Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

There was a beach in Italy Ian would walk to while he stayed there. He had never seen water so blue in his life. Nothing like the dark, murky water of the pond at Stonehurst or the stormy Irish sea.

No, the water was a brilliant blue green. It was vibrant, just like the lemons that grew along the coast. The villa he rented was built along a cliff, and the walk down to the beach was a gentle spiral under the hot Italian sun, and he was rewarded by a little slip of beach, hidden between a break in the cliffside. He enjoyed swimming there and spending his afternoons reading.

He thought of it often.

Now back in England, that time felt years away.

He missed smelling the sweet salt breeze as the bright magenta bougainvillea danced over the trellis. He enjoyed his time on the Italian coast, loved the sun and the ocean. Certainly, far more than England’s string of cold, dreary days. But his time there had been finished. He had felt it for some time now. As though his bones were suddenly too big for his body, which was a strange way of putting it. But he didn’t fit in Italy any longer. He couldn’t hide behind the excuses of studying architecture or the need to travel. Italy was never the answer. It was only a pause .

And Charlotte had been in England.

Charlotte.

And after arguing with her earlier that morning, it felt as if he would never return.

She wanted a divorce. As if it was common practice. As if one could have a divorce along with one’s morning cup of tea and a soft-boiled egg.

“Are you going to remain hidden away while everyone leaves?”

Nathaniel strolled into the library, buttoning his jacket.

Ian gripped his book tighter, shifting his hips over the uncomfortable settee. He missed the sofa that had been here for years.

“That was my plan.”

“Hmm.” His brother clasped his hands behind his back and circled the carpet, glancing outside the wide bank of windows overlooking the forest. “Are you a little bit remorseful that you have driven everyone away?”

“Why? This is my home.”

“And I’m sure you’re eager to become reunited with your bride.”

Ian dropped the book onto his chest and peered over his reading spectacles. “My bride?”

“Yes, her name is Charlotte. A lovely woman. She also lives here. You would know that if you didn’t run?—”

“I wouldn’t finish if I were you,” Ian warned.

His brother grinned.

“You can leave now.”

“Am I uninvited?”

“I never invited you in the first place.”

“It’s hard when you’re off doing whatever or whoever…”

Ian sat up, half ready to jump to his feet and strike his fist against Nathaniel’s face. But that would only bring about more trouble. Instead, he quietly shut his book and pushed his spectacles up to rest upon his head. He was certain he must be the very picture of their father, who often did the same, but pushed past the uncomfortable thought.

“I don’t like the fact I returned to discover my brother and a throng of his rakish bachelor friends were being entertained by my wife.”

“The Honey Duchess, you mean?”

Ian growled. The sound ripped from his chest before he could stop it. “Don’t call her that.”

“Isn’t that why you ran off, though? You believe she trapped you into marriage to become a duchess?”

He remembered damn well what happened. Remembered pounding on her parents’ door, demanding to see her after her letter, terrified she was alone and afraid. Furious when her father denied him entry and told Ian, in no uncertain terms, that Charlotte had used his feelings for her as a means to leave them and London behind.

He had failed to listen to his own father’s advice prior, and met with that news, he hated himself for ever hoping to find someone to love. He married her, saw her provided for, and left.

“I don’t appreciate you bringing your friends here when I am not in residence. There is no need to attract more scandal.”

“Oh.” Nathaniel tossed his head back and laughed. “It’s not Lottie you’re concerned about. It’s your reputation. You don’t wish for the rest of London to think… what ? Your wife entertains other gentlemen while you are away? That she isn’t discreet enough while you carry on with another opera singer or dancer?”

“Out!”

Once, before Ian left for Eton, he remembered an afternoon where his mother had opened the doors leading to the garden, and she had danced around the music room in a tangerine gown, her black hair loose over her shoulders. She sang in Italian and spun and twirled with Nathaniel and Ian until he was certain they would never stop being dizzy. He remembered the happiness that clung to her face, certain even then, she clung on out of fear, afraid if she stopped smiling, the world would crash down on her.

He wondered if that was why Charlotte hid away now.

Ian tossed his book to the small table beside the settee and jumped to his feet, staring up at his baby brother, who somehow towered over his six-foot frame. Well, after his late mother’s confession, he understood why.

That only complicated matters. How could he tell Nathaniel the truth when he hated him as much as everyone else?

Lately, Ian feared his father’s views of the world had made it near impossible for Ian to truly love anyone.

