Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

W hat in the world was wrong with her? Harry thought, his mind reeling as he replayed their evening over and over again in his head. He believed he had done everything right, going out of his way to show her that he was trying. He had even gone so far as to tell his uncle that he was no longer welcome at Ridlington Manor—a bold move he had never dared before.

While he had often enjoyed needling his uncle in small ways, making his hackles rise for his own amusement, he had never done so in a manner that might truly provoke the old man’s fury. The memory of his childhood days, when he had received the brunt of his uncle’s wrath, was enough to keep him wary. He knew well what that looked like, and it was a sight he did not wish to bring down upon himself—or anyone else, for that matter.

Yet, despite his efforts, it wasn’t enough for her. Arabella had barely spoken to him all night, and when she did, it was in that icy tone he had heard other lords use when dismissing a constituent—someone who dared to seek their assistance on the steps of Parliament. A tone reserved for those deemed beneath notice.

The thought stung. To think that she had spoken to him in such a manner, as though he were nothing more than a nuisance.

Why should it wound him so? It shouldn’t. But this was the price he paid for opening his heart to her, even just a fraction. He had never intended to grow so attached to her, never should have kissed her. Yet, he hadn’t been able to forget that fateful moment.

He lifted his hand to his lips, remembering the feel of her soft lips against his. He had planned to kiss her again tonight, after dancing with her—societal expectations be damned. They would have danced, then he would have taken her to the garden to watch the stars, and under the night sky, he would have kissed her again.

But none of that had come to pass. Instead, he had been left standing there, feeling more like a fool than ever. How could he have let himself get so caught up in this madness? He knew it wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have allowed her into his life—it was bad for both of them. But despite knowing all of that, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. He couldn’t not be with her.

The carriage came to a stop, pulling him from his thoughts. He stepped down onto the sidewalk, looking up at the five-story building before him. The bricked-up windows gave it a forlorn, almost ominous appearance—more than any other home on the street.

Even for a frugal man, it was excessive, for he knew the windows were bricked up at the back as well. Richard hadn’t done this simply to save money. No, he had wanted to block out the sun, to literally rob the house’s inhabitants of light, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a shiver run down his spine at the thought.

He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat, rolling back his shoulders to release some of the tension. Then, with a deep breath, he knocked on the door.

“Your Grace,” the old, white-haired woman who answered the door greeted, her voice tinged with surprise. “The hour is late. We were not expecting you. She has just gone to bed.”

“She has?” he asked, dismayed. “May I not see her?”

“You may, of course,” the woman replied, stepping aside to allow him entry. “But she is not dressed for company.”

“I do not care, Mrs. Hollingsworth. You know this.” His voice was firm, though the weariness in his eyes softened the sharpness of his words.

Mrs. Hollingsworth nodded knowingly. “I do.”

Together, they ascended the narrow staircase to the second floor. The interior of the building was damp and dark, with only a few tall candles flickering in the hall, their dim light casting long shadows on the walls. The air was filled with an unfortunate, rancid smell that made Harry want to pinch his nose, but he refrained.

Mrs. Hollingsworth did all she could with the meager budget allocated to her, but the house was a wretched place, and there was only so much one could do.

As they rounded the railing on the second floor, he heard a horrid creaking noise.

Mrs. Hollingsworth gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Your Grace, I forgot to tell you. The railing is loose. You must not pull too hard—there’s bound to be an accident if it’s not fixed.”

“I am aware. I’ve already informed Mr. Hove, but he says there’s no money for repairs. Nonetheless, I will pay for it,” Harry offered, his tone brooking no argument.

Mrs. Hollingsworth smiled a sad, resigned smile and shook her head. “You cannot—you know this. Mr. Hove would wonder where the money came from. It would raise questions.”

“And who cares if it does? No matter, I will find a way.”

They came to a stop in front of a door on the second floor. Mrs. Hollingsworth nodded and then poked her head inside. “Dear? You have a caller.”

“Is it Harry?” a sweet, soft voice called from within, the sound like a balm to Harry’s troubled heart.

She always called him by his name, never by his title. Her voice reminded him of sugar lumps, sweet and delicate.

“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Hollingsworth replied, glancing back at him with a knowing look.

“Will you help me get out of bed, Mrs. Hollingsworth?” the voice inside asked.

Harry placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “There is no need, I will not stay very long. And if she truly needs to get out of bed, I will assist her myself.”

