Chapter 30

Chapter Thirty

K enneth sat in his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The amber liquid swirled in the cut crystal, catching the light from the flickering fire in the hearth. It was his third glass that evening, a habit he had fallen into since returning to the estate without Beatrice.

Beatrice.

Her name echoed in his mind, a constant ache that refused to be soothed. He had thought that throwing himself into his work, into the management of the estate and the endless cycle of meetings and paperwork, would distract him from her absence. But if anything, the long hours and the solitude only made him feel her loss more keenly.

He missed her. Missed her quick wit, her bright laughter, the way her eyes sparkled when she spoke of her art. Missed the warmth of her presence, the feel of her soft curves against him in the night.

I should have fought harder.

Guilt and regret twisted in his gut.

I should have insisted that she come with me, should have made her see how much I need her, how much I…

He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought. The words, the depth of his feelings, still felt too raw, too vulnerable to voice.

A knock at the door startled him from his brooding.

"Enter," he called, his voice rough from the whiskey and the weight of his emotions.

To his surprise, it was Lady Featherwell who swept into the room, her skirts rustling with the movement.

Kenneth felt a surge of irritation at the sight of her, at the memory of their last encounter and the role she had played in driving a wedge between him and Beatrice.

"Lady Featherwell," he said, his tone cold. "To what do I owe this unexpected… pleasure?"

She smiled, a coy, practiced curve of her lips. "Your Grace," she purred, moving closer. "I heard you had returned to Dunford, and I simply had to come and see you. It's been far too long since we last spoke."

Kenneth's jaw tightened, his grip on the whiskey glass tightening. "I'm afraid I'm not in the mood for company, Lady Featherwell. If you'll excuse me…"

But she didn't take the hint, instead perching on the edge of his desk, her skirts brushing against his leg.

"Oh, but, Your Grace," she persisted, her voice low and suggestive, "surely you must be lonely here, all by yourself. Without your Duchess to keep you warm at night."

Kenneth's temper flared, his patience snapping.

"My wife is none of your concern," he growled, setting his glass down with more force than necessary. "And I'll thank you to keep your insinuations to yourself."

Lady Featherwell's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it was replaced by a sly, knowing look. "Forgive me, Your Grace," she said, her tone anything but apologetic. "I meant no offense. I only thought you should know…" she trailed off.

Kenneth's heart raced, cold dread seeping into his veins. "Know what?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Lady Featherwell's smile widened, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "That your dear wife has been seen in the company of Lord Eastfold. Quite frequently in fact. One might almost think?—"

Kenneth was on his feet before she could finish, his hand clenching into a fist at his side.

"Get out," he snarled, his vision red with rage. "Get out of my house, and never come back."

"But I?—"

"I do not care to hear any more of your words, Lady Featherwell. Leave."

Lady Featherwell rose, her expression one of mock hurt.

"As you wish, Your Grace," she said, sauntering towards the door. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

The moment she was gone, Kenneth started barking orders at his servants to prepare for his immediate return to London. His mind raced with a maelstrom of fury and betrayal and a sickening, twisting fear that he had been played for a fool.

Beatrice and Eastfold…

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

All this time, while I've been here, mourning her absence, she's been in London, playing the merry widow with that snake.

The journey back to the city passed in a blur, Kenneth's anger simmering just beneath the surface.

By the time he reached their townhouse, he was ready to explode, his temper hanging by a thread.

He found Beatrice in her studio, sitting before a blank canvas, her face a mask of misery.

At the sight of him, her eyes widened, shock and something that looked almost like fear flashing across her face.

"Kenneth," she said, her voice trembling. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" he repeated, his tone mocking. "I could ask you the same thing, dear wife. Or perhaps I should ask Lord Eastfold. I hear you two have become quite close in my absence."

Beatrice's face paled, her hands twisting in her lap. "Kenneth, it's not what you think?—"

But he cut her off, his anger boiling over. "Isn't it? You couldn't wait to be rid of me, couldn't wait to run back to London and your precious art. And Eastfold was only too happy to keep you company, wasn't he? Tell me, Beatrice, how long have you been making a fool of me?"

She was instantly on her feet, her temper flaring. "How dare you?" she cried, her voice shaking with fury and hurt. "How dare you accuse me of being unfaithful? I have done nothing to deserve your mistrust, your jealousy. Eastfold is blackmailing me, Kenneth. He discovered my identity as Westback, and he's forcing me to paint for him, to sell my work through him. That's why I've been meeting with him. That's why I stayed in London. To protect my secret, to protect my art."

Kenneth stared at her, shock and a sickening sense of guilt washing over him.

"Beatrice," he choked out, his voice rough with emotion. "I… I didn't know. I'm sorry, I should have trusted you, should have?—"

"Yes, you should have," she snapped, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "But you didn't. You never do. One day you want me, the next you push me away. One day you're jealous, accusing me of betrayal, the next you're apologizing, begging for forgiveness. I can't do this anymore, Kenneth. I can't live like this, never knowing where I stand with you, never certain of your faith in me."

Kenneth's expression softened with regret. "I didn't know. I never meant to hurt you like this."

Beatrice took a shaky breath, her voice trembling. "Yet you still have. More than you can imagine."

