Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Iam a stranger in my own home, Hugo thought to himself as he fastened the last buckle of his boot. I cannot stand to be here one more second.
The sun was a faint light in the waking sky when he slipped out of the townhouse. He moved like a ghost, his steps silent on the stairs, each movement precise and controlled.
He had to escape the very air Elspeth breathed, an air that felt thick with her scent, the lingering echo of her delight at the most successful event the townhouse had ever hosted.
He was displaced by a woman who had, in a matter of weeks, managed to completely dismantle the quiet, ordered world he had built. That he depended on.
It is her, all of it. Her laughter, her fierce determination, the way she looks at me as if I am a puzzle she is determined to solve. She has taken over everything—my routine, my thoughts, even the very scent of my home. I cannot breathe in my own home without thinking of her.
He could not bear to see her face, that he knew. He had excused himself before the conclusion of the party, and he was glad that the guests had been too distracted to notice.
Her skin would be radiant with the triumph of the night before, her emerald-green eyes extraordinarily bright. It was a triumph he had helped her achieve, he knew that. It was a victory that would ultimately remind her that this London sojourn, this entire competition, was just a means to an end.
Elspeth was now a step closer to a new marriage, a new life without him.
He had seen the happiness in her eyes as she sauntered around the room, the genuine joy that came from the recognition she had earned. It had been a dagger to his heart.
It was easier to run than to face the wreckage he had made, the emotional debris left behind by his clumsy attempts to help her while simultaneously pushing her away.
I should have stayed in the damn study, buried myself in the ledgers until dawn. But then I would only be a floor away from her, and the guests would surely have talked.
The house is not big enough for both of us. Not anymore. I am a coward, running away from some harmless nymph before the sun is even up. A duke afraid of a widow with a laugh that could shatter stone, and a will of iron.
He reached the front door and let himself out into the crisp, pre-dawn air. The city was just beginning to stir, the rhythmic sound of hooves on cobblestones as a lone carriage trundled down the street.
What would my father say? He would say I am making a fool of myself. Again.
He had no destination in mind, only the desperate need to put distance between them.
He walked on, the silent streets a temporary escape, but even there, in the quiet solitude of the early morning, he could not escape the haunting memory of her smile.
It was everywhere. When he closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes. In the pale light of the streetlamps that were being extinguished. The cool kiss of the air that somehow smelled like her. And, most of all, in the frantic beat of his heart.
What a bloody mess. And I have no one to blame but myself. Play with fire, and you will get burned.
“Oh, Verity,” Elspeth sobbed, the dam she had been holding back finally breaking. “I ruined everythin’, and I dinnae ken how.”
She had spent the morning after the charity event in a quiet, tearful haze.
Her victory felt hollow, the praise she had earned so empty.
She left Arrowfell House just after breakfast, and before she knew where her feet were taking her, she found herself at Verity’s door.
She collapsed into her friend’s open arms the moment the door was closed.
Verity led her to a comfortable settee in the receiving room, wrapping her own shawl around Elspeth’s shoulders.
“Tell me everything,” she said gently. “How can you be so forlorn after a most perfect event? I know you were tired; that was plain when we ushered you up to your room, but that is to be expected. You are the talk of the ton!”
“It is hard to explain,” Elspeth whispered between sobs.
“I knew there was more to this. What is it?!”
“It is… it is…”
“It is him, is it not? I knew it,” Verity sighed. “What has happened? I noticed he was not by your side, nor did I see much of him last night. Why did you not tell me then?”
“I daenae ken where to begin. It is all so…”
“Complicated?”
“Aye.”
“I can understand complicated. Talk to me, Elspeth.”
“Just before the event, we shared a special night together. Everythin’ seemed to be fallin’ into place, much as I never saw it happenin’ with him. I felt so vulnerable with him, but safe. I cannae explain it.”
“Keep talking. I am listening, my dear.”
“But then the next mornin’, I had a most brutal breakfast,” Elspeth continued, accepting the handkerchief Verity offered her. “He told me if I cannae secure a match to me likin’, he will send me back to Inverhall, and with an allowance for the rest of me days.”
“Why does this sadden you? You do have feelings for him, don’t you? So strong that they cloud the most triumphant charity event.”
Elspeth confessed her feelings for Hugo, the raw, aching love that had blossomed despite her best efforts to contain it, to reject it.
Verity listened intently, saying nothing. When Elspeth finished, a silence hung in the air, broken only by her soft sniffles.
“He is an idiot if he cannot see what is right in front of him,” Verity huffed. “A complete and utter fool.”
Elspeth managed a weak, watery smile. “I ken. But then why does it still hurt so much? Why is he doin’ this? I ken he feels it too, but he is too stubborn, too proud.”
“He thinks he is protecting you by pushing you away,” Verity explained.
“He does not see that he is only hurting you more. And himself.” She took Elspeth’s hand, her grip warm and reassuring.
“You have not ruined anything. He has. And you are not a prize to be won or a widow to be discarded. You are Elspeth, and you are magnificent. He is the one missing out.”
“Thank ye, Verity,” Elspeth said with a small smile. “And I hate to be so forward, but do you have any of those lovely macarons?”
