Page 84 of The Duke and the Wrong Bride

“This is all my fault,” Beatrice repeated. “And because it is my fault, it seems that it is up to me to do something about it.”

“Beatrice…” Their father tensed up. “What have you done?”

“Do you remember last month how I was considering the possibility of going on a little trip? How I realized that there was nothing for me here, and while I am young and gorgeous, I thought why not do a bit of traveling? See the world, as it is.”

“I remember.” Their father eyed her, body stiff as he sensed where the conversation was heading.

“So, that’s what I am doing,” Beatrice continued. “In two weeks, I plan on sailing to Spain. And then France. And then maybe Belgium. Who knows? The world is my oyster, and I intend to open it.”

“Two weeks?!” her father blustered. “That’s absurd! I don’t remember being asked about this!”

“Phineas…” Their mother eyed him. “What did we speak about?”

He scowled but held his tongue and went back to his plate.

“I need it,” Beatrice continued, smirking proudly. “And what’s more…” She gave Charlotte’s shoulder another squeeze, and Charlotte could feel her sister looking down at her. “Charlotte needs it.”

That had the table falling silent. Their father, choking on his food as he tried to speak. Their mother, frowning and leaning back as the meaning of this point hit her. And Charlotte… still not entirely sure what her sister was getting at. Her mind was far too addled for that.

“Charlotte,” Beatrice started once she was certain she had the attention of the room. “I made a mistake—a selfish, darn right awful one which has all but ruined you. Please, allow me to make it up to you. And I know I don’t deserve it, but the thought of you wallowing here in pity makes me ill to my core, and if this helps in any way, it might go some way toward easing my conscience. Not to mention making you feel better. Come with me,” she said. “The two of us, together. Away from here. I think it’s exactly what you need.”

“She doesn’t need a trip,” their father choked out. “What she needs is to march back home and?—”

“Phineas,” their mother hissed. “We spoke about this.”

“Youspoke! I sat there, smiling and nodding along. But now this one”—he gestured to Beatrice—“thinks a trip around the world will solve the problem. It’s absurd!”

“At least I am doing something!” Beatrice said hotly. “And this will help.”

“How?” their father barked. “How will it help?!”

And so they fought as Charlotte stared blankly at the table. Only now, the dullness that had consumed her since leaving Henry five days ago didn’t feel as numbing and hopeless as it had even a few moments ago. There was a light, a tiny flicker, brought about by Beatrice’s suggestion. One that might have seemed absurd at face value, but the more Charlotte thought about it, the more sense it made.

She was depressed. There was no other way to say it. And she knew that so long as she spent every day sitting around and waiting to hear from a man whom she knew she would never see again, she would stay that way. Just being in this house, she couldn’t help but be reminded of him. Her past life, as it was, one that she needed to put behind her.

Distance was what she needed. Distance and a fresh start. A way to separate herself from the trauma that she carried. And what better way to find that distance than to travel the world?

A decision was reached. A choice was made. And, before Charlotte had a chance to talk herself out of it, she spoke up, forced to shout over her bickering family.

“I have a question!”

Her family stopped shouting, catching their tongues as three sets of eyes turned to look at her expectantly.

Charlotte smiled at them. “We leave in two weeks, you say?”

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Had Henry always been this miserable? This lethargic? This bored? For over a week now, his days had taken on much the same routine, although it was hard to call it such. A routine suggested some sense of action and urgency. That he had something to do, goals that needed meeting, tasks that required completing, a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Rather, he existed in a state of nothingness, drifting through each day because he couldn’t find the enthusiasm to drag himself out of the hole he seemed to have fallen into.

Take today, for example. While once he rose with the sun, now he lay in bed until he was forced to rise because his servants needed to change the bedsheets and his breakfast was turning cold and stale. He didn’t bother bathing, for he knew he wouldn’t leave his house and see anybody, so what was the point?

Oliver had asked if he might come for a drink later in the afternoon, but Henry hadn’t bothered replying because even the idea of getting stupid drunk at a tavern until he could barely stand didn’t appeal to him. Instead, he wandered from room to room, through the gardens, about the estate, and then back through each room simply because he knew that if he sat down, he wouldn’t be getting back up.

It was a life without meaning. A state of being that had once appealed to him greatly but was now the height of tragedy. He knew why he was feeling this way, of course. There was no need to guess the reason. But nearly two weeks now since its cause, and he knew that it was too late to do anything about it.

Oh, maybe he could have reached out. Maybe he could have even taken action and gone to see Charlotte himself. His stubborn nature was the reason he did no such thing. That and a refusal to admit how much he cared.

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