Page 86 of A Sinful Virgin for the Duke

Frederick’s expression tightened at the mention of his grandmother. He could still see her disappointed gaze and hear her words from that night.

He shook his head, hating the helplessness that had taken root inside of him. “And what would you have me do? Write her a letter? I doubt she would even bother to read it.”

Andrew sighed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, a letter, you oaf. Women enjoy letters. A simple inquiry into her well-being would be a start. Might just be the olive branch you need.”

Frederick snorted, though the idea took root in his mind, a sliver of hope he couldn’t quite ignore. He was about to respond when the hounds suddenly burst forward, catching a scent. The deer, alerted to the presence of hunters, darted out from behind a grove of trees, and Frederick and Andrew spurred their horses, racing after it.

The thrill of the hunt surged through Frederick as Arrow leapt forward, his muscles taut and powerful under Frederick’s command. He could feel the wind against his face, and the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he focused on themovement of the deer, watching its sleek form as it wove through the forest.

Andrew was beside him, his bow drawn, and with a steady aim he released an arrow, striking the deer cleanly. The animal stumbled and dropped, collapsing into the damp leaves. Frederick slowed Arrow to a halt, his gaze fixed on the still form of the animal as the servants approached to dress the deer.

But as he dismounted and drew closer, something in the creature’s lifeless eyes stirred an unsettling feeling within him. The dark, vacant gaze mirrored the haunted look he had seen in Gemma’s eyes that last night in the gardens, full of hurt and betrayal.

The image settled heavily in his chest, a sense of hollowness overtaking the thrill of the hunt. He felt a bitter ache, as though something vital had been lost, left bleeding and mortally wounded. The servants set to work on the deer, flashes of steel entering the animal’s hide. Frederick could hardly stand to look.

Andrew glanced at him, his gaze shrewd as he noticed the change in Frederick’s expression. “Fred? You look as if you have just seen a ghost.”

Frederick shook his head, forcing himself to step back, his face a mask of indifference. “It’s nothing. I am fine.”

But Andrew wasn’t convinced, his gaze lingering. “Perhaps that letter is not such a ridiculous idea after all, is it?”

Frederick’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, watching as the servants finished their work, the blood staining the forest floor a stark red against the fading leaves.

When Andrew mounted his horse again he clapped Frederick on the shoulder, his gaze sympathetic. “Think about it, Fred. And if you cannot do it for yourself, then do it for her.”

Frederick nodded mutely, his gaze lingering on the path ahead, his heart heavy as he remounted Arrow. The thrill of the hunt, the sense of purpose that had once driven him, felt meaningless now.

All he could see was the pain in Gemma’s eyes, and how her absence would overshadow the days and years that stretched gloomily before him.

CHAPTER 33

The inclement weather matched Frederick’s mood. A grey and somber sky threatened rain, the clouds heavy and low as he walked through the estate grounds toward the family graveyard.

His letter to Gemma remained unanswered, days passing slowly without even a hint of a response. Her continued silence consumed him.

Today of all days, the constant hollow ache in his chest seemed unbearable. The anniversary of Helen’s death loomed over him with a heavy shadow, and the thought of Helen, her bright eyes and laughter snuffed out far too early, stung him in ways he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for a long time.

He paused at the entrance to the graveyard, his heart tightening at the sight of his grandmother already kneeling by Helen’s grave, arranging a small bouquet of pale lilies—their sister’s favorite flowers.

She wore her grief quietly, a touch of sadness softened by the grace that always accompanied her, but Frederick saw the way her hand lingered over Helen’s name, the tremble as she brushed a finger across the carved letters.

The Dowager Duchess looked up as he approached, her gaze filled with unspoken words. She rose carefully, leaning on her cane as she nodded in greeting, her voice soft and tender.

“Frederick.”

“Grandmother,” he replied, bowing his head slightly, his voice rougher than usual. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but her eyes told him that words would be unnecessary, perhaps even unwelcome.

For a moment, they stood together in silence, the chill of the wind rustling the fallen leaves around them. She placed a gloved hand gently on his arm, squeezing it with a strength that belied her years.

“I will leave you with her,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. She lingered, her gaze holding his, and Frederick could see a trace of sadness there that was reserved solely for him. “Take your time.”

Frederick nodded, feeling a pang of regret for the hurt he had caused her by sending Gemma away. He knew his grandmother had seen something in Gemma that no other woman possessed; something she had longed to see in him, too, perhaps. But he held his silence as she turned and made her way back downthe path, her small figure disappearing into the misty shroud of trees.

He kneeled beside Helen’s grave, running his fingers over the delicate carvings, the memories of their childhood flooding back to him. Her laughter, her defiance, and her joy that had once made Blackridge feel like a true home. It had been over a decade, but the pain was as raw as ever.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, the words breaking through the tightness in his chest. “If I could change things… if I could bring you back, I would. Every day I think of what he did to you—of what I let happen.”

The quiet was thick, the words echoing through his mind with each breath, each one laden with shame, with anger, and with a yearning that had no end. He leaned against the cold stone, feeling an emptiness that went beyond grief and guilt.

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