Page 42 of A Bride for the Icy Duke
“Oh, loneliness, I suppose. After my mother died, I was a very lonely child. I did my best not to be, of course, and I had my friends, but within the house, I felt as though I was cherished in theory. In practice, I was yet another consideration for my father.” She toyed with the lace of her sleeve. “He loved me, and we rubbed along tolerably well in the latter stages of his life, but our early years together were… difficult.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“I suppose many people suffer very similar things. And truly, it’s all right. I was not desperately unhappy for most of my life, and what little discontent I felt, I could escape through books. Truly, it wasn’t so bad.” She offered him a smile, but he merely watched her, something brooding in his expression. “And once I arrived here, I found all these books. And such a delightful room to read them in.”
“Why don’t you hate me?” he asked shortly.
“Excuse me?”
“You were lonely and sad and had to take refuge in books because, as you so aptly pointed out, I abandoned you. Ergo, why don’t you hate me?”
I did. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to say them. Had resentment ever tipped quite into hatred? Perhaps, if he had not saved her as a child, it might have done, but there was always the hope within her that she would find that boy again. And he had saved her. Saved her, moreover, with kindness. Not with duty, but with compassion.
No, she had never hated him.
So, she rose and kneeled by his feet, looking up into his face. “Because I see you,” she breathed, taking his hand and bringing it to her cheek. “And I know you are fighting your own demons. We all have our monsters to vanquish. I just wish, Alexander, that you would let me take arms against yours.”
He stood, abruptly, a storm in his eyes. Her hand dropped limply to her lap as he paced to the door, suddenly filled with restless energy. It burst from him in waves. Restless energy, and a self-hatred that made her sick to the core.
“You deserve far better than I,” he muttered, wrenching the library door open. “And I wish you could understand that as well as I do.”
Lydia prided herself on her patience, but as she stared out of the window after Alexander’s disappearing figure in the rain, she knew she would not be able to sit around and wait for him to return.
Philips appeared beside her. “It is my duty to recommend you remain inside, ma’am.”
“And it ismyduty as his wife to go after him.”
“Let her go, Philips,” Mrs. Jones said. “But you take a coat now, Your Grace.”
“I expect he has gone to the lakehouse,” Oliver added reluctantly.
Lydia didn’t so much as wait to change into her boots before she ran out into the rain. The lashes lanced her face, dripping immediately into her eyes, and the chill rocked through her. Butthis was not merely Alexander’s domain now—it was hers. The lakehouse was perched by the lake—though by her reckoning it was more of a pond—and she had kept her distance until now, thanks to her memory of entering the freezing water of her own accord.
Today, however, she didn’t think of the past. She didn’t even think of her resentment, her frustration, her anger. Not even her goals for the future. All she thought of was the expression of pain across Alexander’s face and the tone of his voice when he told her that she deserved better than him.
Typical of a man to think he could decide what she did or didn’t deserve.
By the time the lakehouse came into sight, her hair was drenched through, and her skirts caught damply around her legs. Her pelisse, no matter how fashionable, had not been designed for a downpour, and she was soaked to the bone. Shivering, she burst through the door and surveyed the wooden interior. The room itself had been set up to be a comfortable space, but this was her first time viewing it.
There was nothing here.
She twisted, skirts catching against her legs, and she might have given up entirely if she hadn’t seen another door at the far side of the room.
Water dripped from her sodden clothes as she strode to the ajar door and flung it open.
A porch overlooking the lake greeted her, and there, standing in the midst of the rain like a supplicant, stood Alexander. His blonde hair was plastered to his face, and his wide shoulders were curved. But it was anger in his face when he turned to face her.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” he snarled.
Lydia refused to be cowed. “Why did you run?”
“That is none of your business.”
“I am your wife. Your business is mine.” She took a step closer.
“My wife in name only. You know as well as I do that we didn’t choose each other.”
The words stung, but she didn’t let it show on her face. “And so what?” she demanded. “You are determined to be cruel to me, and to end our arrangement as soon as you can?”
