by Marian Tee
Warren, too, had suffered a lot in choosing to love her, but in their relationship, he had been the older and mature one. Mary, however, was only eighteen years old and she had already gone through so much ordeal.
“It is my turn to beg you, my child. Please give my son one last chance. Please fight for him, and if he still does not...if he still ends up hurting you...” Alyssa paused, knowing that once she made her promise, she would be honor-bound to keep her word.
“You have my word, Mary. I will personally make sure he would never have a chance to hurt you again.”
Chapter Ten
“Your Grace?” A polite knock followed, just before the door to the Duke of Flanders’ office quietly opened and his personal assistant, Edward, stepped inside with an uncomfortable expression on his face. “You have a visitor, Your Grace.”
As expected, the unwarranted interruption had Edward’s employer scowling blackly at him. “Who is it?”
Normally, the duke was a fairly predictable chap, one who could never be accused of mood swings. But in the past several weeks, the duke had transformed into a monster whose temper could be roused by just about anything.
It had caused everyone in the office to tiptoe around him, and even his most obsessive fans – women who used to pretend to swoon every time the duke walked past them – now scurried away at the sight of him. No one wanted to accidentally earn the duke’s ire and be at the receiving end of his wrath.
But unfortunately for Edward, his job left him no choice in that score.
At the duke’s question, dozens of options ran through Edward’s normally agile mind. But the situation he found himself in was so unique he found himself incapable of sorting it out. In the end, he decided to go with the bald truth. After all, Rathe Wellesley had always told him never to waste his time with roundabout explanations.
“Ms. Mary Ashton is here to see you, Your Grace.”
Rathe froze. “Excuse me?”
“Ms. Mary Ashton, Your Grace. Your, ahh, paramour—”
“Of course I know who she is,” Rathe snarled.
Edward shut up, thinking, If the duke had known, why did he make Edward repeat himself then? Maybe the rumors were true. His Grace and his mistress had a lover’s quarrel—
“Shut up, Edward. I can practically hear your thoughts.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Maybe, Mary Ashton was the reason for the change in the duke’s—
“Edward, for bloody’s sake, could you just turn around so I won’t have to read the thoughts on your face?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Edward executed a quick 180-degree turn.
Running a hand through his hair, Rathe did his best to get over his shock.
Mary was here. He should have known she was not the type to shove things under the carpet until they were forgotten.
Mary was here, so what the bloody hell was he supposed to do now?
For the past few weeks, Rathe had come to develop a routine. Every morning, he would start the day reading reports about Mary from his security. It was the only way for him, he had come to discover, to survive the distance that separated them, the only way he could delude himself into thinking that Mary could forever remain his.
But whenever afternoon came, he would force himself to set aside all thoughts and memories of her. This time, it was all about disciplining himself. A way to prepare Rathe for the life he would eventually lead without Mary by his side.
And finally, when he found himself facing another sleepless night, Rathe would force himself to think of what his mother had suffered and was suffering. Every night, he would remind himself that one day, Mary would suffer the same thing as well, if they persisted in the madness that made up their relationship.
Over and over, he would repeat just one bloody sentence in his mind until exhaustion knocked him down.
He was not for Mary, and Mary was not for him.
“Shall I let her in, Your Grace, or do I...” Edward trailed off.
Rathe drew a steadying breath. “Let her in, but make sure to come back in...fifteen minutes. Make up any excuse about me needing to leave.”
“Understood, Your Grace.”
****
“What are you doing here?” These were the first words the Duke of Flanders spoke the moment Mary entered his office, which spanned the entire penthouse floor.
The words were spoken in a voice that was colder than what she liked to remember. Hearing him speak, it was difficult for Mary to still see him as Rathe – her Rathe – the man she loved...and the man she wanted to believe loved her back.
Right now, it was so much easier to see him as the Duke of Flanders, the aloof nobleman who was also distinguished for being one of the direct descendants of Wellington, the Iron Duke.
When Mary didn’t answer, the duke came to his feet in one lithe, graceful motion. Just seeing him move so beautifully was enough to have her heart beating madly. Since she had fallen in love with this man, he only had to look at her and she would feel like she was flying. If only, Mary thought painfully, she could be sure he felt the same way, too.
When Rathe stopped in front of her, Mary slowly raised her head to meet his gaze. When their eyes met, she almost stumbled back.
There was nothing – nothing of the Rathe she loved – remaining in that gaze.
Somewhere along the way, something had changed him. The Rathe she knew was gone, leaving in his place a cold handsome man who might as well be a stranger to her.
No doubt, he thought the same thing of her, too.
The duke lifted a brow at her, impatience underscoring his tone as he demanded, “Well?”
Mary flinched at the cutting edge of the duke’s British accent, his razor-sharp voice making her feel like the conversation between them was that of a duke reprimanding a servant.
An insidiuous voice whispered to her that it was exactly she was, since mistresses were just like another form of servants, and their skills just another form of service to their masters.
“Are you not going to answer me?”
He loved her, he loved her, Mary chanted to herself desperately. He hadn’t really said the words, but weren’t actions supposed to speak louder than words? He loved her. He would not be acting like this if something was not badly wrong.
