HIS FOR A SEASON

CHAPTER FOUR: JEALOUS?

Isolde arrived at the Spring Luncheon dressed in emerald green silk and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The gown had been chosen deliberately. The color matched her eyes exactly—something Cassian had once remarked on in passing, late one night, while pouring over estate letters. She’d filed that comment away like she did all the rare things he said that weren’t wrapped in scolding or silence.

But he had not spoken to her since the night she entered his study. Not a word. Not a glance.

He had left early that morning for a political engagement in the capital, and rather than escorting her as planned, had sent word through the butler that she was to attend the luncheon alone.

The humiliation didn’t escape her.

She was not invited to the meeting. She was invited to smile, sit still, and play the part of the young ward no one noticed. A lovely vase. An ornament. Her presence was a formality—a necessary distraction for the eyes of society.

It worked, for a while.

Until Lord Thorne sat beside her.

He was the viscount’s youngest son, golden-haired, with a smile that could charm the most stubborn of hearts. He had the boyish, easy charm that Cassian never bothered to cultivate. Thorne looked at her with open admiration, and not the kind that turned to contempt the moment the night grew darker.

“You’ve grown since last spring,” Thorne said, lifting his glass of wine. His eyes lingered on her form for just a moment too long. “In all the right ways.”

She felt a flicker of something cold in her chest. Not anger, but the icy realization that she was being sized up—not as a woman, but as an object to be admired and consumed. His words were flattering, but they felt false, like polished stones thrown into a sea of emptiness.

“Thank you,” she replied, her smile stiff. She tilted her head slightly, a silent challenge in her eyes. “I trust you’ve grown as well?”

Thorne laughed, clearly unbothered by her lack of obvious flattery. “Well, I hope so. It’s the only way to survive the gossip of society.”

She laughed too—louder than she meant to, though the sound felt hollow. It was all too easy to pretend.

The conversation flowed as it always did at these events, with a rhythmic dance of polite exchanges and careful words. But then, something in the air shifted.

Cassian had arrived.

He stood at the edge of the garden, looking every bit the duke he was. Tall, dark, and commanding in his navy coat, a golden crest pinned at his collar like a badge of power. The garden around him seemed to lose its vibrancy as his figure cast a long, foreboding shadow. She felt the pull of his presence like a tide tugging at the shore.

They locked eyes.

The moment stretched, pulling everything into focus. The sound of other voices faded into the background. It was only him and her. The rest of the world had ceased to exist.

And yet, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from him.

Cassian’s jaw clenched, a subtle tension in his stance as he surveyed the gathering, scanning faces. Then, his gaze flicked down to her and Thorne.

How Thorne had kissed her hand. How he had leaned in just a little too close. How his hand had brushed the lapel of her dress, the delicate fabric skimming his fingers. How her own hand had brushed against his arm as she turned to respond to something he said, her lips curling into an invitation she hadn’t even fully understood until it was too late.

Cassian’s jaw tightened.

She saw it in his eyes-barely-contained storm of jealousy and possessiveness. The flicker of something dangerous beneath the surface. His gaze darkened as he watched the way Thorne was so free near her. She could almost hear his thoughts, the fury simmering just beneath his calm exterior.

Thorne reached toward her, his hand hovering dangerously near a lock of her hair. He tucked it behind her ear, a touch both casual and intimate.

That was the last straw.

Cassian crossed the lawn in five long strides, his long coat swirling behind him like a dark cloud. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were lit with a quiet fire.

“Lord Thorne,” he said, his voice sharp and clipped, like a blade being drawn from its sheath. “Would you excuse us?”

Thorne blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt interruption. “We were just—”

“I wasn’t asking,” Cassian interjected, his voice cold as steel.

Before Thorne could finish his sentence, Cassian took hold of Isolde’s wrist with a strength that left no room for argument. He pulled her up from her seat without a word, the movement so forceful it left her no choice but to follow. Her heart raced, confusion mingling with the unsettling thrill of being wanted so publicly by someone so dangerous.

“Lord Cassian, what—”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Her heels stumbled on the stone path, and for a moment, she feared she might trip. But Cassian didn’t seem to care. His pace was swift, purposeful, as if the very air around him had turned brittle with his frustration. They passed beneath the archway leading to a more secluded area of the garden, away from prying eyes.

Finally, they reached a small alcove where a blooming cherry tree stood, its delicate petals drifting lazily in the soft spring breeze.

He released her wrist, though his gaze remained hard and unwavering.

“What was that?” she asked, her voice sharp with the sting of confusion and something else—something she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Cassian stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as his fists clenched at his sides. “Do not play games with men like him.”

Isolde couldn’t believe the words. She tilted her head, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I wasn’t playing, Cassian. He made me laugh. You wouldn’t know how that feels, would you?”

His nostrils flared as he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them with a movement so swift, she barely had time to react.

“You think I don’t notice?” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “The way you walk into a room like it belongs to you. The way you look at me like I’m prey.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He was too close now, and his presence overwhelmed her, making it impossible to think clearly. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the anger, the jealousy—everything that had been simmering just beneath the surface now boiling over.

“You want attention, Isolde?” he growled. “Find another way to beg for it.”

Her face flushed red, her pulse quickening. “Is that what you think this is? Begging?”

“You tell me.” His voice was a low rasp, his gaze intense, searching. But she couldn’t let him see the depth of her feelings. She couldn’t let him see how much it hurt.

She lifted her chin, a small act of defiance. “You know nothing about what I want.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, the air between them felt thick with tension. It was as though everything had narrowed down to this one moment—this one confrontation. But then, with an almost imperceptible shift, his gaze softened.

“I know too much,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. But the words hit her like a blow.

She stood there, her chest heaving with emotion. The air felt heavy with unspoken truths. And then, he said it.

“I should send you away.”

Her breath caught in her throat. The finality of it stung. The words were meant to hurt her, to remind her of her place. And yet, she only laughed.

Once. It was sharp. Bitter. It came from somewhere deep within.

“No, my lord,” she said, her voice low but steady. “You should stop looking at me like I’m yours.”

His eyes darkened slightly, the mask of indifference cracking for just a moment. But he said nothing. He didn’t need to.

She turned, forcing herself to walk away. Every step felt heavy as she made her way back toward the luncheon. But her mind was still tangled in the memory of the way Cassian had looked at her. The way his anger and jealousy had burned through him, so raw, so palpable.

And later that night, as the house grew quiet, Cassian walked through the garden again, his mind unsettled. He paused beneath the cherry tree, just for a moment. His eyes drifted to the stone bench where a single cherry blossom had been carelessly placed. A token of something. Something she had left behind.

He picked it up, feeling its delicate petals beneath his fingers. His gaze lingered on it for a moment, as though waiting for something to change. But when nothing did, he crushed the blossom in his hand.