Page 66 of His Godsent Duchess
"Not now," Victor said, brushing past him, his focus solely on finding Christina.
"Your Grace," Smith persisted, his voice firm, "Miss Peversly is responsible for Lady Amelia's illness."
Victor halted in his tracks, the words so jarring that for a moment, they didn't make sense. He turned to face Smith, confusion etched on his face. "What are you talking about?"
Smith stood tall, his expression serious. "One of the maids heard Miss Peversly telling another servant what she had done. She lured Lady Amelia away from the group during the walk, sending her back to fetch a fan she claimed she had dropped. That's how Lady Amelia got lost."
Victor stared at him, disbelief coursing through his veins. "Lured her away?" His voice was barely above a whisper, the anger beginning to simmer beneath his skin.
Smith nodded grimly. "Yes, Your Grace. The maid came forward, and we have detained Miss Peversly in the drawing room. She has not denied the accusations."
Victor's mind raced, fury building within him. He could scarcely believe it—Miss Peversly, the woman who had been entrusted with his children's care, had deliberately put his daughter in harm's way. And all this time, Christina had shouldered the blame, believing it was her fault.
Without another word, Victor stormed toward the drawing room, his anger surging with each step. As he entered the room, he found Miss Peversly sitting stiffly in a chair, a footman standing guard beside her. She looked up at him, her face pale, but she maintained a thin veneer of defiance.
Victor approached her, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his voice low and controlled. "Is it true? Did you lure my daughter away?"
Miss Peversly's composure faltered, but she managed a weak nod. "Yes, Your Grace… but I didn't intend for her to become so ill. I only wanted to?—"
"Why?" Victor's voice cut through her excuses, sharp and cold. "Why would you do such a thing?"
She hesitated, her eyes darting away from his. "I did it to undermine the Duchess."
Victor recoiled slightly, his disgust palpable. "Undermine her?Why?"
Miss Peversly broke then, her hands trembling as she pressed them to her face, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Because I love you!" she cried, her voice cracking. "Everything I've done… it was all for you. To prove that I could be what you needed. I was abandoned once—left at the altar by a man who didn't love me. I couldn't bear the thought of it happening again. I needed to show that I was worthy."
Victor stepped back, his stomach churning with revulsion. "You're mad," he said. "You think putting my daughter's life at risk, tearing apart my family, would prove your worth?"
Miss Peversly sobbed, her hands trembling. "I didn't mean for it to go this far. I just… I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to know that I was capable, that I could take care of your children better than her."
Victor stared at her, his anger boiling over. "You did everything wrong," he said through gritted teeth. "And that is no excuse for the way you've treated my wife, my daughters. You will not remain in this house a moment longer."
Miss Peversly's tearful eyes widened in desperation. "But, Your Grace, I?—"
Victor raised his hand, silencing her. "If you ever return, you will have no one but yourself to blame for the consequences."
He motioned to the footman, who stepped forward and took Miss Peversly by the arm. She struggled, still pleading, but Victor had already turned away from her, his mind focused solely on one thing—Christina.
As he stood in the center of the room, the weight of everything that had transpired crashed down on him. He had pushed her away, forced her to believe she wasn't wanted, and now… now she was gone. He had made her believe that his promise to live separately was more important than his love for her. But that couldn't be further from the truth.
He loved her. More than anything. More than he had ever admitted, even to himself.
And now he had to find her. He couldn't let her leave. Not like this.
Without another moment's hesitation, Victor rushed from the drawing room, determined to bring his wife back to the home—and to the heart—where she belonged.
Twenty-Nine
Victor's heart pounded in his chest as he urged his horse through the rain, the downpour drenching him to the bone. The carriage was just ahead, its wheels splashing through the muddy road. He had to catch up—he couldn't let her leave. Not like this. Not when everything was finally clear in his mind.
"Christina!" he shouted, his voice swallowed by the storm. He pushed the horse harder, the rain stinging his face as he finally reached the carriage. With a surge of adrenaline, he leaped from his horse and ran to the driver, shouting for him to stop.
The carriage jolted to a halt, and without a second's hesitation, Victor pulled open the door and climbed inside. Christina sat on the bench, her face pale, her eyes wide with surprise.
He sat down beside her on the front facing scene—while Addison and Annabelle occupied the rear facing, taking her cold hand in his. She flinched slightly but didn't pull away. Her fingers trembled beneath his touch, and he held them tightly, as if holding her hand might keep her from slipping away.
"Come back with me," Victor said, his voice thick with desperation. "Please, Christina. Come home."