Mrs. Hollingsworth nodded and then excused herself, leaving Harry to slip inside.

As he entered the dimly lit room, he prepared himself for the visit with the only person in the world who could offer him a sliver of comfort in his otherwise turbulent life.

Arabella’s eyes were fixed on the house before her. They were in Islington, a fair distance from Mayfair and one of London’s less prosperous neighborhoods. Why did Harry’s mistress live here? Surely, he could relocate her to one of the nicer neighborhoods.

From the outside, the building looked just like any other on the street—tall, narrow, and respectable. But the bricked-up windows made it stand apart, giving it a desolate, almost sinister look. A narrow staircase led up to the front door, and a small garden, surrounded by a cast-iron fence, matched those of the neighboring houses.

Arabella had watched Harry approach the house and seen an old woman, likely the housekeeper, admit him without hesitation. After that, there had been nothing more to see, but she had instructed the coachman to remain where he was.

A few minutes later, candlelight flickered in a room on the second floor, and a cold wave of realization washed over her. That had to be Helen’s room. Harry was with her right now, possibly embracing her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

Arabella’s stomach twisted in knots as she imagined the scene—Harry, the man she had grown so fond of, the man she had thought she loved, holding another woman, caressing and kissing her. Her fingers curled tightly around the curtain string, and she rubbed her index finger along it as if to release some of her agitation, but it did no good. The desire to leap from the carriage, storm across the street, and bang on the door consumed her. She wanted to catch them in the act, to see their faces when they were discovered, to see their shame, their embarrassment.

But she didn’t.

Deep down, a small voice whispered the bitter truth. He doesn’t care.

Even if she caught them in the middle of a kiss, what would it change? She could confront him, could move out of Ridlington Manor, but that was all. He wouldn’t apologize. If he were truly sorry, he wouldn’t be doing this in the first place. And he would probably come up with some tragic story about Helen—how she had always been the love of his life, how he had been forced to marry Arabella for reasons beyond his control.

No, she couldn’t do this now. Emma’s advice echoed in her mind. She would wait until morning, and then she would come back with her sister. Emma would help her keep her emotions in check, would ensure that she didn’t do anything rash.

“Masterson,” she called out of the carriage window, “please take me home.”

“Are you quite sure, Your Grace?” the coachman asked, his tone cautious.

A thought came to her then. She leaned out of the window further. The coachman had been standing beside the carriage door for a while, periodically asking if she wanted to leave, which struck her as odd.

“Have you been here before?” she asked, fixing him with a steady gaze.

The man hesitated, wringing his hands. “Your Grace, I cannot say,” he finally replied.

“So you have,” she concluded, her voice firm. “Does His Grace ask you to come here often?”

The coachman looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “A few times a week, aye,” he admitted.

“I see,” Arabella murmured, her suspicions confirmed. “And when he has business in town, this is where he comes?”

“Most times, aye. But he also goes to the club or his solicitor’s office. When he comes here, it’s usually on the way to or from somewhere else. He doesn’t stay long, most times,” the coachman added, as if that would somehow lessen the blow.

“How long does His Grace usually stay?” she pressed.

“It depends. Sometimes only a few minutes, other times longer. But when it’s longer, he usually tells me to go home and return later.”

“And who lives here?” Arabella asked, her voice quiet.

“I do not know, Your Grace. I’ve never seen anyone come out besides the housekeeper—a white-haired woman. I assume she lives here alone,” he replied, though he looked uneasy, as if he wished he could be anywhere but here.

Arabella sighed. The coachman’s discomfort was palpable. She decided not to press him further; it wasn’t his fault, and he likely didn’t know anything more. Besides, what good would it do to make him feel worse?

“Thank you,” she said, leaning back into the carriage. “Take me home.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied, and with a nod, he climbed back into his seat.

The carriage lurched forward, the wheels clattering against the cobblestones as they began the journey back. But it wasn’t taking her home. It was taking her to the house where she lived, a place that felt increasingly like a gilded cage rather than a true home.

Arabella snorted softly, remembering Hanna’s warning. She had gotten exactly what her eldest sister had said she would—she had married a man she did not truly know, and now she was forced to live in a house that would never feel like home.

The desire to leave, to escape this miserable situation, gnawed at her, and she could not wait for the day when she could finally be free.