Sentiment was once again on the prowl.
“Last night,” she said, “you vowed you would show me. I’ve been puzzling over that remark all morning.” Ever so slightly, she tilted her head. “What do you want, Wyn?”
He looked up at his own portrait and into the eyes of his younger self, with a vague remembrance of what he’d expected from the cheeky child raised to be his duteous bride. Modesty, of course. Obedience, naturally. A woman content to occupy her own sphere and enter his on cue, as needed, to assist him as he set about repairing the Wynchester name. His lips turned down in a wry frown. He may not have been as young as she when they married, but he’d been naive.
…And stupid.
He’d had a prize he had not understood. His expectations had been as absurd as his ill-thought-out list of rules but she hadn’t asked him of his former expectations. She’d asked him what he wanted.
The ache from the night before stretched through his body. His gaze traveled over her impossibly complex coils of hair, down her pinked cheeks to her powdered breasts.
The ache turned animal. Panther-like, to be exact.
He wanted to force open the mystery she embodied. He—the man, not the duke—wanted to command her allegiance and force from her alabaster heart some measure of affection.
He swallowed again.
What he wanted was dangerous, if not impossible.
“You aren’t the only one.” He despised the lurch in his voice.
“The only one?” she asked with a subtle lift of her right brow.
“With sentiment.” An excess of damnable sentiment. He cleared his throat. “That is to say, you are not the only one affected by sentiment.” A funny sensation rasped in his lungs. “I want…” he spoke more harshly than he’d intended, “I want our life as it should have been.”
She opened her mouth without a sound and blinked. Twice. Subtly, she leaned in his direction—or was he imagining that?
Of course, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. She was likely mortified. Who was it who claimed confession good for the soul? Poppycock. The funny sensation hardened.
“I already know,” he continued, “that my sins are such that cannot be forgiven.” He swallowed the thick wad. “I know I am to blame for our terrible loss.” He kicked back his chair and stood. “I cannot—I will not—hear you say it again.”
Before she could repudiate him, he strode into the hall.
…
I want our life, as it should have been.
For a fleeting moment, Wynchester’s quiet longing had echoed in Thea’s heart while the words I want that, too had danced on her tongue.
His retreating heels clicked on the marble floor. She closed the lips unspoken words had parted. Beyond her impulsive answer, her body chanted a demanding refrain. Run. Run.
For God’s sake, run.
No. She set her shoulders back, and walked with calm determination into the hall. Wynchester had disappeared. Well, she would find him. She would call for help and…
She looked around for a bell pull and saw none. A teetering panic wobbled in her ankles. She was a stranger in a home more mausoleum than house. Goodness. She did not even know how to call a goddamned servant.
She placed her fingers over her lips and felt them tremble. Run.
She took a step toward the door. Run.
She reached for the handle. Run.
The long case clock in the corner clicked as its chain inched downward, ticking away the seconds. She closed her eyes. The image of Wynchester’s face materialized beneath her lids.
She sucked in and held her breath. I want our life. She exhaled and a dizzy sensation swayed in her limbs.
Our. Wyn had said our.
Our life. Our terrible loss.
She could run. That was the option she understood best. Safe darkness beckoned—a patchwork quilt of self-protection.
…Or, she could stay.
Stay and rip open still-tender wounds in the slim hope she could save her husband from Eustace and maybe, just maybe, make some sense of the box of mismatched dreams and longings in her heart. If she stayed, she could find out what he’d meant when he’d said our…
She pressed palms against heated cheeks.
“Your Grace,” young Bates spoke from somewhere behind, “would you like me to order a carriage?”
Yes. She bit her bottom lip hard, preventing the wrong answer. She pasted a smile on her lips and turned. “Bates, would you be so kind as to show me to…” She paused. Where?
“The maids have not yet prepared your rooms.” Young Bates cleared his throat. “Might I suggest the afternoon sitting room? Your Grace will find the light excellent this time of day.”
“Thank you, Bates.” Her heart softened and her smile turned wistfully-genuine. “I believe that would be just the thing.”
Young Bates was every bit as discreet as his father, the man who continued to act as butler in the London home she had once shared with Wynchester.
She followed the butler, first through the marble hall, up some stairs and then through a two story gallery. Wynchester’s Worthington ancestors dating back to the Tudor court gazed out of their frames in secure condescension.
She frowned. If she recalled correctly, these same portraits had graced the gallery at Wynterhill, a converted Abbey that was the largest and oldest of the Wynchester Duchy holdings. Why had they been moved? Surely Wynchester continued to take up residence at the primary duchy in the late summer months. The ancient pile of stone had always been his pride—a pride she’d shared.
At the end of the gallery, they passed through arched doors into a beautiful room with an equally soaring ceiling. Windowed doors overlooked a courtyard awash in blooms. The farthest door stood open.
She turned from flowers and light and rested her gaze on a pianoforte with a shape reminiscent of a harpsichord. Her breath quickened, high and light in her chest—this time in an excited, wonderful way. Could this be one of the Broadfield creations she’d heard praised for their unique tone?
“Oh, Bates,” she said in awe as the urge to flee disintegrated. “How lovely.”
