Chapter 28

Chapter Twenty-Eight

T he voices of the gossiping ladies dropped to whispers, and Oliver could no longer hear what they were saying. He would have to step right into their little circle, which was not acceptable at all.

He sighed in frustration as he gave the ladies one last glance before he headed to some familiar faces.

Who could be John’s rumored paramour? His heart raced at the thought. Why couldn’t his wife choose a middleman who was married and whose wife was there for every transaction?

His suspicion grew again. It became worse when everyone stopped chatting to listen to the composition of the mysterious J. Lewis. It was different now that Oliver knew who wrote it. It was his dear wife who wrote each note and used her skills and emotions to form the music that the guests were currently enjoying.

Oliver felt proud. He had married a tremendously talented woman. He had unconsciously puffed out his chest when he heard the strains of music. He wanted to tell everyone that he heard those same notes in his townhouse, played by a beautiful madwoman in the middle of the night.

He also felt indignation and anger at the fact that many people believed it was John Prescott who wrote the pieces.

No. Alexandra, whether she remained his wife or not, deserved to be commended for her work.

Then, his chest tightened, and his head began to spin at the possibility that Alexandra was the reason John Prescott had not married yet.

Yes, Oliver was afraid of the scandal—of people talking about his wife being with another man. However, he was also concerned for Alexandra. Women had it harder when it came to being the object of gossip. They could be ruined forever.

“Oliver?”

It was Catherine, returning to his side. He inhaled and exhaled deeply before downing the rest of his brandy. “Yes?”

“What do you think of this J. Lewis? Everyone’s been talking about him and his identity.”

Oliver wanted to laugh. Everyone in Society, including his sister, had taken it upon themselves to believe that J. Lewis was a man.

“Well, I am certain that whoever J. Lewis is, he or she is a talented composer. We’ve had our share of music lessons, Cathy. What do you think?” he asked, glad that a footman was walking around, picking up empty glasses and serving more brandy.

Oliver swapped his glass for a full one even though his sister was glaring at him.

“Interesting that you said he or she, Oliver. You’re the only one who’s entertaining the possibility of J. Lewis being a woman. And oh, I do love this composer. The emotions are very vivid, certainly, but the technique is also exquisite.”

“Have you not considered that someone from the fairer sex can be J. Lewis?” Oliver asked genuinely.

If there was anyone—aside from Alexandra—who would advocate for the rights of women to behave as they wanted, it would be Catherine.

“I have. It was just that everyone simply assumed that J. Lewis was a man because ladies often only get taught how to play and not to create their own music. Now that you’ve said that, perhaps women should be allowed to nurture their talents.”

Oliver loved how indignant his sister looked. However, neither of them could help Alexandra right now. He had also asked his wife to leave. So, there was that.

“Oliver, where is Alexandra? Whatever fight the two of you had, there is always a solution. Talk. You can’t let your pride get in the way this time,” Catherine advised, her voice hard but her eyes soft.

Oliver wished he could tell her about what was happening, but he couldn’t.

“I should go, Catherine. I-I shouldn’t be here,” he said, thinking of Alexandra.

Had she already arrived at the country house? Perhaps.

Perhaps she had only taken a few things with her. He imagined that he would go to see her and apologize—see if there was anything that could be done about their marriage. He would listen to her this time, find ways in which he could help her with her problems on her own terms.

Alexandra was probably right when she chose Prescott to help her sell her compositions. The idea of her husband taking over the process would make her feel even more trapped.

Trapped.

That was not how Oliver wanted her to feel. He needed to go home.

At least to see if she had returned.

“Run faster,” he urged his coachman, who quickly obeyed.

They raced through London as if they were heading for a different country altogether, not a townhouse only a few blocks away.

When the carriage rolled to a stop, the Duke looked upon his residence with trepidation. There was something different about it.

He rushed inside, already breathless before he flung the door open.

An eerie silence greeted him. No strains of piano. No giggling from the young maid. No footsteps running down to greet him.

Yes, the past few days had been bliss. But it was because of Alexandra. He hadn’t expected her absence would feel like this.

As if something was ripped away from him.

“So, it’s over,” he whispered.

Of course she did.

But could he still go and see her? He could visit her in the countryside—properly woo her this time. Make her feel special, even though she already was.

He ran up the steps. He needed to see for himself. For some reason, he went to see the music room first. Without Alexandra, it felt empty. Hollow. It was like a piece in a museum—dead and forgotten, even though she had not left that long ago.

Oliver checked the drawers, but no sheet music was left save the ones he and Catherine used to play—much simpler pieces than the ones Alexandra played. There were no J. Lewis compositions either, except for a crumpled sheet music on the piano.

Breathing hard, he ran to his wife’s room, which she had only used for the past few nights to dress herself. He opened her wardrobe and found nothing. There were trunks on the floor, neatly piled on top of each other. A note lay on one of them.

Here are the dresses you bought for me. I won’t be needing them anymore. You can perhaps donate them to charity or sell them to fripperies. If you want to be free of me, wait for when they discover who I am. The scandal will give you a reason to divorce me. Do what you will.

Alexandra.

Alexandra had left and had no plans to return.

The reality crashed down on him. Around him. In him.

Oliver had thought that he was content with being a bachelor for the rest of his life, but Alexandra had changed all that.

A year ago, he was irritated by the thought of spending his life with one woman. Not only that, but he didn’t want to end up with a woman he didn’t choose—a constant reminder of how he had made a terrible mess of his life.

He groaned aloud, no longer able to suppress his feelings. Everything felt tight. He turned around, suddenly feeling dizzy. He needed to leave Alexandra’s room. He needed air.

As he stumbled out of her room, he was startled by the sight of someone standing in the hallway. It was one of his footmen, and he looked grave.

“Your Grace, the Duchess is not in the countryside, if that is what you fear.”

“What? Where is she then?” Oliver asked, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Her Grace stopped at her father’s house first. She might still be there,” the footman replied.

Oliver didn’t wait for another second, he ran down the steps and hollered for his coachman not to step down from the carriage. He was fortunate that the man was practically inseparable from the horses.

On the way to Lord Hartwell’s home, countless thoughts raced through Oliver’s mind. But most of all, he wondered if his wife was still there. Then, he wondered why she would even go to her father’s house.

Did she want to go there? Did her father ask her to come?

Oliver cursed himself for forgetting to ask the footman.

They arrived at Devon Lane in no time. However, he could not see Alexandra’s carriage anywhere.