Page 93 of The Duke's Unclaimed Bride
Edith seemed to have followed suit. The only noise he heard from her was quiet conversations with the staff or her playing the piano for Tilly’s dance lessons.
Work was not a distraction from the deafening silence. Every time he picked up his quill, he could only think of Tilly and her mishap with the ink. When he looked at the ledgers and pages, they would blur before him. Any sound from outside his study reminded him that his wife and daughter were still out there. Without him.
He had no right to think of them in that way anymore.
This is the only way to keep them safe from me.This is for the best.
He had been telling himself that several times a day. Perhaps if he said it enough, he would start believing it.
Today was no different. He had been trying to respond to letters sent since the event. Letters from James asking about his well-being. One from Lord Hargrove demanding compensation. Others from guests inquiring about Edith’s charity and his well-being.
The quill slipped from his hand, spreading ink across the page, and he groaned. He pulled back from his desk and walked over to the fire. It had been on most days, as his study began feeling colder and colder. It was hard to say if that was from a change in the weather or the consequences of his actions.
He needed to breathe, but every part of his life had been suffused with the presence of Edith and Tilly. He couldn’t even sit in his chambers without thinking about the nights he spent with Edith, or the nights he read to Tilly. Neither had come to disturb him. He hadn’t heard Tilly’s giggles or Edith’s soothing voice.
All at once, he was aware of how deeply empty his life was. Before, he could have convinced himself that this was just how life was and that he was being foolish. Now, the dark void opened before him, and he could see it had no end.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. This was ridiculous. He was a duke. Self-control and patience were assumed traits. And yet here he was, practically breaking down because of his own actions, all because his wife and daughter would not bother him?
Mere months ago, he would have been rejoicing, but not any longer. He hated that he still felt the need to protect them. Even though he knew he was right, the depth of his pain didn’t seem worth it.
Worse still, the repercussions of his punching Lord Hargrove were starting to spread. One maid had informed him that his invitation to an event next month had been revoked. Edith hadn’t collected even half the donations that people had promised her.
Somewhere out there, Lord Hargrove and Lord Harrington were probably laughing together.
He had humiliated himself and Edith.
Tilly had run away from him, sobbing.
He had punched a man into a bloody mess in front of the ton.
The ton would remember. They always did. His actions that night had come at a great cost to Edith and her charitable efforts. Who knew how all of this would affect Tilly, especially when she was older and had her debut? Would she even be able to find asuitable match with him as her caretaker? Would any man want to be the son-in-law of a beast like him?
He could not keep holding back his family like this.
He would become distant. At least then, Tilly and Edith could use that distance to their advantage. People would take pity on the wife and adopted daughter of a neglectful duke. Sympathy was a powerful tool.
If he needed to remove himself from their lives, that was what he would do. Even if it killed him.
He sighed and returned to his desk. Picking up the parchment, he tried to make sense of what was needed of him.
As he shifted in his chair, he knocked over a book, which then knocked over a stack of vellum that cascaded across his desk. He let out a long, frustrated groan.
This was not helping.
He began to clean up the mess but abruptly stopped. Amongst the mess was the sketch Tilly had made of him as an apology.
Tears filled his eyes as he stared at her messy linework.
He picked it up, touched the image reverently, then opened the bottom drawer where he’d stored his mother’s plate, and placed the drawing with it. He would not let himself ruin that, too.
He returned to silently cleaning up the mess, ignoring his damp cheeks.
Was this really how he would have to live for the rest of his life?
CHAPTER 18
Edith sat in the townhouse’s parlor and watched the rain pour.
