Page 2 of When Hearts Surrender

Her heart fluttered a dying beat at the memories—the warmth in his charcoal gaze, the gentleness of his fingers trailing over her cheek, the slight quirk of his lips, dimples showing.

“Silas.”

She closed her eyes and remembered how she melted into his embrace. His lips took hers and plundered everything away from her—her heart, her soul, her mind. They would spend endless hours in the gardens, forgoing sleep, coming together as man and woman, not as a duke and his servant, obliterating a thousand lines they were forbidden to cross.

He used to say he was a duke, and he could do anything.

One day, they would be free to be together.

But that was a lie too.

And now, she paid the ultimate price.

She tore her eyes away from the garden. The morning light had barely penetrated the swollen, smothering clouds. A storm was coming fast, based on the severe winds and the darkened skies. She should alert the rest of the staff so they could begin preparations, as the manor was still in an active state of construction.

The streetlamps were unlit, but there was an eerie calm, as if she had already crossed the threshold to another world.

This wouldn’t be her job anymore.

She wouldn’t be here to see the storm.

The vaporous mist hid the terrifying heights from the rooftop to the grounds four stories down. It surrounded the abbey like a thick blanket, enticing her to take the leap into her eternal slumber.

“Silas,” she choked out, her fingers tightening on the letter he’d no doubt find on her later.

His name was carried away by a chilly breeze.

Tears slipped down her cheeks and her other hand cradled the small bump on her lower belly, the one she couldn’t hide anymore, the bump signaling her adultery, her shame for the world to see.

Perhaps, if she’d never fallen in love with him or if he’d done what he had promised and taken her away from there much sooner, his wife wouldn’t have shoved her against the vanity table three nights ago in a fit of anger before dismissing her. She wouldn’t be bleeding now, knowing the baby had departed the world before her.

Perhaps it was best for everything to end this way. After all, what a scandal this would be for the unblemished Anderson family.

She wetted her lips as she smoothed her hand over her belly, her heart pulverized.

Would it have been a son or a daughter? Would he have had his dark, mesmerizing eyes or her brown hair if he were to have survived? Would she have had dimples just like her father, or would she have had full lips like her?

Wouldheforgive her, her Silas?

Her heart clenched in throbbing pain as she breathed in more of the cloying stench in the air.

Perhaps he wouldn’t. Or perhaps he wouldn’t care. After all, he silently stood by as the duchess berated her for her loose morals, for daring to disgrace her, making her the laughingstock of society since the rumors of his affair leaked. She remembered how his jaw clenched tightly, his eyes not looking at hers even though she pleaded with all of her heart for him to acknowledge her in the daylight—just once, a reassuring glance, a gentle nod, anything to let her know things would turn out all right.

But he didn’t, even though he knew he was the reason for her current state, even though he promised her he would take care of her and their unborn child.

They were lies. A thousand breathtaking lies from a beautiful man.

In the distance, thunder rumbled, the violent sound angry and foreboding.

She hoped Silas would find her when the rain descended.

Her thoughts trailed to last night, before she’d gone to her room to pack her bags, when she’d first felt the painful cramps in her belly.

The elite gathered in the sitting room, eager to have an audience with the duke and the duchess, not caring the title held no merit in America. After all, royalty was royalty, and Silas, a staunch supporter of the Union, had important things to say about the war brimming around the corner.

She stood in the shadows of the second-floor landing, her heart clenched when the duke met his duchess at the bottom of the stairs. He stood tall and proud, his dark navy waistcoat, the one she once told him was her favorite, molded to his figure like a glove.

Lord Silas Anderson, Duke of Westfield in the British aristocracy, head of one of the most illustrious families in America, was a sight to behold, a man who stole her heart even though he couldn’t protect it.

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