Chapter Eleven
Thornton Hall
West Berkshire
England
It had been three days since he’d spent any significant time with his wife.
After he’d fled from her that morning on the terrace after they’d shared each other’s bodies in such a public manner and something had been stirred deep in his soul.
That had frightened him, and like the coward he was, he’d hidden behind those fears, to lead her to find a life beyond him so he wouldn’t feel disappointment if the budding dreams he envisioned for them as a couple didn’t come to fruition.
Of course, they had no chance of doing so if he constantly ran from her.
Since he’d risen from his bed later than what was customary, he wished to have his usual walk over the acreage. And besides, if he wasn’t in the house, he couldn’t accidentally run into Emma, and neither could she easily track him down.
Had she tried to initiate conversation with him over the past three days? No, she had not, and that fact left him alternately cold with fear and heated with panic. Did that mean she’d finally given up on him, had moved on as he’d told her to?
Is this truly how our union will end?
However, there was another reason for him quitting the inside of the manor.
He’d passed another night locked in nightmares, doing battle with the demons who resided inside his head.
This time, he’d been lost on one of the battlefields in Spain; his regiment had abandoned him, had left him for dead after the cannon ball had exploded into a cart next to him.
But he hadn’t been truly alone, for the ghosts of the men who’d died on those fields crowded around him; some he’d killed, some he hadn’t.
Instead of letting them have at him, he fought, for he didn’t wish to become one of their spectral numbers just yet, not when there was still hope…
…even if it was fading. He’d come awake that morning for the simple fact that he’d fallen out of his bed in an effort to keep the hoard back.
I’m a danger to myself, to say nothing of others.
The blanket of snow had further melted overnight, and as that pristine mantel shrank, more of the winter-brown grass showed through.
A few more early spring flowers had popped up here and there.
The pockets of purple, yellow, and white provided a pleasing contrast to the dullness of winter.
Perhaps he should pick a few of those flowers; Emma would enjoy a posey, wouldn’t she?
He remained on the property for a long time, for when the sun properly rose and he came out of the shadows, that illumination on his face was warm and life-giving, and while he filled his lungs with deep measures of the clean air, he thought about his wife.
Have I made an error in judgment by creating yet another break between us?
The fact remained that Emma had been nothing except accommodating with him since he’d brought her to Thornton Hall.
Any other woman in her place would have dressed him down without prejudice and then commandeered a vehicle to make her way to London.
Instead, she’d decided to fight for him in her own way, regardless that he was at odds with that decision or even in wanting a future with her.
She believed in him, gave him the reassurances he’d constantly needed, and how had he repaid her? By fucking running away.
Not even during his time in the military had he retreated in defeat or embarrassment as he had with his wife multiple times.
Shit, she’d given him a cry for help in how she’d behaved in scandal while in Town.
His solution? To spirit her away to his manor, fuck the hell out of her, and then ignore her.
Again.
I truly don’t deserve her, yet she is much the foundation of my life.
How did one reconcile with that?
On his way back to the manor, his spirit and his intent had been somewhat renewed. As he vowed to himself that he would seek out Emma at the earliest opportunity, he frowned to see a familiar form coming toward him.
What the devil is this, then?
Recognizing the man as the Duke of Galahad, one of the men at his club and the same man who’d wished to have a tryst with Emma the night of Darkemore’s ball, aggravation rose in Cecil’s chest. The sunshine shone off the man’s blond hair beneath his top hat and turned it to molten gold, and the moment the other man saw him, he hailed Cecil as though he weren’t trespassing.
“Thornton!”
He gritted his teeth as he slowed his walk and let the other man come toward him. “Galahad, what a surprise to find you here.” Uninvited and clearly interrupting.
The golden Adonis of both face and form nodded as if Cecil hadn’t just dumped heavy sarcasm on him. “I thought you’d think that, but I came with Ravenhurst. When I discovered he was coming this way, I said I’d tag along.”
“Why?” He didn’t trust the man by half, and why the deuce was Ravenhurst here?
“Isn’t it obvious?” When Cecil remained quiet, not knowing if Galahad referred to his unspoken thought or the reason of the visit, the other man sailed onward, “I’m here to pay a call on the duchess.”
