Page 88 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
Emma frowned. “What fire?”
His arms suddenly went about her, drawing her close and his head lowered beside hers. This time, she did not draw back. Despite herself, she breathed him in. Over his own scent was the pungent tang of woodsmoke and gunpowder. But it washim, nonetheless.
Brushing his forehead lightly against hers, he began. “Our father was a tyrant. After our mother died, he spiraled deeper. Outwardly, he was respected by all. In private, he was a drunk bastard and a brute. I bear the scars of his beatings but Harry received worse. For… for trying to shield me as I was the younger.
“One day, at a house our father owned in London, a fire started. Our father was drunk, again, and neglected a candle before he fell asleep. A breeze from an open window fanned the flame and it set fire to curtains. Thence to the room in which my father slept. I awoke first. I could have saved my father but not Harold too. I chose my brother. Geoffrey Fitzgerald, Duke of Redmane never awoke.”
The wind stirred the roses behind them. Emma didn’t speak, couldn’t. She watched him—this man she had married, war-forged and cold-tempered, now looking like he had been broken long ago and never quite put back together properly.
He continued. “He… he never recovered fully. Not physically. Not in his mind. Smoke damaged his lungs, and fire stole whatever comfort he had in light or warmth. When the title passed to him, he said he couldn’t bear the weight. That he would rather die than be paraded before society as its noble ghost...”
“And so you became Duke,” Emma finished.
“I didn’t want it either.” He laughed—short, bitter. “But one of us had to claim that bastardized legacy. Or the vultures would parade it as if it meant something”
“So you have hidden him for all those years…?”
They both jolted as another blast rang out. Damien looked toward the sound of the gunshot. Charles had missed again.
“Come, Charles can continue to practice on his own for a while,” she murmured.
Taking his hand, she led him into the manor and toward the bifurcated staircase.
“Harold is dying. He collapsed,” she pressed. “Whatever arrangement you once had—it is killing him. You cannot call that mercy.”
Damien’s shoulders fell as he let himself be drawn. “I told him. I told him the tower was too cold, too dark. That he needed morethan books and that damned violin. But he wouldn’t have it. He is terrified of flames. If I build the fire up, he smothers it. Or tosses the firewood out of the window into the woods.
“We agreed that he would live in secret at Redmane, unknown even to the servants. But now that the secret has finally been revealed, truthfully, I am glad. Harry will have the responsibilities of the Dukedom and we can share the burden of what is to come.”
Emma shook her head. “I am not sure he will be able to. The man I saw was very weak and very ill.”
“Then what do you want from me?” Damien groaned, bitterly.
“I want you to stop pretending this doesn’t matter.”
She stopped walking and turned on him, until there was barely a breath between them. Her voice dropped, soft and fierce.
“I want the man I married to stop hiding. From me. From himself. From his past.”
His chest rose, then fell. A long silence passed. Then another.
And finally, as if unspooling from the quiet, he whispered, “You weren’t supposed to see it. You weren’t supposed to know. I never meant to drag you into that part of my world.”
Emma’s hand found his. “Then stop keeping me at its edge.”
They stood like that for a moment longer—too many things unsaid, but enough understood.
They reached the secret room not a moment too late and Damien's eyes filled with tears at the sight of his brother. He bent to lift him in his arms, carrying him out of the room and down the stairs.
“He shall have the Duke's quarters. I should never have agreed to this. It ends here. The world will know that Harold Fitzgerald, the rightful Duke of Redmane, is alive.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Ido not want you present at a duel. It is not appropriate for a woman. Besides which, you may witness your own brother's death,” Damien barked as he strode across the stable yard.
Emma followed close on his heels, skirts lifted just enough to keep pace. The sun had not yet risen; the world around them was painted in shades of pewter and ash. A hush lay over Redmane Park like the held breath of a false dawn. Only the scent of dew-soaked hay and the distant clatter of hooves broke the silence.
Except, it was not the peaceful sort.
