Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Miss Sinclair?”
Joan stood at the front of the hall, packing slates and papers while the children gathered their belongings. Her movements were automatic, as though her body operated independently of her mind.
“Miss Sinclair?”
The voice was closer now, more insistent. Joan blinked and looked up to find Imogen standing directly in front of her, concern etched across the girl’s young face. Behind her, Percival and Edmund had also approached, their usual cheerfulness replaced by worry.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Joan said, forcing her lips into a smile that felt like it might crack her face. “What did you ask?”
“I wanted to know when we should submit our assignments,” Imogen said carefully, her eyes searching Joan’s face. “But Miss Sinclair… are you quite well? You look very pale.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Joan lied smoothly.
“Just a bit tired. As for your assignments, please have them ready by Friday.” She straightened and addressed all the children, keeping that false smile firmly in place.
“And I have wonderful news, your holiday will be coming soon. You’ve all worked so hard and deserve a rest.”
I won’t be here to teach you, she thought, pain lancing through her chest. I’ll be in London, married to a man I despise, playing the dutiful wife while he does God knows what.
She had spent the morning making mental plans, lists of what Victoria would need to continue running the school, which parents might be willing to help, how to ensure the children’s education wouldn’t suffer when she was gone.
Victoria was a capable teacher. Timothy would support her.
The school would survive Joan’s absence.
“Goodbye, children,” Joan said, her voice catching slightly despite her efforts to control it. “Study hard, and I’ll see you all on Friday.”
The children filed out, their usual exuberant chatter subdued. They kept glancing back at her with worried expressions, as though they sensed something was terribly wrong but didn’t know how to ask.
Joan waved to them, and the moment they were out of sight, she felt tears begin to burn behind her eyes. She blinked them away furiously.
Don’t you dare cry. You made this choice. Now you live with it.
Last night had been unbearable. After they’d returned to the manor, Joan had gone straight to her room, ignoring Damian’s increasingly desperate pleas for her to talk to him, to explain, to let him find another way.
She had lain beside Victoria all night, pretending to sleep while her sister wept silently into her pillow. Joan had heard every sob, felt every shudder of Victoria’s body, and done nothing. What comfort could she offer?
I’m sacrificing myself so you don’t have to? That would only make Victoria feel worse.
Through the thin walls, she had heard Damian pacing in his room. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal seeking escape.
At dawn, Joan had risen before anyone else stirred.
She had dressed quietly, slipped out of the manor, and walked the two miles to the hall.
She’d left instructions with Sarah to ensure Victoria and Damian slept as long as possible, to give herself a few more hours before she had to face their anguish.
Teaching had been her escape, her refuge. For a few blessed hours, she had been able to focus on the children, on their eager faces and curious questions. She had been able to pretend, just for a little while, that nothing had changed.
But now the children were gone, and reality was crashing back down upon her.
How am I going to tell Damian and Victoria that this is final? That there’s no way out? That I’m going to London to marry Julian Hawthorne?
“Joan.”
The voice came from behind her, familiar, and entirely unexpected.
Joan spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.
Laurence Whitby, Duke of Ashcroft, stood in the doorway of the hall. He was alone, no valet or servants. Just him, watching her with those intense eyes that saw far too much.
No, Joan thought desperately. Not now. I can’t deal with him now.
She turned back to her packing, her movements jerky and too fast. “Your Grace. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly.”
She heard his footsteps as he crossed the room toward her. Her hands trembled as she tried to stack the slates, and one slipped from her grip, clattering to the floor.
The Duke bent and retrieved it, his fingers brushing against hers as he handed it back.
“Can we talk?” His voice was quiet, careful.
Joan inhaled sharply. “I’m rather busy at the moment, ”
“Please.”
The single word, spoken with such gentle insistence, nearly broke her. Joan stopped packing and leaned against the wall, unable to trust her legs to hold her upright much longer.
The Duke made a gesture, and Joan noticed for the first time that his valet had been waiting just outside. The man bowed and disappeared, leaving them alone.
“You look pale,” the Duke observed. “Are you unwell?”
He’s reading me, Joan realized. He can see right through me, and I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him get close.
“I don’t have time for small talk, Your Grace,” she said harshly, making her voice cold.
