Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

T he moment the words left his mouth, Alexander regretted them. He saw the shock, the hurt, flare in Elizabeth's eyes, and a knot twisted in his gut. What had he done?

His frustration had taken control, fueled by the confusion of her accusations and her refusal to let him explain. She claimed to have seen him with Georgianna, yet surely she must have overheard more—surely she had heard his warnings to the widow.

But no. She had only heard enough to incriminate him in her mind, and when she wouldn't listen, his irritation had flared into an outburst. And now here they were—his accusation striking her like a blade.

Elizabeth's face flushed with fury, her eyes burning with a rage that matched his own. Before he could say another word, she raised her hand, aiming to slap him. But instinct took over, and he caught her wrist mid-air. The force of it shook her, and he instinctively pulled her toward him, steadying her as she stumbled into his chest.

He didn't let go. He couldn't. Alexander could feel the heat of her fury. And yet—beneath the anger—something else stirred. A pull he had felt before but had fought against for so long. Now, with her so close, with their emotions raw and exposed, he could feel it growing stronger.

His grip on her wrist loosened, but his hand remained, his fingers grazing the soft skin of her arm. His gaze dropped to her lips, and he felt the pull of them.

He began to lower his head. He could feel the moment between them teetering on the edge of something neither of them had anticipated?—

A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment like glass.

Alexander jerked back, blinking as if waking from a trance. Elizabeth stepped away, her face flushed. They both turned toward the door as Alexander called, "Yes?"

Mr. Ryton entered, his eyes respectfully downcast. "A letter for you, Your Grace," the butler said, stepping forward and handing it to Alexander.

He took it, his heart still pounding from the charged moment they had just shared. His fingers tightened on the letter as he saw the name on the front.

Percy.

"The messenger said that it was urgent. I beg your pardon for the disturbance." Mr. Ryton retreated.

he broke the seal and unfolded the paper, his eyes scanning the contents quickly.

Alex,

Word has reached me that you have taken Elizabeth as your wife. I could hardly believe it at first, but then again, nothing surprises me these days. How strange life has turned out. I must ask—why?

Is it out of duty? A noble act to salvage what was left of the mess I created?

I cannot imagine you marrying for any reason but duty now, but I had to hear it from you directly. I have been in Portugal for some time now, trying to make sense of my life. And I wonder, brother—are you doing the same?

Do not mistake this for anything more than curiosity. I have no intention of returning to England, not now, and certainly not after all I've done. But I would like to know if you truly mean to take on a life bound to her. I need to know.

Yours,

Percy.

Alexander's grip tightened on the letter, anger surging through him. The nerve of Percy—to question him now, after he had created the mess in the first place. And now he had the audacity to ask why? To question his motives?

Yet, beneath the anger, a wave of relief washed over him. Percy was alive. Percy was safe. After months of uncertainty, at least he knew where his brother was. His chest clenched with both frustration and long-buried affection.

"Alex?" Elizabeth's voice slipped through his thoughts. "Is everything all right? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

He blinked, the words from the letter still echoing in his mind. He hadn't realized the shock had registered so clearly on his face. He glanced at her, his jaw tight.

"It's Percy," he muttered, his voice rough. His mind was too cluttered to answer her properly. He needed to respond to Percy—immediately. Needed to make sure his brother understood the consequences of what he had left behind, even as relief coursed through him at knowing he was safe.

"I need to reply to him," Alexander said abruptly, folding the letter with a sharp movement. "Excuse me."

Even from afar, Percy managed to interfere in my life! Elizabeth couldn't believe it. Of all times to send a letter…

Her anger toward her husband simmered beneath the surface, unresolved and growing. She needed answers, yet he had been so dismissive, offering her nothing but curt replies when she sought understanding. And what was worse, he had stirred something within her she couldn't seem to shake. That yearning, that maddening pull she had felt during their conversation in his study the day before, refused to leave her. It clung to her, and she hated it.

Elizabeth's thoughts returned to the letter—Percy's letter. What could he possibly want from overseas now? Had he not done enough damage already? The nerve of him.

She let out a frustrated huff, collapsing back into her chair, her gaze drifting to the ledgers laid out before her. She had been trying to focus on the household accounts, but it was no use. Her mind refused to settle. The numbers blurred together, and all she could feel was the tight coil of frustration building inside her.

With a quick movement, she pushed the ledgers aside and stood, unable to sit still any longer. Her steps were brisk as she left her study, needing a distraction, something— anything —to occupy her mind.

As she passed down one of the halls, something caught her eye. An open door. She retraced her steps, curiosity drawing her in. It was the portrait gallery.

She hadn't ventured in during her initial tour with Mrs. Ryton. Now, it was being cleaned, and the sight of the large canvases lining the walls piqued her interest.

"Your Grace, did you need something?" Mrs. Ryton turned, her hands pausing on the frame she was straightening as Elizabeth stepped inside.

Elizabeth shook her head slightly, her gaze traveling over the frames that filled the room. She took a slow breath, her frustration momentarily softened by the curiosity blooming in her chest.

The maids, having finished their work, gathered their supplies and offered quick curtsies before exiting, leaving Elizabeth alone with Mrs. Ryton in the vast portrait gallery. The room felt heavy, not just with history but with an overwhelming sense of lineage—family members long gone, their faces captured in oil, watching over the house they had once known.

"I've never been in here before," Elizabeth said softly, her voice almost swallowed by the silence. Her eyes roamed the walls, taking in the imposing figures of ancestors she'd never met. But her gaze drifted to the portraits that looked more recent, childhood depictions of Alexander and, presumably, his immediate family.

One painting, however, caught her attention. She stopped in her tracks, something about it left her perplexed. It was a portrait of a young girl.

The girl's dark hair was styled in a way that hinted at a time before Elizabeth's own, and her blue eyes—so startlingly similar to Alexander's—seemed to hold secrets, frozen in time.

"Who...who is this?" Elizabeth asked as she moved closer to the painting, trying to decipher the girl's identity.

Mrs. Ryton was silent.