“You think she’s made a fool of you, but you’ve done that for yourself. I’ll go. I know when I’m not wanted.”

“You may send a letter.” Ian cursed under his breath. His father had said the same to him once as he stood by the river, begging to learn how to fish.

Nathaniel scratched his jaw, then shook his head. “I don’t know why you’ve returned?—”

“I need an heir.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

“ There’s a madness in chasing perfection ,” his mother had insisted one quiet night not long before she passed. “ If you shut everyone out because they are not perfect, then soon you will find yourself well and truly alone. I have known love, and I have known loneliness. And I choose love. I still choose love. And I urge you, before your heart grows cold and bitter, that you soften toward the idea as well. ”

He had returned to win back his wife. He had read and studied architecture while on the Continent, keeping his days busy. And when he couldn’t sleep, he would write her letters and tuck them away for when he was braver.

It wasn’t until his mother was gone that Ian realized he needed more than a letter.

His brother scoffed. “You think Charlotte wishes to help you after leaving her as you did?”

“It’s her duty as Duchess.”

“The gossip rags have made it sound as if you still have a way with women,” Nathaniel said. “Perhaps that is true, but it won’t help you with your wife. A woman like Lottie doesn’t wish to be rutted like an animal and left once she produces an heir. Nor does she wish to be abandoned on her wedding night. ”

“I haven’t asked your opinion, have I?”

“No, you would never. So, I will only tell you this before I leave?—”

“No need.”

Nathaniel tossed up his hands. “Do as you wish, but if you break her heart again, I will be back, and I won’t be alone.”

Ian adjusted his cuffs, acting bored when his heart began drumming in his chest. “She will never leave me.”

His brother pressed his lips together and raised his brows in frustration. “Goodbye, Ian.”

He only flicked his annoyed glance toward his brother. Let him return to London and do whatever second sons did, which was gamble through stipends and beg for more money, apparently. Or wreck three phaetons while racing, or make absurd bets at White’s, or not know when it was time to stop playing Faro. Nathaniel had no business being at Stonehurst with Charlotte, and he had no business being heir to the estate.

An hour later, having not been in the mood to read, Ian had sat at the window to catch up on correspondence when a footman rushed in.

He cleared his throat. “Your Grace?”

“Hmm?”

“There is a fire in your room.”

Ian threw down his quill. “What?”

“In your private washroom. Please, come with me.”

Ian sprinted around the footman and rushed to his room, furious when he pushed through the door of the washroom and was hit by a thick wall of smoke. In the large porcelain tub were the smoking remnants of his suits.

His Savile Row suits.

“What’s happened?” he asked, his voice calm and icy.

“Stevens smelled smoke, investigated, and discovered your suits burning. We’ve put out the fire but your closet, Your Grace, is empty. ”

“Why have my suits burned? Who did this?”

“No one has been up here, Your Grace. All the help has been accounted for.”

His stomach sank.

She wouldn’t.

The darling of London would never burn his suits.

“Where’s the duchess?”

The footman stood by the tub waving away the plumes of smoke. “No one has seen her since your brother left.”

“Where’s Susan?”

“She has been in the kitchen helping Cook, Your Grace.”

“Bring her to me. Now.”

His lip curled at the sight of the charred remains of his suits in the tub. The smoke burned his nostrils, and he strode to the window and opened it, letting in a large burst of cool February air.

The others stood around, staring at the duke expectantly. He drew in a breath before a slow exhale. “Clean the bathtub,” he barked at the footman. “Daniel, I want you to send word to the tailor in London and ask for a new wardrobe to be made immediately. Until then, find me what is here at Stonehurst that will be serviceable.”

“Your Grace?”

“I’ve no time to return to London, and it seems I’m in need of a new wardrobe.”

His valet nodded, bobbing his head several times as if working up the courage to speak. “Very well.”

Ian strode out of his washroom, through his bedroom, and banged on the door of the duchess’s dressing room. Instead of being locked, the door popped open under the force of his fist.

He stood at the threshold for a moment, surveying the room. Nothing seemed out of place, yet some… feeling tumbled around in his stomach.

Burned his suits.

Very well.

He scratched his jaw, inhaling once more, and instantly regretted the smell of her perfume. The sight of her things, the beautiful things she owned, turned his stomach.

For a long while, he had always considered Charlotte all sunshine, demure and innocent. And for a time after he left, he battled with himself, reckoning his love for her over her betrayal.

