Page 3 of When Hearts Surrender

His glittering eyes had cut away from his duchess and snared on hers, as though he could see her hiding in the shadows.

But of course he could. He had always seen her, even when she was invisible most of her life.

His throat rippled, the previous placid expression on his face quickly slipping away as he dropped the hand he offered to his wife, who looked up at him in confusion, before following his gaze to her.

Her features hardened. “You patheticwhore. I don’t want to see you here a minute longer. Go to the whorehouse where you belong.”

She flinched and shrunk back, her mistress’s words echoing in her mind.

Silas stood at the bottom, unmoving, staring at her. His slate-gray eyes flashed with the same passion she had seen when he met her in the gardens at night, or in the study, or the conservatory. His hands formed into tight fists as they stared silently at each other, a great divide between them.

“You coming, Silas?” the duchess asked from somewhere out of her sight line. “Our guests are waiting.”

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving hers as he replied in that low, gravelly voice of his, “Yes, my duchess.”

A reminder. For himself or for her, she’d never know.

He stepped toward his wife before pausing and turning around. Her heart skipped a beat as he took a few steps up the stairs toward her.

But he stopped, his fingers gripping the ornate wooden railing, pausing at the carving of a lion, part of the Anderson family insignia. His fingers grazed the family heirloom ring he always wore—an intricate band with a beautiful black gemstone. He heaved out a deep breath, and she could feel his gaze cascading over her features, landing at her swollen womb carrying their child. Her abdomen cramped—she wanted to tell him she was bleeding, not only from her womb but also in her heart. But he never gave her a chance to tell him.

He paused at the foot of the staircase, the muscles in his shoulders bunched tightly.

“I’m sorry, Emma. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Silas, are you coming?” the duchess calledfrom a few steps away.

He sighed and took out a few banknotes from his pocket and set them on the ground. “I’m sorry.”

Anger burned through her veins at the memory, how he carelessly stood by as her future was burned to ashes in front of him. His promises, words of love and eternal devotion were all lies, poison disguised as beautiful prose and haunting promises.

This was the end of the road for her, for society would never give a woman like her another chance. Her future as a fallen woman saddled with the debts of her father would be unthinkable. No one would employ her after she was cast out by the influential Andersons. She had little education growing up, no connections, nothing to her name. Soon, the debtors would arrive and she would have absolutely no value except for what was between her thighs.

“Go to the whorehouse where you belong.”The duchess’s words carved themselves inside her chest.

There was no other choice.

The frigid morning air penetrated her thin dress and straight into her heart, temporarily stemming the agony leaching out from the tattered organ. Despite everything, she couldn’t stop loving him, even as she hated him at the same time.

“Silas.” She gripped her necklace, her most treasured possession from him—a pearl and gemstone locket with beautifully carved flowers and his eternal devotion carved inside—and whispered once more, “Perhaps, in another life…”

She looked toward the heavens, hoping she’d experience the happiness she lost in this lifetime there.

With her arms spread, she stepped off the ledge, her dark brown tresses billowing like a halo around her head, an angel falling down from the skies just as the first raindrops descended.

Silas

Half an hour later, a thick branch broken off by the storm shattered the windows of the sitting room causing glass shards to scatter across the carpet. A scream tore through Wraithmoor Abbey, echoing in the cavernous foyer, before a groundskeeper dashed in and alerted the duke of the body found in the rose garden.

Silas dashed toward the doors, his thoughts in disarray, the mysterious pain he felt in his chest deepening into scything agony.

Icy dread slithered up his spine, curling around his rib cage. Whipping winds and pelting rain thrashed his face as he threw open the doors and stormed outside, not bothering to wait for the butler or the footmen to follow him.

A figure laid motionless in the distance.

It can’t be. Please.

His feet hurtled desperately toward the woman sprawled on the ground in the rose garden. His clothes quickly became sodden from the turbulent storm, but he couldn’t care less.

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