Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

T he sand grinding beneath the carriage wheels provided a soothing rhythm for Harry as he returned home that night, but it wasn’t enough to dispel the thoughts that had plagued his mind since the previous evening.

Brandon was a good man, but at times, Harry wasn’t quite certain his valet truly understood his needs. How could he? Brandon, like so many others, did not know Harry’s full story. No one knew, save for himself.

Brandon could never comprehend the weight of the guilt resting on Harry’s shoulders, nor the heavy responsibility that loomed before him.

The carriage came to a halt, and Harry disembarked, glancing up as he always did at Arabella’s window. The light that usually indicated she was still awake was out, and he felt a pang of emptiness. It made things simpler that she wasn’t awake; he wouldn’t have to engage in conversation or fabricate an excuse not to linger.

As he stepped inside, he found Mr. Baxter standing in the grand entrance hall.

“Your Grace,” the old man greeted him. “A long day?”

“You could say that.”

The grandfather clock in the corner read well past midnight. Harry had tarried in town longer than usual, finishing his business early and then lingering at White’s, where he had indulged in a few glasses of sherry before aimlessly wandering around Mayfair until he eventually returned to his carriage.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Baxter said, drawing him from his thoughts. “There is a matter that must be discussed.”

“Must it be now?” Harry asked, exasperation evident in his voice.

Mr. Baxter wet his lips, then shook his head. “I suppose it can wait until morning. It concerns Her Grace.”

“Arabella? Is she unwell?” Harry’s worry for his wife’s well-being swelled instantly. Was she in bed without her candle on because she was unwell?

“No, nothing of the sort, Your Grace, but… it can wait until morning,” Mr. Baxter said, taking Harry’s top hat, coat, and cane.

“Very well then. I’ll be in the library for a while.” Harry turned toward the stairs, then paused on the steps. “Extinguish the fire and candles in my study and the drawing room—I shan’t need them tonight.”

Mr. Baxter nodded.

Harry made his way to the library. The warmth of the room greeted him, bringing a faint smile to his lips as he surveyed the familiar surroundings. But then he noticed something that made him stop. Peeking over the top of an armchair was a mass of hair.

“Arabella?” he said, approaching cautiously.

He walked around the chair and saw her seated there in her nightgown, her chestnut-brown hair piled atop her head, held in place with a simple band. Her face, free of the usual pearl powder, looked younger than he remembered. Her skin still held the shimmer of youth, though her cheeks were slightly rounded, and he noticed dark circles beneath her eyes.

“Why are you not abed?” he asked.

“I was waiting for you,” she replied. “I must have nodded off. I didn’t hear your carriage arrive.” She gestured toward the open window.

Mr. Baxter’s words echoed in his mind, and Harry wondered if perhaps the matter the butler had wished to discuss was more serious than he had realized. Otherwise, why would Arabella still be awake?

“What is it?” he asked, his voice gentler now.

“The trouble,” Arabella sighed, rising from the chair and pulling her blanket tighter around herself. “The trouble is that I am weary, Harry. Weary of feeling like a ghost in my own home, acknowledged only by the servants.”

He let out a deep breath. He had known this moment would come sooner or later.

“Arabella, I am a very busy man. I’ve not had the time to entertain you as I ought to.”

“It isn’t about entertainment,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I am beginning to think you do not care for me at all. It feels as though you despise my very presence—as if you cannot bear to look at me.”

“That is not true,” he affirmed.

Harry had wanted to maintain a distance between them, but he hadn’t intended for her to feel uncomfortable. That was why he had told her she could host balls here and bring her sisters to the estate as often as she wished.

“That is how I feel,” she insisted. “You are never here. You disappear into town with poor excuses, and I know it cannot be all business. I grew up in a household steeped in deceit, Harry. I can recognize a lie when I see one.”

“I do not mean to deceive you,” he said, though he knew full well he was doing just that. “But the truth is, there are matters I cannot share with you.”

“Like the truth about your mistress and your illegitimate child?” she spat.

Her words struck him like a physical blow, and Harry took a step back.

“What?” he asked, genuinely perplexed.

“The woman you see in town. It’s clear you have a paramour. And I have seen the drawing—the one you made of them.”

She moved to the table by the window, on which a drawing lay—something he hadn’t noticed moments ago. She snatched it up and held it before her like a shield, and his heart sank when he recognized it.

“Where did you get this? Did you go into my study?”

