaps from me as well."

He released me and stepped back, composure regained. "I've asked Theodore to look after you while I'm gone. Trust him. And Isolde—" He hesitated. "Be careful around Ezekiel. His interest in you isn't... appropriate."

Before I could respond, a knock at the library door interrupted us. Theodore entered, expression grave.

"Forgive the intrusion," he said. "Gideon, the arrangements for your departure are complete. And—" he hesitated, glancing at me, "—there's a matter requiring your immediate attention."

Gideon nodded. "I'll be right there." When Theodore withdrew, he turned back to me. "We'll continue this conversation when I return."

"If you return," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

Something softened in his expression. In an unexpected gesture, he took my hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that sent heat spiraling through me.

"I will return, Isolde," he said, his voice husky. "Make no mistake about that."

After he left, I remained in the library, my skin still tingling where his lips had touched. Whatever game Gideon Marlowe was playing, I was beginning to fear I was already losing my heart to him—a dangerous prospect when I still didn't know his true motives.

Later that night, as I prepared for bed, a soft knock came at my door. No one was there when I opened it, but on the floor lay a small package wrapped in brown paper. Inside was a photograph I recognized immediately—the front steps of St. Catherine's Orphanage, with a row of small children lined up for a formal picture. In the center, unmistakably, was a younger version of myself, perhaps seven or eight years old.

But it wasn't my own image that made my blood run cold. It was the girl standing beside me—a girl who could have been my twin, her arm protectively around my shoulders, her smile hauntingly familiar from my own mirror.

On the back, written in faded ink: "Lydia and Isolde, St. Catherine's, 1876."

The photograph slipped from my trembling fingers. Lydia. The name from the diary I'd glimpsed. The name that seemed to haunt this house.

And apparently, the name of a girl who looked exactly like me—a girl who, if my suspicions were correct, had once been part of the Marlowe family.