She said haltingly, “I just wanted to surprise you.”
Rathe sucked his breath at the words. Unbidden, a memory came to him, one of their earlier days in England. Then, he had surprised Mary by teaching her to waltz on a snow-covered ground, and she had surprised him by penning him a poem and reciting the words to Rathe.
The memories felt like they happened an eternity ago, taking place in a world where he and Mary were not being judged. When the walls of ice he had built around his heart started to crack, Rathe swiftly shoved all his memories to the side, choosing to focus instead on the bleakness of his present.
Looking at Mary, he said harshly, “You shouldn’t have come here. Don’t you know it’s not something a mistress should do?” The sight of the stricken look on Mary’s face hurt, but Rathe didn’t allow himself to weaken, didn’t allow himself to take the words back.
Although Rathe’s cruel words were like whips against her heart, Mary welcomed it. She welcomed it completely because the words caused the mask on the duke’s face to crack, enough for her to see the truth.
Those words had hurt him as much as it had hurt her. And right now, he was hurting as much as she was hurting as well.
“What’s wrong?” Mary whispered. “Tell me, please, what’s wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong except you persisting on acting like a hard-headed child—”
She flinched at the insult, but didn’t let it stop her. “Tell me what’s wrong, please. If we just talk about it—” When he didn’t say anything, her voice broke as she pleaded, “Rathe, please.” The silence was unbearable, as if mocking her with the distance that kept yawning wider and wider between them.
The pain in Mary’s voice cut through the bl
ackness that had surrounded him since their separation. It was only for a second, but it was long enough for Rathe to say hoarsely, “Just go back to our home, Mary.”
She started to cry. Why did it feel like Rathe was so far away when he was standing right in front of her?
“Go home, Mary, please.” If she went home, it could still be all right between them. They could still pretend until he figured out a way to be with her without hurting anyone else.
Mary shook her head, whispering, “It’s not home when you’re no longer there, Rathe.”
“I’ll visit you—”
“When?” Pride no longer had any meaning to her. She just wanted Rathe back with her.
“I don’t know.”
“Just give me a date, any date!” She knew she was being hysterical, knew she was acting like the dreaded child she mustn’t ever be. But she couldn’t help it. “Please. Even if it’s a year, two years – I don’t care how long it takes. Just tell me when you’ll be back—”
The hurt on her face nearly drove him to his knees. Goddammit, he had never wanted to hurt her. She was his bloody life. But now, looking at Mary, seeing the way her frail body shook at the strength of her sobs, Rathe knew that he would end up ruining her life if he didn’t leave her for good.
“Mary—”
His tone terrified her and she shook her head jerkily. “No.” She began retreating, backing towards the door. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Rathe’s face whitened. “You have to—”
“I said, I don’t want to hear it!” Her face flushed in shame at the way she had screamed the words out. Everyone outside would have heard her. Everyone would no doubt think Rathe was better off without her. That he was more suitable to be with Camilla.
“I’m sorry—”
The apology made her sob harder. “Please, stop. Please stop saying sorry. Please. I’m begging you, please stop.” Because if he kept saying sorry, she might just start believing him, might just accept that her love would forever be a burden on him.
“I’ll t-talk to you tomorrow,” she babbled as she reached for the doorknob behind her.
“There’s no point—”
“Tomorrow,” she said fiercely. “I’ll come back tomorrow, and every day after that until...” She stopped speaking as she fought back the urge to continue crying. Crying were for kids, and she was not a kid. She had to prove that she was not a kid so Rathe would realize he loved her, too.
She forced herself to look at Rathe one last time. Her Rathe. Her Duke. Her love. Oh God, please make him realize he loved her, too.
“I’m coming back.” And then she was leaving, before he could make her cry by saying sorry one more time.
For a long time, Rathe could only remain where he was, unable to forget the look of anguish on Mary’s beautiful face. God, how he had made her cry. His chest contricted tightly at the memory. Wasn’t that proof he really did need to get out of her life for good?
Dimly, he heard the door swing open but he didn’t look up until a pair of stiletto heels came into his view. “Rathe?” He recognized the voice as Camilla’s, and slowly, he lifted his head.
Camilla did her best not to let her teeth gnash at the sight of the duke. She had never seen him this defeated, and it infuriated her that an American nobody had managed to make Rathe Wellesley feel so strongly.
It was a good thing her father’s spies had informed them right away of his mistress’ visit. Countermeasures were clearly needed, and right away at that. Adopting a concerned tone, she asked, “What happened? Did you have a fight with Mary?” It was extremely difficult to pretend she cared a whit about his little slut, but she managed.
Rathe managed a shrug.
The duke’s unwillingness to say anything didn’t faze her. If she didn’t manage to get answers now, she could always get them from Mrs. Emerson.
Camilla laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Let me guess. She didn’t take kindly to the breakup?”
Rathe said shortly, “I didn’t even have the chance to tell her.”
