Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

“ A rabella?” Harry shouted as he strode into the house, his voice echoing through the halls.

Where in the world is she?

“Mrs. Blomquist?” he called.

The housekeeper hurried out of the drawing room to greet him.

“Your Grace, you are back. Is something the matter? I thought I heard shouting,” she replied, her tone concerned.

“I am looking for my wife. Have you any idea where she might be?”

“No, Your Grace. She left quite early this morning with her sister, Lady Emma. I believe they ventured into town.”

“Into town?” Harry repeated, bewildered.

Why would Arabella go into town so early, especially after the late night they had? He ran a hand through his hair, sighing with frustration.

“Very well, Mrs. Blomquist. Please notify me the moment she returns. There is a matter of grave importance I must discuss with her,” he added.

Before the housekeeper could respond, he turned on his heel and marched toward his study.

As he entered, he rang the bell for Brandon, then collapsed into his chair, rubbing his temples. To say he was exasperated would be a grave understatement. Arabella was proving to be as elusive as she was infuriating. He still could not fathom why she had behaved so coldly toward him the previous evening. Sleep had evaded him entirely, his thoughts a tangled mess of confusion and frustration.

“Your Grace? You rang?” Brandon inquired, entering the study with a measured step.

Harry looked up, momentarily disoriented. How long had he been lost in his thoughts?

“Yes, Brandon, I did,” he began, then paused, trying to recall the reason for summoning his valet. Why had he called for Brandon?

“That woman,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. “She is driving me mad.”

“Are you referring to Her Grace?” Brandon asked carefully, though a faint hint of amusement danced in his eyes.

“Who else?” Harry replied with a crooked smile. “I attempted to speak with her yesterday, and she rebuffed me at every turn. She did not wish to converse, she refused to dance with me—before you say anything, I am well aware that husbands and wives do not often dance together at such events, but I thought we might flout convention, given our circumstances. But I was mistaken. She wanted nothing to do with me. I cannot make sense of it.”

Brandon clasped his hands behind his back, considering his words before he spoke. “Your Grace, do you suppose it is because of your uncle?”

“That was my initial thought,” Harry admitted. “But I do not know what more I can do. I have already promised her she would not have to endure his presence again. Yet, that assurance seems to have done little to ease her mind.”

Brandon hesitated, then ventured, “Might I speak frankly, Your Grace?”

Harry’s instinct was to remind him that he was always free to be candid, but in truth, Brandon’s unfiltered honesty often cut too close to the bone. Still, he nodded. “Go on, then. At this point, it hardly matters.”

“I believe Her Grace has sensed that something is amiss. That there are matters you have not fully disclosed to her—matters concerning your uncle and your cousin, Miss Helen.”

Harry’s heart clenched at the mention of his cousin. “I cannot tell her, Brandon. If I do, it will only put her in greater danger. My uncle is a dangerous man.”

“But is she truly in danger?” Brandon asked, his tone more insistent. “Your Grace, I have never understood what he has held over you all these years. I know you care deeply for Miss Helen, but we have arrangements made. She could be sent to Scotland at any moment, and she would be safe with the family there.”

Harry pressed his lips together. It was true, the family in Scotland seemed an ideal host for Helen. He had longed to relocate her to a haven far from London, and farther still from her father’s clutches. The letters he had received from the Scottish family were filled with warmth and understanding—they had a deep expertise in caring for young women like Helen, and they had even welcomed Mrs. Hollingsworth.

“They do seem to be kind people,” Harry conceded, “and Mrs. Hollingsworth would be able to accompany her. But the truth is, I do not wish to send Helen so far away. And besides, my uncle might ruin me. He could ruin my reputation, and Arabella’s too.”

“How would he manage that, Your Grace?” Brandon asked, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice. “You have never explained why you fear your uncle so much. It must be more than just Miss Helen.”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the sound of a horse neighing in the courtyard drew his attention. He turned toward the window and saw Arabella alighting from a carriage—Lord Worcester’s carriage. And there, in the distance, he saw another figure.

Was that Lady Emma? Had she gone into town with Arabella? His thoughts scattered in all directions, his focus shattered.

“We shall finish this conversation later,” he said abruptly, dismissing his valet with a wave of his hand. “I must speak with my wife now.”

Brandon shrugged and then departed.

