Page 82 of The Duke and the Wrong Bride

And then Henry released him.

Graham’s body dropped to the floor in a heap, and Henry turned his back to his cousin as he strode back to his chair.

“Leave. Now!” Henry barked as he fell into his chair.

Graham stumbled to his feet, coughing terribly as he pulled himself up, his entire body shaking. “Y-yes.”

“And if you say a word about my wife, Graham…” Henry paused for effect, waiting for Graham to turn around, which he knew he would do, for the man was properly cowed now. “I will kill you. Know that.”

Graham nodded in understanding as he threw the door open. But he didn’t say anything. Nor did he remain any longer. He stumbled out of the room and scrambled down the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him. And Henry stayed where he was, listening to the sound of the front door being thrown open as his cousin fled into the storm.

Alone now, Henry took a deep breath, calmed himself the best he could, closed his eyes and massaged them as he forced himself to settle. That meeting… it didn’t go nearly as well as he might have hoped. Yes, his cousin got the message, and no, he did not think he would be a problem from here on out. But he’d let his temper get the better of him, and had he let it go just a little bit further, he very well might have killed him.

What he needed was something to calm him. Someone to tell him everything was all right. For a brief second, he half rose, thinking to find Charlotte and tell her everything. She had never much liked Graham, so surely she would appreciate the story and go some way toward making him feel better…

But then the realization struck him, and Henry’s mood turned sour. Sitting in his chair, he sank down further, wishing he might sink through the floor because of how he felt. Outside, he could hear the storm raging, but inside it was as quiet as a graveyard.

His argument with Charlotte earlier had felt justified. At that moment, he’d known that he was doing the right thing. She wanted to challenge him? To play games? He would not be played! Now, however, alone as he was, tired, needing companionship in ways he never used to but had now come to appreciate thanks to his marriage, he was beginning to understand the gravity of what he had done.

A marriage of convenience. It had sounded like a wonderful idea at the time. Who would have guessed where it might lead? And who would have guessed the heartache and pain that would follow in its wake? Certainly not Henry.

ChapterTwenty-Seven

“Anything?” Charlotte asked as her mother wandered into the dining room.

Her mother simply shook her head.

Charlotte’s heart sank, as it had been doing for these past five days. She forced a thankful smile and went back to her plate of food. Not that she was hungry. Not that she could stomach the idea of eating right now. The way she was feeling, she might never eat again.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” her mother said softly as she sat down beside her. “Every day, Charlotte. Sitting about, hoping. It’s not good for you.”

“I don’t care what’s good for me,” Charlotte muttered bitterly.

“At least promise to go outside today.” Her mother indicated the nearby window. It was a gorgeous, sunny morning, the kind that always came late in summer, as if the weather was doing its best to fight off the approaching autumn. “Get some sun and fresh air.”

“There’s nothing for me outside.”

Her mother’s face dropped. “Or sit around all day and mope. What do I care?”

“Perfect. Because that’s what I plan on doing.”

“Oh no.” Her father appeared in the doorway. “Not again.”

“I’m afraid so.” Her mother sighed while at the same time turning and offering her cheek to her husband, who swept in and gave her a big, loving kiss. And then another.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he crooned, taking her hand next and kissing it. “You look radiant this morning.”

“Oh, stop it.” Her mother giggled.

“I wish the same could be said of you.” He sat down and looked at Charlotte, one eyebrow raised in judgment. “You look so miserable that one would think you’d gotten word today that your father had died.”

“Clearly not,” Charlotte mumbled under her breath.

“It’s been five days, Charlotte,” her father continued. As he spoke, he took his wife’s hand, holding it close, stroking it gently, apparently unwilling to let go for even an instant. “If His Grace was going to write you, he would have done so by now.”

“You don’t know him like I do,” she said, her stomach twisting at the lie. “He’s stubborn like that. But a few more days…”

“And what?” her mother asked. “You expect him to come crawling? Do you really think he will put himself through that? After you left the way that you did?”

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