Kenneth reached out, his hand hovering near her arm. "Beatrice?—"

"I'm sorry, Kenneth, but I can't do this anymore," Beatrice murmured, her voice breaking. "I need time, space to think, to heal. And I can't do that here with you."

But before he could say anything more, Beatrice turned and stumbled out of the room.

Kenneth stood frozen, watching her go, his own heart heavy with the realization of how deeply he had failed her.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, his hands shaking as he walked over to the decanter on the sideboard. Pouring himself a generous measure of brandy, he downed it in one gulp, the liquid burning its way down his throat. The pain in his chest was a dull, relentless throb, matching the ache of regret that settled deep within him.

"Kenneth, dear, you look dreadful," Lady Bernmere remarked as she entered the study, carrying a small, well-worn notebook and a cup of tea.

She set the tea down and flipped open the notebook, her sharp eyes assessing him critically. "Now, where is your wife?"

Kenneth shrugged, his expression carefully blank. "I don't know, and frankly, I don't care."

Lady Bernmere's eyes narrowed, her voice taking on a hard edge. "What have you done, Kenneth?"

"Excuse me?" he bristled, his temper flaring.

"You heard me. What have you done?" she repeated, her gaze unwavering.

Kenneth clenched his jaw, his pride rearing its head. "I'll thank you not to speak to me in that manner, Aunt Marjorie."

Lady Bernmere scoffed. "I'll speak to you however I please when you're behaving like a stubborn mule. Now, why is your wife not here?"

"We had an argument," Kenneth admitted, his voice tight. "We'll be living separately from now on."

His aunt's expression turned thunderous. "You fool," she hissed. "For the first time in your life, you've found a lovely woman with a passion for art that equals your own, and you're willing to throw it away so easily?"

Kenneth's defenses rose, but Lady Bernmere cut him off before he could speak.

"This is about your father, isn't it? You're letting his mistakes, his failures, dictate your life."

He looked away, his jaw clenched.

Lady Bernmere softened her tone, her hand coming to rest on his arm. "Kenneth, you are a far greater man than your father ever was. And with Beatrice, you have a chance at true happiness."

"My father became the way he was because he lost his wife," Kenneth argued, his voice raw with emotion. "The same will happen to me."

Lady Bernmere shook her head. "So you choose to be miserable anyway? Yes, love is risky. But you cannot close yourself off in fear of getting hurt. It's like injuring your leg and swearing never to walk again to avoid getting injured again. You deserve happiness, Kenneth, and I'm certain you can find it with Beatrice."

Kenneth swallowed hard. He looked out the window, his voice a mere whisper. "I don't know where she went."

Lady Bernmere sighed, her exasperation tinged with affection. "You idiot. When a woman is in distress, she seeks out her friends. Where is Beatrice's closest friend now?"

Realization dawned on Kenneth, and he turned to his aunt, hope coursing through him. "The Newden's London home. Catherine."

Lady Bernmere nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Then what are you waiting for? Go to her, Kenneth. Make this right."

Kenneth sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Everything is still a mess. I can't just show up and expect things to be fixed."

Lady Bernmere placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to fix everything at once, but you must start somewhere. Beatrice needs to know you're willing to try."

He nodded, his resolve hardening. "You're right. I'll go to her, but I need to be sure of what to say."

Lady Bernmere gave him a gentle pat. "Good. Take your time, but don't take too long. She needs to see that you're committed to making things right."

With that, she turned and left him to his thoughts. Kenneth poured himself another drink, the brandy a small comfort as he mulled over his next steps.

His eyes drifted to the portrait of his father that hung above the fireplace, the late Duke's cold, imperious gaze seeming to mock him from beyond the grave.

Kenneth felt a surge of anger, a lifetime of resentment and bitterness bubbling to the surface.

"Are you happy now, Father?" he snarled, his words slurring slightly as the alcohol began to take effect. "Is this what you wanted for me? A life of misery and loneliness, just like yours?"

He staggered to his feet, the empty glass clutched in his hand. His vision blurred, the room spinning around him as he made his way towards the portrait.

"You never loved anyone," he hissed, his chest heaving with the force of his emotions. "Not Mother, not me. You only cared about yourself, about your own pleasure and satisfaction."

With a roar of rage, he hurled the glass at the portrait, the sound of shattering crystal echoing through the study. The whiskey splattered across the canvas, dripping down his father's face like bitter tears.

And then, like a flash of lightning in the darkness, a memory surfaced. Beatrice's words, her confession about Eastfold's blackmail, his coercion and threats.

Cold fury washed over Kenneth, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

Eastfold.

The name was a bitter curse on his tongue.

That snake, that vile, manipulative bastard. He's the reason behind all of this, the reason Beatrice was forced to lie, to hide her meetings with him. He's the reason I've lost her.

With a growl of rage, Kenneth pushed himself to his feet, his eyes burning with a fierce, desperate determination. He knew what he had to do, knew the only way to make this right.

He had to find Eastfold, had to make him pay for what he'd done. Had to end his hold over Beatrice, his twisted games and cruel machinations.

I'll make him suffer. I'll make him regret the day he ever dared to lay a hand on my wife, to threaten and blackmail her. I'll make him wish he'd never been born .