Chapter 23

"Your Grace." A hand shook Adam's shoulder, and he groaned, turning over and attempting to shake them off.

His head pounded, and the shaft of sunlight coming through the curtains sent a spike of pain deep into his skull.

"Go away," he muttered, attempting to shield his eyes.

From what he could tell, he was still in the chair he had been in last night. The decanter of whiskey on his desk was empty, and there was a sense of shame deep in the pit of his stomach.

"I am sorry, Adam, but your butler let me in."

The voice was familiar but not soothing. With the hand still clapped over his face, Adam wished the voice would go away.

"Who is it?" he rasped.

"Rickard."

The voice paused, and everything fell into place. That was why it sounded so familiar. Rickard. Yes. Of course.

"I have been a little worried about you."

Adam risked peeling his hand from his eyes and immediately regretted it. "Worried? In what sense?"

Despite the pounding in his head, his voice was hard and crisp.

"Worried in the sense that you passed out drunk in your chair," Rickard said, and although he was as deferential as usual, there was a drop of sardonic amusement in his voice. "I think that gives me cause, don't you?"

"I think you are sticking your nose where it does not belong."

"Of course you do," he said mildly.

"And I think you should leave before I command one of the footmen to throw you out."

"Well, of course, you are at perfect liberty to do that." Rickard placed something hot and steaming in front of Adam. "But I brought you some coffee. I am no expert on the matter, but I've heard the bitterness helps."

Adam had never been one for coffee. The popularity of coffee houses had waned in recent years, and he had always found the bitterness unpalatable. At the sight of this, his stomach churned.

"No," he said shortly. "I disagree."

"Try it. Then we will talk."

"About what?"

Rickard sat on the chair—wooden, plain—at the other side of the room. "Drink up. Perhaps then we might be able to have a civilized conversation."

Swallowing a curse, Adam practically scalded his tongue with the coffee, but he eventually drank half the cup, and although he did not want to admit it to anyone—and especially not Rickard, with his smug face and sense of righteousness—it did settle his stomach.

Nothing stopped the pounding in his head, though.

"Well?" he said, finally removing the hand from his eyes. "I hope you have a good excuse for coming in here. Is it to confess that you had something to do with William's death?"

"No," Rickard said. "But it is to report that I went back to your house—before you remind me I should not have done so, let me apologize—and while I was there, I saw Nicholas."

Immediately, thoughts of Emmeline flooded Adam's mind. He could barely go a few minutes without thinking of her, and missing her, and wishing he had not been so hasty in sending her to her parents' house. They might have disagreed, but surely there was a solution.

Surely they could find a way through if only they tried.

He thought then of Nicholas and the odd way he had responded to news of Emmeline's accident, the way he had enquired after her as though he had known there was something the matter with her.

His thoughts sharpened at last. "You saw him at the house?" he asked.

"Yes. None of the servants were aware he was there, but I am certain I saw him." Rickard leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I thought there was something suspicious about the secrecy of it all."

"Did he see you?"

Rickard shook his head. "He did not."

"I see."

Was it possible that Emmeline had not been hallucinating? Was it possible that she had not been confused? Was it at all possible that his old friend had pushed her down the stairs?

Rickard looked around. "Where is Emmeline? I thought she would have put a stop to this behavior long ago."

Of course, the man knew and was forcing him to say it. Adam was aware of the fact, but his stomach still lurched unpleasantly. For once, it wasn't a side-effect of his bloody hangover.

"She is with her parents," he said, forcing the words past his stiff lips. "We thought it better to spend some time apart."

"Why?" Rickard shook his head. "Anyone could have seen that you doted on her."

"She did her best to get away from me—I thought it only right that I give her the opportunity to accomplish that."

Rickard gave him a pitying look. "If I may be frank, Your Grace, that is a piss-poor excuse, and you know it. What kind of cowardly husband sends his wife to her parents instead of fighting for her?"

"Should I not have respected her wishes?" Adam demanded. "Should I have kept her with me when I knew she didn't want to remain?"

"And did you ask her such a thing?" Rickard asked, folding his arms. For a younger, meeker man, he certainly had steel in his spine. "Did you ask her directly what she wanted, or did you just assume?"

"I—" Adam thought of the servants and what they had said. Then he remembered what she had said at the ball to her parents—she had defended him.

And yet she had attempted to persuade him to send her away. He knew that for a fact.

Women would never fail to be a mystery to him.

