Page 82 of The Scarred Duke's Bride
She came straight at Freya at full tilt. “He won’t wake up!” she yelled, slamming into Freya and putting her arms around Freya’s waist. “I’ve tried everything. I’ve shaken him; I’ve shouted his name…he won’t wake!”
Eric walked around them and calmly down the hall. Freya felt as if her legs could not support her. She wanted to follow him, but her knees were weak, and Isabella was sobbing into her bosom. He walked into the duke’s chambers and closed the door behind him. Minutes later, he emerged, his face pale but composed. Catching her eye, he shook his head slowly.
He walked up to them and took her hands. “My sincerest condolences for your loss,” he said quietly.
Freya blinked at him, unable for a moment to make sense of his words.
What does he mean? Is Father dead?
She was suffused with an odd sense of disbelief. How could this be? She realized that she’d always viewed her father as sort of an invincible being, and maybe she’d never believed he would actually die.
She felt very lost and alone.
Eric squeezed her hand. “Would you like to see him before I call the undertakers?”
She swallowed hard, pondering the question.
Do I want to see him? Or do I prefer to remember him as he was?
She took a breath, realizing that if she did not see him now, she would never believe he was dead. Jerkily, she nodded. Looking down into Isabella’s eyes, she pushed her sister away gently. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Don’t leave me,” Isabella begged.
“I won’t. I promise. One moment, and I’ll be back.” She rubbed Isabella’s arms, realizing that her sister was shaking. She looked to Eric, “Would you stay with her?”
He nodded quietly. “Of course,” he replied, and came to stand by Isabella’s side.
Slowly, Freya made her way down the hall; every step seemed heavier and filled with dread. She was afraid of what she would do when she saw her father.
Will I run mad from the sight? Will I be able to stand it?
Her heart thundered in her chest as she reached for the door handle. As she twisted it, opened the door, and stepped into the room, she felt the last of her childhood slough off at the threshold to be left forever on the other side of these chambers.
Her father lay still on the bed, his head turned to one side, lips turning blue. She gasped, doubling over and clutching her stomach as if the pain might be contained there. A wave of nausea rolled through her, and she had to take a few deep breaths to calm herself down.
Finally, she walked slowly over to the bed and looked down at her father. His thinning hair fell in wisps across his face, and his arms, so frail, the veins prominent, lay prone against his chest. “Oh Papa," she said with despair and was surprised to find that she did not feel like crying. Everything was numb, distant — she watched herself reach out to take his cooling hand, squeeze it, and put it back gently on his chest. Next thing she knew, she was walking out of the room.
She went straight to Isabella and hugged her.
“I shall go and make some arrangements. Excuse me,” Eric said with a bow and a small rub to her back. Freya made no reply, her head buried in Isabella’s neck.
* * *
As he watched the hearse pass by bearing his late father-in-law, Eric realized that it was the end. There was no longer anyone to force them to be together. No grandchild to be had out of obligation. He could choose to continue to detain Freya in the marriage, or he could let her go.
He knew which he wanted to do, and which one was the right thing.
Not now. We still have to get through the funeral and the reading of the will.
ChapterThirty-One
Freya wondered when this feeling of numbness would leave her. While her sister had cried buckets of tears at the funeral, the best she could do was to bow her head, one hand holding on to Isabella’s. William had looked more distressed than she felt — though she suspected that Eric’s sweet brother was concerned for them rather than particularly affected by the duke’s death.
Still, she felt exhausted and wrung out as she lay on the chaise in their chambers, waiting for Eric to come to bed. She felt a strong need for his presence, his arms around her. She was surprised when she had to wait until almost midnight for him to come to bed. When he opened the door, he staggered slightly, and she could smell the whisky he’d consumed from across the room.
She sat up, staring at him. “Are you all right?” she asked.
He stared blearily at her, blinking a few times. “Are you not asleep?”
