Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

C olin found that he had never been more at a loss than he had been with his wife.

He had thought himself intelligent. He had thought that, above all else, he would always know what to do, because he had so much knowledge, to begin with, but that counted for naught when her lips were so tantalizingly close to his, and yet he knew that he could do nothing about it.

Diana was so many things. His wife, his duchess, his friend. It was the title of friend that had made him behave so gentlemanly, in spite of the fact that he deeply and truly did not wish to. His honor crumbled a little more each and every time he looked upon her, and he knew that there was only so much he could take before it at last fell to pieces.

And so he began to avoid her once more.

It was not her fault, not at all, but he could not ruin her. It was not the right thing to do, nor the fair thing. Not for a woman like her. Thus, it was easier and better for everyone if he simply left her to have some time with her sister and escaped for a short while. Fortunately, he was a well-liked patron at the bar.

"If burnt toast and raw egg do not teach you the consequences of your actions, nothing will."

Unfortunately, alcohol was not exactly a good friend of his.

"Charles?" he mumbled. "What are you?—"

"I found you in the streets last night. You were shouting something about your wife, and how you wanted her gone, and so I thought it might be wise to bring you here before you made people talk."

"Oh, God," he groaned, and only in part because of the sunlight hitting his eyes. "Please say that nobody heard me."

"I believe all is well. Nobody was around, and you would think that they would have been if they heard you."

"Then at least I have that to be grateful for."

"You can also be grateful for the fact that I am going to give you one hour to gather yourself before I ask you what all of that was."

Colin groaned once more, eating his raw egg and blackened bread with a most sour expression.

"Have I not been punished enough with that?" he asked. "Truly, that was foul."

"As was saying you wanted your duchess gone," Charles pointed out. "And so you might be best to explain that to me now, rather than later."

"Frankly, I do not know why I was saying that. I do not want to be rid of her, not in the way that I made it seem, at least."

"But you do want her gone, is that it?"

"It is not like that!" Colin snapped before sighing. "Forgive me, I am not feeling my best."

"You may take all of the time that you need. You have never been one to like his drink, and so I can tell something has happened."

" She has happened," he confessed. "You would love her. She is bright and intelligent, and she has this acerbic wit to her, and she goes after what she wants with everything that she has, and I-I am me."

"A duke. What more can a lady want?"

"Someone who does not run. Someone who can look at his duchess, who is making her county endlessly happy even after such a short time, who has a sister that she wishes to care for in spite of the distance between them, and thank the stars for giving her to him. Instead, she has this blundering idiot that has fallen for her in spite of the fact that beyond the title, he cannot give her what she deserves."

"Then, if that is true, why did you marry her? It was to save her, was it not?"

"It was in the beginning, but somewhere along the way, I found it impossible to keep from her. She draws me in, and I cannot, I do not, want to lose that, but I am not what she needs. I am this terrible beast, and I have condemned her to a life without love. Plainly put, I am a villain."

"You are quite the miserable bastard, I shall give you that." Charles laughed. "But you are not a villain. Perhaps there are some remnants of drink in you that are continuing to do the talking."

"I wish for so much more for her," Colin sighed, ignoring his friend's comments. "I want her to go out into the world and experience every good thing that it can give her. I want her to share her brightness with everyone she meets. I want her to be able to go out and do exactly what she wants, because I know for a fact that she never once has. Everything that she has done has been for her sister, even marrying me, and now everything that she does is for me, and it is not fair."

"And so your solution was to run away?"

"What other option do I have? I have already made her my prisoner, and whilst her cage is a fine one, it is a prison nonetheless. The only good thing that I can do for her now is to leave her be so that she might at least enjoy time with her sister after everything that she has sacrificed for her."

"Do you wish to know what you could do instead?"

"There is nothing else."

"There is always something else. You can stay here for a while until you get hold of yourself, and then you are to go home to your wife and you are to promise that you will change, that you will be the man that she needs you to be."

"But I do not know that I can. I have always been like this. Who is to say that, even with the best will in the world, I can be anything else?"

"Who is to say that you cannot? Besides, I have known you for years. You and I both know that you were not always this way. It was that man that you have the misfortune to call your father that can be thanked for that."

Colin thought back to another time, one when he was a young man and excited about what his future held, with no responsibilities and endless opportunities to do exactly as he pleased. It was no wonder that he had changed since then.

"Do you suppose that it will work?"

"Who is to say? All that I know is that the village adores her, and it is quite evident that you do too. If you let her slip away from you simply because you are too stubborn to see that things can be different, then you are not the man that I thought you were."

"I can try," he sighed. "You are right, I shall have to. If my being different makes her happy, then what other choice do I have?"

"That is far better." Charles nodded. "Now, you look terrible. Go to sleep for a while."

"And what about you?" Colin asked suddenly. "Are you to marry soon?"

"It has been a thought of mine, not that I would have the time for it. I, unfortunately, have to pay my own way, and as it stands, I could not give my wife the life that she would deserve."

