Chapter 2

"You are late, Your Grace."

Dominique Wallace's stomach sank, the way it always had when he looked at Livingston Castle. He had never quite rid himself of that reaction upon seeing the home where he had grown up with his parents and then lived through a wreck of a marriage.

"Geraldine," he greeted with false cheer. "I have already had several women fix me with disappointed scowls. I shall not have you do the same."

He had spent the last several weeks traveling, leisurely enjoying himself in the south coast, leaving his life in the countryside and Livingston Castle behind, but now he was back.

There was a large stone fountain in the center of the front courtyard, and the walls surrounding the castle guarded him from most trespassers. Trees hung over the tops of the walls, casting shadows over him as he made his way up the steps to the looming building.

He had buried himself in women's beds and fought a few husbands or two, but not even an hour back to his normal life he was reminded why he despised it.

He blew past Geraldine, already removing his coat as he walked.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but I believe I, out of these several women, have the most reason to scowl at you." She followed him, one step behind.

"I know, but?—"

"Your daughter has been watching for you out of the window on the second floor for weeks, ever since you sent her that letter, promising to be here before her birthday."

He stopped short, turned to his housekeeper, and cocked his head. Around him, the walls of the castle displayed the extent of his family's wealth and prestige through busts of former dukes, ornaments, and extravagant paintings. His own image stared him down.

Dominique looked away.

Livingston Castle had been in the Wallace family for generations. Each duke had built on it somehow or added to the collection of valuables inside, as he had been expected to do. But, despite his travels, Dominique had yet to do what his forefathers had done. He had no interest in leaving a mark on the cursed place.

"I understand how she feels, I just?—"

"Do you?"

"Yes," he answered through gritted teeth.

He had done the same with his mother, waiting for her to return from her nightly visits to the city whenever a new singer was touring London. As a boy, he had simply thought she loved music. He understood far more about his mother now that she was dead than he ever had when she had been alive.

"Now, if you will please let me be, I wish to be alone and rest. I had an accident on the road, and it has worn me down."

Once, his staff may have widened their eyes in alarm. However, Geraldine looked as though she was struggling to resist rolling her eyes. The staff always thought he was making excuses. He wanted to dismiss every last one of them. He wanted to be alone for good.

"Katie has been expecting you, Your Grace. You must?—"

"I said, I wish to be alone for a moment."

The housekeeper narrowed her eyes at him. "Your ten-year-old daughter, who loves you very much, is not responsible for any of your problems, Your Grace."

The emotive blow landed right where it hurt, and he winced. How could he ever explain the real reason why he had to leave? How could he ever make Katie understand it was not because he did not want to be a good father to her?

"You should not neglect her the way you do."

Shame finally sank into his chest, spreading heavily through him. He sighed and dragged a hand through his wind-tousled hair. "I know, I know. It is not her fault. She deserves far better than to be stuck here with me, but I do not know how to approach her, Geraldine."

"Well, letting so much time pass between your attempts to approach her certainly does not help."

He was about to retort, but a sniffle caught his attention. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his daughter's blonde ringlets, so very like her mother's, and he lifted his gaze to her tear-stained cheeks. She stiffened, as she was caught eavesdropping, but Dominique took a step in her direction, aiming for a soft, gentle smile.

Katie let out a sob and ran away, the sound of her heeled, buckled shoes echoing off the walls.

Blast!

"Katie—" he called after her, but she had disappeared from view. He glanced at Geraldine, but then he realized he did not need his housekeeper to tell him to follow after his daughter.

He sprinted down the halls of the castle, feeling the ache of loneliness, the magnitude of his home, and how empty it was. He followed Katie upstairs, to her room.

He was a hairsbreadth away from her when she slammed her bedroom door shut in his face with a sad, disappointed glare.

Letting out an exasperated groan, he knocked on the door. "Katie, open the door at once."

"No!"

"My darling, I am so sorry that I am late. Please open the door, let me apologize."

"I do not want your apologies, Papa." Her voice was thick with tears. For a moment, she sounded like his late wife.

I do not want to hear you apologize over and over, Dominique.

He could hear the harsh words of his late wife in his mind, the harsh words she said to him when he had thought her wrongdoings were his own fault.

"Then what is it you would like me to do?" Dominique asked as if he was asking both his daughter and his late wife. He always seemed to make them both cry. Then again, he knew the answer to his own question.

So when he was only met with stubborn silence, he knew the words his daughter refused to tell him.

I want you to stay this time.

But Dominique never stayed. He could not.

Every time he promised himself, promised Katie, that he would, the walls would close in on him, the memories would resurface, and he would find himself halfway to yet another small coastal village before he could process the decision to leave again.

"Katie, please," he whispered, his throat closing up. "Talk to me, talk to your papa."

Again, only silence greeted him.