“Let me ring for them! And how about some warm milk to go with it?”
“Ye have read me mind. I am so glad I came here, Verity.”
“Another one, Your Grace?” the barkeep asked, wiping a dirty dishrag along his sweaty brow.
“Keep them coming,” Hugo responded sharply, throwing coins on the table. “I will tell you when I am done.”
He had found himself in a dimly lit inn on the outskirts of London later that afternoon, after aimlessly wandering the streets.
A mug of ale was his only company, which was fine with him.
He drank it steadily, the bitter liquid doing little to numb the sharp ache in his chest. At least it filled his empty stomach more than liquor would.
He did not see Aaron approach until he was already standing beside him.
“Thought I might find you here when your butler told me you were not at the townhouse,” Aaron said. “Hiding away, Your Grace?”
Hugo grunted, taking another long sip. “Leave it alone, Haynes.”
“I cannot do that. Not this time.” Aaron pulled up a chair and sat down, his gaze fixed on him. “You are doing to her what he did to you. You are shutting her out, shipping her off.”
The words were a punch to the gut.
Hugo’s hand tightened around the mug. “Do not go there.”
“No,” Aaron insisted, his voice low. “You need to hear it. You are running from your feelings and your past, and it is going to turn you into your father. Do not be so cold that you shut out the world. You are going to blink, and suddenly you will be a bitter, lonely old man who chooses duty over everything else. You are going to end up just like him.”
The mug rattled as Hugo slammed it down on the table. He said nothing.
“You are allowed to want something real, Hugo,” Aaron pushed.
“For once in your life, let yourself be happy. Let yourself want something just for you. Something beautiful.” He stood up and threw a few coins on the table.
“She is not Mary. And you are not him, at least not yet. Do not ruin your life because of a ghost.”
Silence hung in the air. Hugo still could not bring himself to respond. He simply stared off into the distance.
Aaron clapped him on the shoulder, and then he was gone, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the mug of bitter ale.
The quiet of the nearly empty inn was deafening, filled with the echo of his friend’s words and whispers of his past.
A ghost.
Hugo was still lost in his thoughts when a voice, light and melodic, cut through the haze. “A man as handsome as you should not be drinking alone.”
He did not turn around at first, the words barely registering. He simply stared at the amber liquid in his mug. He heard the rustle of a dress, and a moment later, a woman slid into the chair Aaron had just vacated.
He finally looked up, and his breath hitched.
She had the same fine bone structure, the same hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth, and long red hair. She looked… she looked like Mary. Not exactly, but enough to make the air in his lungs grow thin.
What is it with me and ghosts?
“I prefer my own company,” he gritted out.
He turned back to his drink, his hand trembling slightly.
The woman laughed, a sound that grated on his nerves. He hated being laughed at more than anything.
“A man of few words, I see. My name is Maria. And you are?”
“Occupied.” He lifted the mug to his lips, but his mind was a whirlwind.
Mary.
He saw her face, laughing at him from across a ballroom on the evening they had first met all those years ago. She was teasing him about his serious nature, all but throwing herself at him. He had been so young then.
He remembered the feel of her hand in his, the promise of a future that had been stolen away. His father had seen to that.
“Occupied with what?” the woman pressed, leaning forward, her gaze intense as she showcased her cleavage. “Surely not with that sad ale.”
“It is fine company,” Hugo said, a sharp edge to his voice.
He wanted her to leave, to disappear so he could return to the numbness. He did not want to see Mary’s ghost on this woman’s face. He did not want to be reminded of the past he had so desperately tried to escape.
She reached across the table and placed a delicate hand over his. “You look like a man who needs cheering up. I can be very good company. I am told I have a way with melancholy men.”
He flinched at her touch, pulling his hand away as if burned. “Please, leave me be. Do you have any idea who you are speaking with?”
“Too fancy for a bit of fun?” she asked, pouting her lips. “Are you waiting for someone? Another woman who is keeping you all to herself? Lucky lady.”
Hugo’s mind immediately conjured an image of Elspeth. Her curly, dark hair, her emerald-green eyes, the taste of her.
“She is too far above me,” he muttered, more to himself than to the woman.
“So, you are waiting for someone,” Maria said triumphantly. “And she is not here. What a waste. A waste of a lovely evening, and a waste of a lovely man. I am here, right now.” Her fingers brushed against his again, and he had to fight the urge to recoil from her.
“Nothing compares to her,” he forced out. “You are wasting your time. Be gone.”
“Oh?” she murmured, a hint of challenge in her voice. “Is she so very different from me? So very beautiful?”
Hugo looked at her, at the face that reminded him so much of a woman he had once loved, but the resemblance was only skin deep.
Mary had been a whisper, a fleeting dream. Elspeth was a force of nature, a gale that had swept into his life and rearranged everything.
Elspeth was real. She was alive. She was passion and stubbornness and compassion all rolled into one. She was the one who had seen past his walls, who had not been afraid of his darkness.
“She is more beautiful than you could possibly imagine,” he said, the words coming out as a choked confession.
He dropped a few coins onto the bar and walked out of the inn and into the cool night air.
Oh, Elspeth, will you ever forgive me?