“What?” It didn’t matter that Cecil had never been hit by lightning, but as soon as those words left his club mate’s mouth, the explosion of rage that went through his chest certainly felt as if he had been. One of his hands curled into a fist. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come now, Thornton. Everyone in the beau monde knows you care nothing for her, so I’m here to see how she fairs. We were ready to be quite chummy at Darkemore’s ball.”
He decided to ignore the barb. “Lady Thornton is quite well. Thank you of inquiring.”
But the other man wouldn’t be dissuaded. “Don’t be selfish, Thornton. Everyone in that townhouse saw you carry her away. I rather doubt she’s as well as you claim. Not with the likes of you for a husband.”
His steps slowed as they inched closer to the manor house. “What does that mean?”
“You haven’t exactly been the best husband since you married her.”
“That isn’t for you to say.”
“Perhaps not, but I know there was a genuine connection between the lady and myself that night, and she has the looks of a woman who desperately wants satisfaction of the carnal kind, if you know what I’m saying.”
Another wave of white-hot rage went through Cecil from this man’s audacity. “I’ll wager she is satisfied currently. That being said, I’ll ask that you go on your way.”
“Not until I’ve accomplished my objective.”
“Which is?”
“Convincing you to let the duchess go. Petition for divorce, and set her free so someone else can court her, give her the things as well as presence that you never did.”
That went a step too far. For a moment, a veil of red went over his vision as anger roared into every nerve ending. Complicated emotions rose into his chest in a confusing tide, but he glared at the other man. “I’ll ask you again to leave my property. The duchess is not for you; she is my wife.”
The damned man, perhaps younger than him by a good seven years, didn’t realize the danger he was about to step into. “You certainly haven’t acted like it. Who the hell abandons his wife for nearly two years, and a woman who is as fine as her?”
“Fuck off, Galahad.” Then, because he needed to do something to bring the man to heel, Cecil landed him a facer that broke his nose.
It was quite satisfying to hear the crunch of cartilage and know his face would never be perfect again.
Now he could know at least some of what he—Cecil—wrestled with on a daily basis.
“The duchess isn’t a prisoner here and I’ll caution you to remember that. She can leave if she wishes.”
“Good. Then I’ll ask her to come back to London with me,” the other man said, his words slightly muffled since he held a folded handkerchief to his streaming nose.
It didn’t matter that Cecil had told her exactly that. Hearing the words from his rival, and one as unscarred or unmarked as Galahad, stuck in his craw, made him obstinate.
“Get your arse off my land. If you defy orders and come out here again, I’ll shoot you. And if the ball kills you, so be it.” Then, because he could and he felt he had every right, Cecil took another swing at him.
Unfortunately, Galahad ducked and returned the punch.
His volley caught Cecil in the midsection with another punch falling directly on his chin.
The force of the blow nearly made him bite his tongue.
“If you hurt her, you’ll answer to me, Thornton.
” Despite the drops of blood marring the pristine snowy folds of his cravat, his golden eyes spit fire.
His hands were curled into fists, ready for another skirmish.
Cecil grunted. “I doubt that. I am a true duke, and you need to remember your place in the beau monde. You might be called duke at the club, but your title is quite honorary. I can destroy you in any way I desire.” Since he hadn’t yet vented his whole spleen, he went after the younger man, fully intending to land another couple of punches, but Galahad took off running toward the manor.
Ha. Retreat, you coward.
But wasn’t that exactly what he’d done each time he and Emma made progress? With an odd sense of victory, Cecil loped back to the house. Not only did the rush of superiority fill him, he was randy as hell, for defending her and making a show of his possession had aroused him beyond measure.
Perhaps Emma would be of the same mind.
When he finally arrived in the drawing room, his anger was immediately renewed when he spied his wife talking to yet another man in his own damned house.
On the verge of calling the dark-haired man out, at the last second he stopped himself, for he recognized the Duke of Ravenhurst. Damn, Galahad had mentioned the other man had come with him.
“Uh, welcome Ravenhurst. Why the devil are you here?”
Emma turned at the sound of his voice. As she saw his mussed clothes and the bruise that was no doubt forming on his chin, she shot to her feet with rounded eyes.
“What happened to you?”