“I did,” she confessed, her voice thick with emotion. “I don’t feel good about it, but something had to be done. You tell me nothing, you keep secrets, you slip away. One moment you’re kind and tender, and I think we might finally make progress—become friends at the very least—and the next you’re cold as ice. I cannot live like this, Harry. I know what our arrangement is, but I will not be made a fool.”

“I cannot believe you went behind my back,” he said, the realization hitting him hard.

So, this was what Mr. Baxter had wished to tell him. In a way, it was better to hear it directly from Arabella, for he would have been livid to hear it from the butler.

“I will not be made a fool, Harry. I know we agreed that this was to be a marriage in name only, but you also said you would protect me. My reputation will be in tatters if it becomes known that my husband keeps a mistress—and a child he seeks to rid himself of.”

A child he sought to rid himself of? What on earth was she talking about? Harry had no idea how she had come by this information, but then it dawned on him. She must have overheard his conversation with Brandon about the family near Sheffield.

What was he to do now? He couldn’t tell her the truth—it would endanger her, not just him. But he also couldn’t let her believe he had a mistress and an illegitimate child.

“I think it best if I take you up on the offer you made early in our marriage,” Arabella continued, pulling him from his thoughts. “I shall take up residence in one of your other homes. Mrs. Blomquist mentioned you have an estate in Brighton as well as Sheffield. I shall go there, and my sisters will accompany me. My father will not object—he’d prefer them out of his house.”

“No,” Harry said firmly, panic rising within him. “No, I do not want you to leave.”

“Why not?” she demanded, her voice edged with pain. “You clearly do not care for me. Why should I stay while you dally with another?” She pointed at the drawing again, her hand shaking.

“She is not a mistress, Arabella,” he admitted quietly. “That is my aunt, Annabelle, and her daughter. They are gone. I told you about them before.”

Arabella stood there, her mouth slightly agape, her expression softening.

“My aunt died in a carriage accident years ago. We lost both her and her child, a little girl named Elizabeth.”

For a moment, the only sound was that of their breathing, heavy with unspoken words.

“So, you drew them to remember them?” she asked softly, her eyes searching his.

Harry looked at her, feeling as though he were walking a tightrope suspended between the manor and the abyss. Any wrong step would plunge him into darkness.

“Yes, to remember them,” he confirmed. “To remember them as they were. I am certain you saw the other drawings—of myself, my parents, and my grandparents.”

Arabella’s cheeks flushed, and she looked down at the floor, clearly mortified now. “I saw them.”

“They are merely mementos of the past, Arabella. That is all they are. I have no mistress, and the conversation you overheard between Brandon and me was not about any child of mine. I have no child. And if I did, I would most certainly not send it away.”

He considered elaborating, but he had learned long ago that the trouble with falsehoods was the temptation to embellish them. So, he left it at that, hoping she wouldn’t press him further.

“Forgive me for entering your study and rifling through your belongings,” she mumbled, her voice small and filled with regret. “But I feel so unwanted here. It isn’t just that you said you’d never love me—it’s that you don’t even seem to want to be my friend. I still think it best if I go away. Brighton is not far, and I can come for balls and official engagements. We can say I am unwell and that the sea air will do me good.”

“No,” Harry repeated, taking a step toward her. “I do not want you to go. I want you to stay here with me. I know I’ve treated you as though you were a burden, but the truth is, I cannot stand the thought of you not being here.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and he saw his reflection in them.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I mean,” he said, taking her hand, causing her to flinch, “that I have acted all along as if I do not want you here. The truth is that for the last few weeks, seeing your face has brightened my day. It has been a struggle to stay away from you, not to talk to you, to keep my distance. But I want to talk to you, Arabella. I want to hear your stories. I want to listen to you play the pianoforte in the music room. I want all of that.”

“Then why don’t you?” she asked, her voice tinged with confusion. “It isn’t so difficult.”

“It did become difficult, Arabella. There is so much you do not know about me and perhaps never will. But this, I must declare…”

The words died on his tongue, and he realized that words were not what was needed now, but action. He let go of her hand, cupped her face, and leaned forward. He inhaled deeply, taking in the lavender scent of her skin, and then he pressed his lips to hers.

They were soft, warm, and sweet, filling him with a torrent of emotions. Passion, tenderness, and affection coursed through his veins all at once.

When she opened her lips to receive his kiss, he allowed himself, just for a moment, to be truly happy.