"Ah, so there is someone in your sights?"

"There shall always be a lady or two that I hold a candle for." Charles smirked. "But as of right now I have no title to bring honor to and no reputation to scandalize by behaving in a most unruly manner, and so I shall like to keep it that way."

"You say that as if you do anything ungentlemanly at all."

"Who is to say that I do not?"

"Me." Colin laughed, immediately putting a hand to his head as a sharp pain spread through it. "In any case, it is not as though you are a rake. Surely you would be willing to marry if the right lady came along?"

"Marriages are difficult." Charles shrugged. "Frankly, as of right now, I do not receive much, and I do not give much, and I am happy enough. Running a household takes enough time as it is. A marriage would be a stressor in my life, not to mention children, and then think of all of the work I would have to do to afford it all. I do not think it is the sort of life that I want for myself."

"And yet you give such good and trustworthy advice about it all."

"Of course. I have no feelings on the matter, thus my personal beliefs do not affect what I tell you to do. In any case, if I ever felt for a lady the way you feel for your wife, I would not be nursing an ailment at a friend's when I could be at home being tended to there. I would not have even drunk in the first place."

"I have made a terrible mistake, haven't I?"

"Yes, but not one that cannot be fixed. Now, rest well, and when you are ready to return home and speak with your wife, do so. The two of you could have the most beautiful thing, so long as you stop letting your pride get in the way."

Colin, at last, gave in to his condition and slept a while longer. Charles was not there when he awoke, and he was glad for that because it gave him time to think.

He had truly made a mistake. Diana had her flaws, to be sure, but he was realizing all too late that he was falling for her and he was too far gone to do anything to stop it. He had always liked her well enough, to be sure, but love? It had never been in question—that had been the point of their marriage, to begin with. Now that he thought of her, though, and the way she might have given up on him after he had rejected her, he was paralyzed.

He had to go to her.

He left some coins on Charles' table, to thank him for his hospitality and his advice, and rushed out the door. He was partly glad that his friend had been absent, as he had never accepted payment from him.

The house was quiet when he returned. At first, he thought nothing of it; her sister was visiting, and there was plenty to do in the village, so it made sense that they would be making the most of their time together. Then he saw how the servants avoided his gaze. Something was amiss, and he knew it, but nobody seemed brave enough to tell him.

"Miss Thornton," he called, chasing after the housekeeper, who seemed startled to see him. "What is going on?"

"It is the ladies, Your Grace," she explained, a pained expression on her face. "You see, they are not here, and they have not told us where they are."

"Is that all? They are likely merely in the village."

"We had thought the same until—well, this was found in Lady Samantha's room on the floor. It was addressed to the Duchess, and… It is better that you read it for yourself."

Colin looked at the opened letter in Miss Thornton's hands. He had returned home to fix what had happened with his wife, not to read something that was addressed to her. It was an invasion of privacy, one that he was shocked to discover his staff had committed, but he saw the concern on his housekeeper's face, so he had no choice. He gritted his teeth and looked down at the paper.

Di,

I have written this letter a hundred different ways, and each time I have thrown it into the fireplace. I have been trying to tell you for a while now, ever since your wedding in fact. Now that I have seen your life, however, I finally feel ready to tell you no matter how I do it.

I am leaving. Father has been trying to find a match for me since you left, and I cannot bear it any longer. He does not care to whom I am betrothed, simply that I am not there when his son arrives. I do not even know if he knows of our existence. I do not mean to be a burden, nor to cause you any pain, but I cannot do it anymore.

And so, I have decided to run away to a monastery. You may think me a villain for leaving without a goodbye, or a coward, but that is something that I shall have to live with. Failing that, you could come with me. If you are truly unhappy, then do something about it and leave. We could do just as we have always wanted and stay just the two of us, never needing a man to handle our affairs for us.

If you wish to come with me, ask one of the footmen. They know where I am, and I have given them the last of my pin money to ensure their silence. If you are happy, and you do not wish to follow me and instead wish to work on your marriage, then that is perfectly fine. I wish you all the best, but this will be goodbye.

I shall adore you forever, Sister.

Best regards,

Samantha.

Colin's hands were shaking. He could not believe a single word that he had read. It was enough to know that Samantha was gone and he had hardly spoken to her at all. She was a sister to him, and he had been so determined to hide away that he had missed her completely.

Then he realized that Diana was not at home, which could only mean one thing.

Their marriage had not been perfect thus far, but had it been beyond repair for her? Had it truly been so taxing on her that she wished to run away from him? Just before, she had wanted them to be closer, that much was clear, and now she was gone. Perhaps his rejection had been the last proof she needed to know that he did not love her, and at last, he realized, standing in that room with the letter pinned between his fingers, that that could not have been further from the truth.

He had pushed her too far away, and now she was gone, and he had never given himself the chance to tell her that he needed her.

He loved her.