Camilla sighed. “I can’t say I blame her. She truly loves you. But...you’re also right. Being with her would only hurt the poor child in the end.” Camilla pretended to hesitate. “I think...I may help you though. What do you think about the two of us pretending to be engaged? But it has to be a secret only between us two.”
Rathe frowned. “Pretend to be engaged?” The idea had merit, but the shadiness of it put him off.
Camilla’s slim shoulders moved in a casual shrug. “We can have a contract drawn up just so you’re protected. I do understand your concern.”
“It’s not that...” But in truth, the offer allayed most of his concerns and allowed him to seriously consider Camilla’s proposal.
Eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she watched the duke turn over her suggestion in his mind, Camilla added innocently, “I’m only offering this as a friend. I hope you know that.”
“Of course.” Rathe managed to Camilla a brief smile even as his mind dwelled on the possibility of a fake engagement. It could sort a lot of his problems, and in truth, Camilla was the only woman he could trust to keep her end of the bargain. Nothing sexual had ever happened between them, and it was one of the main reasons why he considered Camilla one of his closest friends.
He said abruptly, “Let’s do it then. Tonight. We’re both attending the same charity gala, aren’t we? We could do it then.”
Camilla’s head whirled, unable to believe her dreams of becoming a duchess were becoming closer and closer to reality. “T-tonight?”
Rathe asked seriously, “Would there be a problem with that?”
“No,” she said slowly, doing her best to suppress her smile of triumph. “No problem at all.”
Chapter Eleven
“Warren? May I join you for a moment?”
Something in his wife’s voice made Warren immediately stand up, and swiftly crossing the room, he opened the door to find his wife frowning, a thick envelope in her hands. “You know you never have to ask, my love.” Ushering her in, he took her straight to the couch and sat beside her. “Now, what’s wrong?”
Even after all these years, his intuitiveness still surprised her, making Alyssa smile. “You know me so well.”
“Because I love you, of course.” His tone sobered. “So tell me what’s bothering you.”
Slowly, she opened the envelope she was holding. “When I learned that Rathe found out about our contract, I started to have my suspicions.”
Warren stiffened. He had a feeling he knew where this was going. His wife had never tried to hide the fact that she did not completely trust Wilson Daughtry, his solicitor and one of his closest friends.
“And what have you found out?”
“Nothing about Wilson Daughtry.” Before Warren could breathe in relief, Alyssa added flatly, “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about Camilla.”
Taking the report out, she handed it to her husband to read. “As you can see there, she’s responsible for a lot of the rumors going around about our son.” Quietly, she also told him about the role the woman played in Rathe and Mary’s first agreement.
“And the most worrying thing about all this? I just found out that she was the one who recommended Mrs. Emerson to Rathe when his old houseekeper retired.”
“Mrs. Emerson...do you mean the servant who deliberately didn’t tell Mary about you coming to visit?”
She nodded grimly. “That woman. I have no doubts she’s spying for Camilla and doing her best to wreak havoc between Mary and our son whenever she could.”
Warren said warily, “It still doesn’t prove that Wilson is involved—”
Alyssa nodded again, having expected her husband to say it. He was a staunchly loyal man, one whose integrity was so high he had a hard time imagining the people around him were not the same.
“Shall we pay a surprise visit to Rathe’s home? I think it’s time we have a little chat with the ugly old witch in Rathe’s home.”
****
“Mrs. Emerson, what are you doing?” The sound of the laundry basket crashing to the floor had the housekeeper whirling around, caught literally red-handed as she had just been about to clasp a choker of pearls around her neck.
Bugger, Mrs. Emerson thought. She had forgotten to lock the door in her excitement. Deciding to ignore the maid and hoping it would just make Jenny go away, she faced the mirror once more and proceeded to try on the necklace.
Mrs. Emerson greedily admired the pearls around her neck through her reflection. This should be worth a fortune, but Ms. Camilla probably wouldn’t care if she took this. After all, this once belonged to a girl she most despised.
When it became obvious Mrs. Emerson had no plans of taking off the pearls, Jenny stammered, “Those are Miss Mary’s—”
Flushing at the look in the young maid’s eyes, she spat, “Mind your own business.”
Like all of the other servants in the duke’s home, Jenny was afraid of the head housekeeper. They had all seen how good Mrs. Emerson was at pretending to be a sweet old woman whenever the duke was around. It was like being under the thumb of a female version of Dr. Jekyll, but in this case it was the duke’s absence that turned Mrs. Emerson into something as hideous as Mr. Hyde.
“Well? Why are you still standing there?” Mrs. Emerson snapped.
“You must return that to where you took it,” Jenny said bravely. “It’s not yours and—”
“And what?” Mrs. Emerson sneered as she took off the necklace and started twirling it around her fingers in a taunting gesture. “You’ll go and tell the duke about it? Or maybe Miss Mary?”
The older woman cackled. “Stupid bitch. That American whore will never come back.” And it was true. Miss Camilla had said so herself in her earlier text, which included instructions for Mrs. Emerson to oversee cleaning. The lady wanted the house spic and span because the next time the duke returned, it would be with Miss Camilla in his arms, his engagement ring on her finger.