“His Grace had it delivered this morning.”
Had he? The beautiful instrument called out to her in an intimate fashion.
“I would like,” she spoke more to herself than to Bates, “to play.”
“Allow me.” Bates lifted and set the top.
“Thank you,” she said.
He bowed and retreated from the room, understanding, somehow, she needed seclusion.
The pianoforte she’d brought to the marriage—a lovely Cristofori with large feet and jeweled keys—had been destroyed during the riots. She had thought it without equal, but this…
She admired the instrument’s simple, elegant design for a moment longer. Then, she pressed a single key. The note sounded in perfect resonance, not with double-string softness but with bold, triple-string clarity. Exquisite.
…This creation must have cost Wynchester dear, and he had groused often enough about the expense of maintaining the Cristofori.
She sat down on the bench and placed her fingers on the keys, testing the two pedals at her feet. After some experimentation she realized one raised the dampers, thus increasing the sound, and the other made the hammer strike a single string.
Oh, how fascinating.
He’d bought the pianoforte on the day she was to return—no doubt it was a gift for her. He could not beat out a tune with a single finger.
Our terrible loss. Our life.
She closed her eyes. Drizzle had darkened the morning, but the evening sun streamed through the windows. Warmth settled over her skin and into her heart. Her fingers began to move over the keys, first hesitantly, but with increasing strength. She played a song of her own composition. A song at once, both lullaby to her loss, and hope for her future.
Their future.
Chapter Three
Wynchester entered his garden refuge enraged at the depth of his sen
timent and simultaneously fearful he’d scared his duchess away—again. And, only a few scant moments after she’d returned.
What do you want?
He should have expected her to ask such a question. Was it not her way to attack the most valuable, and most vulnerable in him? Did he need more proof she had been, and would always be, hell-bent on his destruction?
Why…why had he answered in truth?
His sigh hissed through his teeth. Why… Because of sentiment’s insatiable hunger, of course. He loosened his cravat and wrestled out of his confining coat. The effort colored his cheeks and belabored his breath. He scowled at his discarded jacket as if its green cotton, elaborate white stitching, and costly brass buttons were to blame for his discomfit, instead of the raven-haired sorceress whose feathers beckoned with the same force her talons bit.
The bed remains undisgraced…I could not risk a bastard duke.
The base of his fist hit the marble bench with a thud. By Saint Swithin, she did not make any sense. Interactions should be, if not always predictable, then ordered. Conversations should be as simple as checkered-surface games. Certainly, an opponent was expected to hold an opposing objective, but a rook moved straight and a bishop, along diagonals. Rules kept order. That was just The Way Things Were. One could not be both loyal and disloyal.
…And yet a bed could be empty and undisgraced. He smoothed the base of his palm over his forehead. Whoa, charging beast. Was undisgraced even a word?
It did not matter. He had understood her meaning. He held her image in his mind and blurred his mental vision, concentrating, for once, on her the way he would analyze pieces on a board. In leaving, she had acted selfishly, to be sure. But, as he held the word selfish, the concept broke down into other states-of-being—like hurt, angry, and grieving.
He held those sentiments, sensing but not understanding their impact while the garden’s rose-scent permeated his being and soothed the crease between his brows. Words, and the sentiments they dissected, dissipated into the midsummer air. All that remained was Thea Marie. His duchess, his wife, and the center of his troubled soul.
With a deep sigh, he pulled off his white club-wig and ran his fingers through his newly close-cropped hair. He opened his legs and rested his elbows on his knees as he studied the thorned stalks protruding from the center bed.
Thea treated him as if he were prick and menace with no expectation he would ever produce fruit. If only she could see—really see—past the trappings of the Worthington name and Wynchester title. Just once. But how could he expect her to see past the Wynchester title when he could not? Was there anything to him beyond being the Duke of Wynchester?
Would that he could understand the man he should be as clearly as he had always understood his responsibilities. Would that he could divest the mistakes of the past as easily as his valet had shorn his tangled locks.
A kind of justice had been served when his valet acted as conduit Delilah to his Sampson, since it was a conversation with his valet that had caused Thea to flee in the first place. Will she ever cease her endless sorrow? He had said as his valet pumped clouds of talc over his hair. It was a pregnancy, not a child.
He hung his head. He’d never forget the horror immediately stamped into his heart after he’d spoken those words. He’d opened his eyes to see Thea Marie reflected in the mirror, the same horror manifest in her startled gaze.
He’d always known it was not only her miscarriage that had hollowed out her heart, but also the terrible terror she’d been subjected to during the riots. Later that night, when he returned from his club’s solace, he’d been unsurprised to find her dressing room hooks empty.
Empty hooks to go with Eustace’s empty bed and the stilled cradle in the Wynterhill nursery.
A striking swell of sentiment rose in his chest. The burn in his eyes could have been the urge to weep, but such was nonsense…as was the notion he wanted Thea on his right, his brother on his left and his child in his arms.
Two of these were impossible. The third, he had cursed by speaking his folly of his desire aloud. Lesson twice learned: wants and wishes were common. And, for a man of his station, weeping was absolutely out of the question, even if the royal heir was known to indulge.