"I do not understand," he groaned, massaging his forehead. "If she wanted to stay, why did she not say so?"

"I would say she said it often enough with her eyes."

"I prefer words," Adam said, gritting his teeth. "Ideally in writing, so there is no chance for misinterpretation. How should I know what she wants unless she tells me? And that ridiculous story about Nicholas?—"

Except it might not have been ridiculous. It might have been true, and he had dismissed it.

If that was the case, he was an idiot.

And he missed her with every cell in his body.

"What do I do now?" he asked no one in particular. "What on earth am I supposed to do now?"

Rickard eyed him as though he were an idiot. "Is it not obvious? You go to her and bring her back. And, while you are there, beg for her forgiveness."

* * *

By the time Adam arrived in Cheshire, he had driven through the night, barely stopping longer than necessary to change horses along the way. An odd kind of clarity had settled over him, and as he clattered down the gravel drive at noon, he felt as though for the first time he truly understood the error of his ways.

And he was not certain how he would be received.

There was no denying that he had hurt and offended her. Nor that she had no obligation to forgive him. Yes, they were husband and wife, bound under law and God, but he had been the one to send her to her parents. Now he wanted her back, but she had every right to refuse.

He could not be certain that she would not.

When at last he leaped from his horse, tired and aching, his legs stiff and his behind acutely sore, he knew he did not look like the Duke the world had come to expect. His hair was mussed, he was travel-worn and weary, and his cravat was an abomination.

As he rang the little copper bell by the door, he did his best to adjust his coat and affect the appearance of a man coming to collect his wife.

A butler, surprisingly young and spry for a house of this age—he could not have been more than forty—opened the door and shot Adam a faint sneer.

So. He truly did not look like the Duke he was.

"Good day," Adam said. "I'm here to see the Duchess of Kant."

The butler's expression did not change. "And you are?"

"Her husband, the Duke of Kant."

"I see." Still, the butler eyed him. "I regret to inform you that she is not here."

"There must be a mistake."

"Her Grace," the butler said, emphasizing the words perhaps to cover for his slip, "does not wish to see you, Your Grace. I can only apologize."

The man did not sound apologetic.

Adam clenched his teeth. "Please convey my apologies to Her Grace for coming all this way without due warning, and tell her once more that I need to see her."

"Very well." The butler looked him up and down once more. "There is a pump around the side of the house, Your Grace, should you need to freshen up somewhat."

No doubt in the country, this was seen as a kindness. It was on the tip of Adam's tongue to demand something more than a mere pump, but he bit his tongue. If he was to win Emmeline back, it was not by behaving like the autocratic, arrogant aristocrat she no doubt believed him to be.

He had been in the Navy; he had endured worse than a pump.

"Thank you," he said instead and was rewarded by a flicker of surprise across the butler's face as he closed the door.

As promised, there was a pump around the side of the house, which was extensive, and Adam let his palm fill with the icy water before splashing it across his face. Thus cooled, he then offered his horse a drink and returned to the front door to await the butler's return.

* * *

"What do you mean my husband is here?"

Emmeline paced the drawing room, resisting the urge to glance out the windows to see if she could catch sight of him. Perhaps she ought to retire to her dressing room just in case she was tempted to look for him, or he was compelled to look through the windows in search of her.

"Yes, Your Grace." Rowley stood impassive. "I told him you would not see him."

"Yes, excellent. I won't, of course." She nodded and resumed pacing. "He has a nerve, coming here. Please convey my regret that he has undertaken such a pointless trip."

She may have been mistaken, but she thought she saw the gleam of a smile in the butler's eyes. "Very good, Your Grace."

When he was gone, she paced a little more. What reason could Adam have for coming all this way instead of merely sending her a letter? Any sentiment he had, or news about his brother, could have been fully conveyed without telling her in person.

After all, she knew he would rather avoid her.

Furious with him for disturbing her fragile peace, and furious with herself for having her peace so easily disturbed, she went to find her sister, who was sitting upstairs in the music room, a harp between her knees.

"What is it?" Aurelia asked the moment Emmeline stormed into the room. "Are Mama and Papa arguing again?"

"No, by some miracle." Emmeline sat on the small bench that lined the wall. "Although I wish they had, rather than this."

"What has happened?"

"The Duke of Kant." His name felt sour in her mouth. She felt sour at the thought of him being here. Or perhaps it was something else—but she shut that thought down before it could affect her. "He's here."

Aurelia gasped. "Your husband?"

