Page 25 of The Duke of Ruin
He lifted a shoulder. “Regardless of what I may pretend, I am who I am, and I can’t run away from being a duke.” Nor could he run away from being the Duke of Ruin. Unfortunate as it may be, thatwashis identity.
“And here I thought there was nothing more confining than being a woman.”
He laughed then, because of the irony in her tone. “I would argue that there isn’t. I may be tied to a dukedom, but really, there are far worse things.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, turning her head to look out the window.
Damn. He wanted to ask what those things might be, certain that she’d experienced some of them, but wasn’t sure she’d answer. They were getting closer, perhaps, to such revelations.
After another minute, she looked back at him. “Tell me about yourrealestate.”
“Lyndhurst? It’s, ah, quite a bit larger than Byrd’s fictional home.”
“How large?”
“Forty-seven thousand acres.”
Her eyes rounded. “My goodness. I didn’t realize. Usually a peer’s wealth is roundly discussed or at least speculated about.” Her gaze flicked away, and he sensed she wished she hadn’t said that.
He didn’t want her to censor herself. He was sure he’d heard every bad thing that could be said about him. In fact, some of the worst were things he’d said himself. “But not with me. Because of my reputation. No one cares about my wealth, not when they think I’m a murderer. Apparently, there is a line some won’t cross when it comes to seeking power and privilege.”
“You aren’t a murderer.”
There it was. People sometimes said that to him, but more often they simply avoided the topic as if they might somehow catch it, like an ague. As if discussing it could result in their death too.
“You don’t know that,” he said softly. “Idon’t know that.” He turned his head toward the window and stared out at the passing hedges. The sky was gray, a bit darker than yesterday. In fact, the clouds were dark enough that he began to worry about precipitation. That wouldn’t be good.
“How long have you been the duke?”
She’d decided on avoidance. He couldn’t blame her. He tried not to bring it up, truly, but it was sometimes impossible. He was, as he’d noted earlier, the Duke of Ruin, the man who’d killed his wife and unborn child and didn’t remember a bit of it.
“Four years.”
“What happened to your father?” she asked.
Simon thought back to that dark period. It had been the worst time of his life, but paled in comparison to what had happened just a couple of years later. “He died suddenly—an accident. He’d been out touring the estate with the steward. His horse went lame, throwing him, and he had the grave misfortune to crack his head on a rock.” He’d died instantly, according to Nevis, and grief had stolen over Lyndhurst.
“How awful. Were you close?”
“Yes, I suppose we were.” But Simon knew he’d disappointed his father a bit, that his indulgences had exceeded even what the former duke had expected when he’d advised his son to sow his wild oats. When his father died, Simon had gone from the Marquess of Lyndhurst, rakehell extraordinaire, to Duke of Romsey, and there had been no question that he would leave his raffish behavior behind and somberly focus on becoming the duke. Simon had been committed to preserving his father’s legacy. So he’d gone home, finished his education of managing the estate that his father had started, and soothed his mother. His sisters, married by then but still distraught, hadn’t required his attention. As they were seven and nine years older than him, they’d never been particularly close.
“Is your mother still with you?”
“She’s still alive, yes.” But she wasn’t “with” him. She’d abandoned him completely after Miriam’s death.
Though he tried not to think of his wife, she was always somewhere in the back of his mind. This conversation brought her to the forefront, sharpening the pain that was always buried within his heart.
After mastering the estate, he’d turned his focus to finding a duchess. When the London Season earned him nothing for his trouble, he’d gone back to Hampshire. It was that summer, when he’d attended a local assembly, that he’d met her—Miriam. With her pale gray eyes, honey-blonde hair, and winsome smile, she’d stolen his heart. He’d never met anyone so sweet or kind or loving. They’d married that fall, and for the next year, he’d inhabited a state of bliss he’d never thought possible. He allowed the memory of that joy to wash over him, closing his eyes lest he spring too quickly into what had come next—unimaginable misery and sorrow.
“Do you want to sleep?” she asked, startling him from his reverie.
He was grateful for the interruption before he could tumble headfirst into the abyss of the past. “No. I was just thinking.” Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. Now she’d ask.
She moved her feet from the warming box. “About your family.”
He exhaled in relief, glad she hadn’t asked about Miriam. But why would she? He made sure everyone knew he believed himself responsible for her death. That shocked and frightened them, and they never broached the subject with him again. Except for Nick, but his best friend had learned to curb his inquiries. Instead, he offered silent support, for it was the only thing Simon would allow.
He yawned then, and Diana swung her gaze to his. “Are you sure you don’t want to sleep?”