Instead of recoiling or showing anger at her tone, the Duke’s expression only softened further. “I’ll have my housekeeper prepare some valerian root and chamomile. For sleep. You look as though you haven’t rested properly.”
Joan looked away, unable to bear the concern in his eyes.
He moved closer and gently took her hands in his. Joan’s breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For not telling you that my vision had improved. For maintaining the deception about needing your help with the accounts.”
“It doesn’t matter, ”
“It does matter.” His thumbs stroked across her knuckles. “It was the only way I could think of to keep you coming. To keep you near me. I knew if you realized I could see well enough to manage my own affairs, you would have no reason to visit anymore.”
Joan felt tears threatening again. She tried to pull her hands free, but his grip tightened.
“About Octavia,” he continued, his voice taking on an urgent quality.
“I need you to understand. She’s my best friend’s sister.
A year ago, a man tried to force himself on her at a social gathering.
I intervened. The man challenged me to settle the matter with our fists, but when we met, he brought a pistol instead. ”
The Duke’s jaw clenched at the memory. “He wasn’t practiced with firearms. When he tried to shoot me, the weapon misfired, the powder charge was too heavy, and the barrel exploded. Fragments struck my face, damaging my eyes.”
He brought Joan’s hand to his chest, pressing her palm flat against his heart. She could feel it beating, strong and steady.
“I swear to you,” he said, his voice low and intense, “I don’t see Octavia as anything more than a sister. She had a… misguided infatuation, but I’ve made my feelings clear to her. There is nothing romantic between us. There never has been, and there never will be.”
Joan looked up at him, at his scarred face, at his eyes that gazed at her with such raw sincerity, and she believed him. Every word.
It doesn’t matter, she thought with crushing despair. It’s too late.
She gently tried to extract her hands from his grip.
“Your Grace, ”
“Laurence,” he interrupted. “When we’re alone, call me Laurence.”
“Your Grace,” Joan repeated firmly, “I appreciate you clarifying the situation, but there was no need. Our relationship doesn’t require such explanations.”
She finally succeeded in pulling her hands free and took a step back, wrapping her arms around herself like armor.
“Are you still angry with me? About my vision?”
“I’m not angry.”
“Then why are you pushing me away?”
“I’m getting married.”
The words fell between them like a guillotine blade.
The Duke went absolutely still. The color drained from his face. “What?”
“I’m getting married,” Joan repeated, forcing her voice to remain flat and emotionless. “Thank you for your honesty about Miss St. Vincent, but as I said, there was no need for such clarification. Our arrangement has concluded.”
“Joan, ”
“Since our agreement has ended,” she continued, speaking over him, “I’ll be moving the children out of your hall. I’ll make other arrangements for the school.”
She began gathering her things with sharp, efficient movements. “It’s improper for us to be alone together for so long. Any further communication between us should be conducted through our respective staff.”
She couldn’t risk Julian discovering that the Duke meant anything to her. She couldn’t risk Julian using that knowledge to make things even more difficult, for her sister, for her family.
Better to cut this clean now. Better to end it before it could be used as a weapon.
The Duke stood, his expression shifting from shock to determination. “Fine. I’ll leave for now. But I’ll be back when you’re in a better mood.”
“Your Grace, ”
“I’m not giving up, Joan.” His voice was absolute. “Whatever is happening, whatever you think you have to do, I’m not giving up on you.”
He turned and walked toward the door, his movements stiff and controlled. At the threshold, he paused and looked back.
“I’ll be back,” he said again. “You can count on that.”
Then he was gone, and Joan was alone.
She sank onto one of the benches, her carefully maintained composure finally crumbling. Tears slipped down her cheeks, hot and bitter and unstoppable.
I’m sorry, she thought, though she didn’t know if the apology was meant for the Duke, for her siblings, or for herself. I’m so sorry.
But sorry changed nothing. In a few days, she would go to London. And in three days, she would become Lady Aldridge.
And there was nothing, absolutely nothing, anyone could do to stop it.
Joan stepped through the front door of Fairfax Manor, her footsteps echoing in the quiet entrance hall. The acrid smell of tobacco smoke hit her immediately, and she followed it to the small parlor.