"Regrettably."

"What is he doing here?"

"I don't know," Emmeline said irritably. "And I do not intend to meet with him to find out."

"Oh, Emmeline." Aurelia abandoned her harp and came to sit beside her. "Surely you do not mean it."

"Of course I do." Emmeline made a frustrated, dismissive gesture. "He should not have come when he sent me away."

"Perhaps he regrets it and means to apologize."

Emmeline gave an unladylike snort. "If that were the case, he should have done so weeks ago. It is almost the end of summer. Soon the hunting season will begin."

"Why else would he come here?"

"To taunt me? Because it better suits his reputation to be seen to have an adoring wife?" She rubbed her eyes, feeling abruptly exhausted. "Does it matter? He doesn't want me, Aurelia. He made that abundantly clear, and I don't have the energy to return to the life we shared when it's clear he didn't want to share it with me."

Aurelia looked troubled, clouds swirling in her sky-blue eyes, and Emmeline leaned forward, patting her on the cheek. "Don't worry, love," she said. "He will leave soon, and all will be well."

But he did not leave soon. The sun slowly made its ponderous way toward the horizon, and still Adam did not leave. Emmeline did not ever go to check herself, but she made sure that Rowley gave her updates. When night came and he still did not move from the spot on the front steps, she wondered if they might throw him out with the help of a magistrate.

"It is our land," she said in frustration. "And he is intruding."

"He is a duke," her mother said with a degree of circumspection that was downright unlike her. "Any magistrate worth his salt would not investigate."

"But we have asked him to leave!"

"Perhaps," Aurelia said gently, "you should speak with him."

And that was how Emmeline found herself at the front door near midnight, the moon high in the sky and her heart in her mouth as she came face to face with her husband for the first time in what felt like forever.

Her mouth was dry. She felt as though her heart would burst in her chest.

At the sight of her, Adam rose, and guilt swamped her at the sight of his face. Even under the lamplight, she could see the redness from the sun.

"Emmeline," he said hoarsely, stepping toward her and then stopping when she moved back. "You came."

"You refused to leave," she said. "What else could I do?"

"How could I leave without seeing you?"

"You managed it once before."

Lines bracketed his mouth, and she saw his throat bob as he swallowed. "I am ashamed of how I acted," he said, his voice quiet, and she thought she must be dreaming, because how could this man in front of her—this man—be the proud duke she had once known?

"Adam," she said, and his fingers flexed at his sides at the sound of his name on her tongue. "What are you doing here? Why did you come?"

"Because," he said, looking her in the eye, "I needed to apologize."

For weeks, she had yearned to hear those words. "You are apologizing to me?"

He nodded. "And I'm hoping I might take you back to Crowny Castle. With me."

Hope filled her, but she pushed it back down. "Why should I go with you?" she asked. "Why should I forgive you?"

This time, when he stepped forward, he caught her hand in his and squeezed tight. "Because I miss you. Because every time I close my eyes, I see you. You haunt my every waking moment, and you inhabit my dreams. If I ever thought I could go back to my life before you entered it, I was a fool. You are everything I ever wanted, even when I was too much of a fool to admit I wanted it."

He brought her knuckles to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to them that inexplicably made tears prick her eyes. Hadn't she felt the same way about him? As though, despite all the odds, he had inhabited her dreams, too?

"Adam," she whispered, her voice thick.

"I love you, Emmeline. More than you could ever know—more than I realized until it was too late and I lost you."

Twin tears streamed down her face, and he brushed them away with his thumb. "I pray you will give me the chance to prove my feelings for you," he murmured, his voice soft in the night air, "Forgive me, Emmeline. Come back home with me. And I will do everything in my power to make you happy."

She sniffled, all her arguments for convincing him to leave crumbling to dust.

"I thought you never wanted to see me again," she said, her voice cracking. "How can I know you won't do that to me again?"

"Let me show you I won't."

She shook her head, still sniffing, feeling as though her world had been turned on its head, and with no warning. "Tell me you believe me about Nicholas. Tell me that you were wrong and that I did see what I told you I saw. Then I will forgive you."

"An easy task." He smiled, a beautiful and rare thing bathed in the lamplight. "I believe you, Emmeline. I have for a long time, and yesterday Rickard confirmed to me that Nicholas has been sneaking into the house."

"Truly?"

His smile faded, and she saw the pain the thought caused him. "I believe… I have come to suspect that Nicholas has something to do with my brother's death."