Harry left his study and hurried down the stairs. He was determined to speak with Arabella, to uncover why she had been in such a mood despite his best efforts to make her comfortable.

As she entered the house, he noticed she was clutching something in her right hand. Was that a drawing?

“Arabella,” he called out, his voice strained with irritation and concern. “Where have you been? Did you visit an art gallery?”

Arabella shook her head, her expression calm yet determined. “No, I did not visit an art gallery, but I did see an artist. We must speak, Harry. I require honesty from you. I will not tolerate any more lies.”

Harry took a step back, caught off guard. “I do not know what you mean. I have been truthful with you. I have not lied.”

“Lies by omission are still lies,” Arabella countered, her voice firm. “I may not agree with my father on many things, but on this, we are united.”

His stomach twisted with anxiety. “Arabella, I truly do not know what you mean.”

She turned the drawing around, revealing it to him, and his heart skipped a beat. That drawing… those pencil strokes… he would recognize them anywhere. It was Helen’s work, the drawing she had made of Arabella based on his descriptions. How had Arabella come to possess it?

“Where d-did you get this?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“The artist gave it to me,” she replied, her gaze unwavering.

“Helen?”

This was the first time he had uttered her name in Arabella’s presence, and it felt like he had given up a secret he had guarded fiercely for years.

“Yes, Helen. I have discovered that those drawings you claimed as your own were, in fact, hers. Is that not so?”

Her tone told him that she already knew the truth, but he still did not know how much she had uncovered.

“How did you come by this drawing, Arabella? How do you know about Helen?”

Arabella wet her lips, a sign of her nervousness, and he saw her hand clench the fabric of her gown.

“Last night, after you left the ball, I followed you. I followed you to Islington, and this morning, Emma and I called on your cousin.”

“How dare you!” Harry shouted, his voice tinged with panic. “I did not give you permission to follow me! I did not give you leave to invade my privacy! Arabella, how could you do this?”

His anger was a mask for the fear that churned within him. But Arabella’s defiance was more than he had anticipated.

“I had to!” she shot back, her voice strong and unyielding. “I knew you were keeping secrets from me! I knew you had lied! I asked you about your aunt Annabelle, and you told me she and her child had perished—only for me to discover that your cousin is very much alive, hidden away in some wretched house in a poor neighborhood, kept like a prisoner. How could you lie to me like this?”

Her words were like a slap to the face. Of course, he had lied. He had lied for so long that he scarcely knew where the truth began.

“Do not shout at me, Harry. I will not tolerate it,” she continued, her voice rising with each word. “My father has subjected me to such treatment for years, and you assured me that as the Duchess of Sheffield, I would no longer have to endure such behavior. I will not —not from my father, not from my brother, and certainly not from my husband.”

She stomped her foot, her resolve unwavering.

“I beg your pardon, truly I do,” Harry said, his tone softening. “I should not have shouted. It is my temper—I struggle to keep it in check. But please, Arabella, you must believe me. Everything I have done, I have done for your safety and Helen’s.”

“My safety and Helen’s? I do not understand,” she implored, her voice trembling with emotion. “From whom are we in danger? Why do you keep these secrets? Harry, I am your wife. I deserve the truth. Please, trust me.”

She closed the distance between them, taking his hand in hers, her touch warm and reassuring. “You can trust me, Harry. You do not need to keep these secrets from me.”

He looked into her eyes and knew that she was right. He had to lift the veil of secrecy, though he feared what the revelation might bring. Could he truly bear to expose the darkness that had shadowed his life? Yet, he knew they could not continue as they had been. If they were to have any hope of a future together, the truth had to be laid bare.

“Arabella,” he began, his voice heavy with resignation. “I do not think you want to hear the truth. You may believe you do, but once you hear it, everything will change. You may look at me differently. You may no longer wish to be my wife.”

Her grip on his hand tightened. “I do not think that will happen, Harry. I have heard how you visit Helen whenever you can, how you have protected her despite your uncle’s wishes. Helen admires you, and so does Mrs. Hollingsworth. I cannot imagine what secret could be so terrible as to overshadow that. My affection for you, Harry, is clouded only by the secrets between us. Lift this veil of uncertainty, I beg you.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a long, weary sigh. She was right—there could be no more secrets. Their marriage could not survive under the weight of deception. Whatever the consequences, he had to tell her the truth.