A Duke is born to privilege with a responsibility to lead—he is no mere citizen to be slave to something as mercurial as sentiment.
His mother’s words perhaps, but his motto. He would not make his father’s mistakes. His father, who had become so enraptured with his madam-mistress, he later took her to wife… And yet, here he sat, in a garden he’d planted from the cuttings of Thea’s trampled rose bushes, wiping dry salt from his eyes because he’d spoken aloud of both his grief and his desire.
He should be appalled. At the very least he should get a-bloody-hold of himself. He lifted his wig to shake out the disordered curls. Then, he heard music.
The song began—a low baseline, heavy with loss. Roving, resonant chords played dark as a moonless night until a soothing series of single treble notes pitter-pattered into the sound. A wispy, upper-melody began to roll over the mournful base, white froth capping murky ocean swells.
Wordless emotion danced in the air through the invisible waves of sound. The notes washed over him with power he could not deny. Called by the music, he approached the open door. Gradually, as if pulled by the hopeful melody, the darker refrain climbed into a higher octave, still sad, but no longer mournful. As if he, too, were being pulled by a similar strain, he moved forward until he came to rest against the wall, Thea just beyond his reach. He cupped the back of his neck, closed his eyes, and pressed his cheek into his arm.
The melody sunk back into darkness. She played each note hard, clear, and full. Silently, he sank down onto his haunches and remained in that position until the music’s wistful yearning pushed him to his knees. He inched closer to her back, seeking solace in her nearness. When close enough to feel her heat, he paused and bowed his head.
She must have sensed him; the music faded. His weight was on his knees, but his heart was in her hands and their future locked inside the sudden silence.
“Please,” he whispered.
She resumed playing, aching and perfect—music for the words he wished he could speak, if only they would not clog in his throat. He remained bowed, forehead near-touching her spine, both of them together on an island surrounded by sound. The music churned until the hopeful melody returned. More hesitant this time—unsure. Afraid to disturb the outpour, he placed his hands on the bench at her sides. In her musical weave of hopeful notes, he heard the answer to his desire.
Our life? Yes. Please.
But her plea was not directed at him. Her plea was spoken to the dark, and followed by questions, is it possible? And, can it be? She finished her piece with a dissonant chord—a musical question which could not be answered.
Years of solitude kept him from gathering her waist and weeping into her skirts. He cleared his throat.
“You still play like an angel.”
“I have not…” A subtle shiver. “I have not played in some time. And…and I must say I have never played on a creation so beautiful.”
Her hand hovered over his before coming to rest on his knuckles. He parsed the sight with fascination. A few weeks prior, at the foot of her friend Lavinia’s stairs, he’d kissed her with a desperate thirst. Last night, he’d held her in a drunken embrace. But this…this was her voluntary touch. And her gentleness slashed him to pieces. Her gentleness was all he ever wanted and everything he needed to deny.
“Wyn?” she queried.
Beads of sweat cooled his brow. He dared not look up, or else she’d catch sight of water in his eyes.
“Excess of sentiment,” he whispered, “leads to disaster.”
She sighed. “Sometimes disaster lays in wait, laughing at our preparation.”
She’d left a door cracked. He took a deep breath and followed.
“I should never have left you alone.”
“Some awkwardness is to be expected.” She hesitated. “I must learn the house and Bates showed me—”
“I was not speaking of today.” His words tumbled out. “I was speaking of the riots. The Gordon Riots.”
Her breath stopped. She stood. He settled his hands on the quickly dissipating warmth she’d left behind. Her skirts brushed his arm as she sunk into the floor, so they faced the bench as if kneeling at an altar.
Again, she covered his hands with hers. “You should have been with me. But it does not follow…” her voice wavered, “…that my pregnancy would have come to term? Perhaps…perhaps I would have lost you both.”
He exhaled more deeply than he had in years. He leaned until his shoulder touched hers. She brought her head temple to temple with his. He caught one of her hands and brought her fingers to his lips.
“I regret…” he faded, transfixed by the dampness he left on her skin.
“As do I,” she answered with a halting sigh.
Within the prayer-like silence an image formed—the two of them, packing away the nursery at Wynterhill, readying what remained to give to a family in need. In his mind’s eye, they would stand in the empty room when finished, and he’d take her hand in his. Shared touch would lift them, as her light melody had lifted him, to a place above the loss.
“I’d like…” he started. “That is to say…” He blinked, squinted, and glanced upward for courage. “I’d like,” he angled his head to bring her into view. Her raven hair blurred with another damp rush, “good to come from the bad.”
She frowned, puzzling out his meaning.
“I have,” he swallowed, “left the nursery—the clothes and the cradle—untouched. They could be of use,” he blinked, “to someone less fortunate.”
Her silence stretched out for an interminable moment. “But the Worthington cradle is an heirloom.”
“The Worthington cradle is wood. Its good use would honor the memory of the—” he sniffed, “of our child.” He brushed back her hair, feeling stronger. “There are cradles to be bought. Cradles that have never witnessed the burden of loss.”
Duchess Decadence Page 4