He clenched his fists before grabbing the chair beside her vanity and tossing it aside. Keeping her in his life was torture. She was like some secret, gnawing at his sanity, year after year.

Why did she seek to make this difficult? He only needed an heir.

Lie.

“Your Grace?” Susan’s voice called out. She rushed into the duchess’s room as Ian emerged.

“Where is she?”

“She is out riding.”

“Are you certain?”

“I helped her dress only an hour ago. I’ve been in the kitchen helping Cook.”

“Do you know what’s happened?”

Susan stilled, her eyes wide. “Happened, Your Grace? I don’t understand.”

“My suits have been burned. And the duchess is missing.”

“Missing, Your Grace?”

He didn’t like the way her voice hitched.

“Where’s my wife, Susan?” he snarled. “The truth now.”

“I’m not sure. I told you. I assisted her with her riding habit only an hour ago.”

“She was riding this morning. Does she usually ride twice a day?”

Susan squared her shoulders. “The duchess enjoys the fresh air, Your Grace.”

“Pack your bags. You’re dismissed immediately,” he snapped, striding back to his rooms to find his valet. “Daniel, run to the stable and have a horse readied.”

He wasn’t going to allow her an extra minute. He marched through the house, then burst through the door outside and strode to the stable in large, angry strides. She would answer for her actions .

When he left, he had allowed her freedom to do as she wished, to spend as she so desired, and now that he returned, she could barely look at him.

He was the damn Duke of Dandridge, and his duchess would treat him with respect. He wouldn’t allow her to run from him.

Ian mounted the horse, then circled the stable yard as the stable hand and footman stood together. “Where is the duchess?”

“She prefers to ride near the river usually, Your Grace. She left almost twenty minutes ago and had a bag with her. But the weather is starting to turn, Your Grace. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen. It’s not a good idea to be out riding right now.”

Overhead, the clouds had filled in and loomed overhead, dark and ominous. A cold wind picked up, rattling the bare trees.

Charlotte was a fool to think she could run.

“Very well.” Ian nudged the hindquarters of the horse and shot off to the south of the property where she preferred to ride. He hadn’t been riding in some time, and he hadn’t ridden the estate since his father’s death.

There had been too much to do. And he had preferred London to this house. It only served as a reminder of being a dutiful duke. His father had seen to making him aware of what a burden Ian was, leaving for months at a time, along with his heartbroken mother and Nathaniel.

Ian rode as fast as he could, even as the wind changed and blew against his face, and his eyes watered from the chill. He hadn’t taken the time to dress properly, but then again, he hadn’t the time.

Charlotte was an excellent rider, and if he didn’t catch her, he didn’t know when he would find her next.

She would answer for what she did to his suits. She would look at him. She would pay attention.

He thought he saw something in the distance before the tree line and pressed on, finally catching sight of her.

“Charlotte!”

The wind carried his voice away, but he thought she leaned forward, pressing her horse faster as they navigated through the trees and closer toward the river.

“Charlotte!”

This time, her head whipped back, and her wide, blue eyes met his with surprise as Ian bore down on her.

Closer, he could get closer.

She wouldn’t be leaving. He wouldn’t allow her to make a fool of him.

“You can’t leave,” he yelled again.

She circled the horse, waiting by the trees as if she was uncertain. He wished to charge after her but something within had him pulling on the rein and controlling his horse. Her horse nervously hooved the ground as she leaned down to calm it.

“Charlotte…”

The evening they met, years ago now, she had been hiding along the wall in a yellow dress. Her hair had been decorated with fresh sprays of flowers, and she had been the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. He had crossed the crush of the ballroom to be introduced to her, and when she had looked up at him with those sad, blue eyes of hers, he had seen the same look on her face that she had now— fear .

“We need to talk,” he said, holding out his hand. Hail began pelting down from the sky.

She bent down and whispered something to the horse, then sat straight, shaking her head.

Before he could counter, she rode hard through the narrow clearing and approached a large stone wall. Furious, he rode just as hard until it was too late.

The horse jumped but didn’t clear the wall, throwing Charlotte and landing hard on its flank.

Snow flurries and hail spit from the sky as the wind roared, and Ian heard the pained cry of the horse.

He dismounted and scrambled over the wall, certain he would find Charlotte running.

Except the horse emitted an ungodly scream and was convulsing on the ground, clearly gravely injured from not making the jump .

And Charlotte was face down in the river several feet away, her body limp and unmoving.