Desperation rose in his chest and weighed him down. He leaned his forehead against the wooden door, closing his eyes as he sighed. His shoulders slumped as if they carried a great weight. And they did—fatherhood. And what a great father he was.

She deserves better. They both deserved better.

At least that's what he told himself, believing himself to have never been enough for his wife.

He clenched his fists, stepped back from the closed door, and tried to ignore the sniffles that came from the other side. He would bathe and dress. Yes, that would help.

Halfway through his bath, he let out a great shout of anguish as he realized he had not wished his own daughter a happy birthday yet.

* * *

It was a fine spring day for a garden party. The gardens had been set up for Katie's birthday party, and he was ready to commit to staying for her birthday celebrations, at least. He owed his daughter that much.

"Stay," his companion had crooned at him from beneath tangled sheets that morning as he fastened his pants. "Sleep with me some more."

"I cannot," he said. "It is my daughter's birthday party."

And then he had raced for home.

Except now his daughter still refused to speak to him even as he had snapped his fingers at some of his servants as they had carted in all the gifts he had brought for her from his travels. She had smiled, and politely thanked him, but had not opened a single one yet.

Tables were set out on the grass, empty chairs awaiting the guests. The duke would have preferred to have a more private affair to spend time with his daughter, but she had insisted on a garden party.

"Just because you do not like people, Papa, does not mean I must be lonely, too," she had told him, convincing him to have the staff arrange the party.

Some guests milled about. Dominique, bathed and refreshed, approached Katie, who giggled as another child placed a flower crown on her blonde head.

"Katie, may I speak with you for a moment?" he asked, his hands folded behind his back. He was holding a jewelry box, plucked from the pile of gifts she had not yet touched.

Katie acted as though he was not there.

"We must make you all flower wreaths, too!" she said to two other girls, who looked at Dominique, and then back at her with uncertainty.

"Katie, please I would like?—"

"Come, let's go and ask my governess for more flowers."

"Katie!"

But she had already grabbed the girls' hands and fled, slipping from his grasp.

When had she grown so tall and so… independent? So haughty?

Did he deserve her ignorance? Heavens above, yes, he did. Shame settled in his stomach.

Slowly, more people entered the garden, seeking Katie and her governess out to wish her a happy birthday. They fearfully acknowledged the duke, but he did not care. He only tried to make eye contact with his daughter.

Moments later, Katie ran out of the castle, squealing, chased by more friends. He tried to reach for her, to get her attention, but she avoided looking his way. He stalked back inside the castle for a moment, hating this whole damned day.

I should have stayed at the coast.

When he next emerged in the garden, he spotted many more people sitting on the blankets and at the tables.

But when he scanned the faces for his daughter, he found her sitting alone at the entrance to the hedge maze. She spun a block of cheese on a wooden stick between her fingers, looking miserable.

He walked over to her.

"Do you mind if I sit with you?" he asked.

His daughter tensed up as if she would bolt, but, finally, she looked at him. After a moment, she nodded.

Relieved, Dominique sat opposite her on the blanket. "What is wrong, my darling?"

"Nothing," she answered, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She stubbornly stared just past him, her brow furrowed. Then she sighed. "I am surprised you even recognize something is wrong."

Guilt pierced right through his heart, but he managed a smile. "Tears are tears. They are quite telling. This castle has seen many."

Katie almost laughed humorlessly, a bitter, little sound that should never come from a girl so young. "My best friend has not yet shown up. I fear she will not attend at all. But she must, Papa."

Embarrassment flooded his chest. He was glad she did not look at him and witnessed his confusion as he tried to work out who her best friend was.

"I am sure she shall arrive," he offered, smiling at her. She shifted her gaze to him, her glare returning, as if she heard the empty assurance. "At least I am here, though, yes?"

"Yes," she mumbled, tugging at the grass. "I suppose. I was excited."

Was. He noted the past tense, and his heart clenched.

"Your governess has told me that you are looking forward to playing the harp today for your guests. How have your lessons been going?"

"They are going well," she answered flatly. "I wished to play for you before today, so you could give me your opinion."

More shame flooded his heart.

He nodded, lowering his head before composing himself. "I am sure you will sound incredible, my dear, as always?—"

Suddenly, Katie jumped at the sound of a new voice, her head lifting, her face brightening as she looked past him. "Eloise!"

"Katie!" a girlish voice called back.

Dominique mustered a smile, knowing that his precious seconds with Katie were over for now.

He stood back up and turned to make himself busy elsewhere, only to see who his daughter's best friend entered with.

On the white decked terrace, among the other mothers and fathers attending the garden party, a woman stood behind Eloise. As her daughter ran toward Katie, the woman scanned the crowd before she spotted a group she knew and made her way over to them.

It was the woman he had argued with that morning. The beautiful brunette spitfire with the sharp tongue and the ripped dress.

Oh, this is about to get very interesting.