Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“He’s gone to London again, Your Grace.”
Cressida looked up from the correspondence she’d been attempting to compose—a letter to Harriet that had languished half-written for three days.
Mrs. Agnes stood in the doorway of the morning room, her expression carrying the particular blend of sympathy and exasperation that had become familiar over the past fortnight.
“I see.” Cressida set down her pen with deliberate care. “When might His Grace return?”
“Late tomorrow evening, he said. Meeting with Lord Whitebrook regarding estate matters.” The housekeeper moved into the room, ostensibly to check the fire, though her true purpose was clearly to offer comfort through proximity.
Two weeks. Cressida had been the Duchess of Ashmere for precisely two weeks, and in that time she’d seen more of the castle’s portraits than her own husband.
Theodore rose before dawn for what the servants delicately termed “his morning exercise,” took breakfast in his study, and retired well past midnight after she’d already sought her bed.
The few times their paths had crossed in corridors, he’d offered curt nods and polite evasions before disappearing into whichever room she wasn’t occupying.
“Estate matters,” she repeated, not bothering to disguise the skepticism in her voice. “How very pressing they must be.”
Mrs. Agnes’s mouth twitched with what might have been approval. “Indeed, Your Grace. Though if I may be so bold, His Grace has managed the estate quite capably for seventeen years without requiring weekly consultations in London.”
The validation eased something in Cressida’s chest. At least she wasn’t imagining the avoidance or constructing abandonment from ordinary ducal business.
“Thank you for informing me, Mrs. Agnes.”
After the housekeeper withdrew, Cressida finished her letter and handed it to a passing footman in the corridor to post it to Harriet.
Then, she moved to the window. The morning stretched before her with the same oppressive emptiness as all the others—hours to fill in a castle that felt less like a home and more like an exquisitely appointed cage.
She’d explored the library until she could navigate its shelves blindfolded, walked the gardens until even their beauty felt monotonous, and learned the names and history of servants who seemed more invested in her happiness than her own husband.
Anything to occupy the relentless march of time in a marriage that existed only on paper and in the eyes of the law.
The sound of voices drifted up from the courtyard below.
Cressida leaned closer to the glass and saw Molly conversing with one of the footmen, their heads bent together in obvious conspiracy.
Even the servants had formed stronger connections with one another than she’d managed with the man whose name she now bore.
“Your Grace?”
She turned to find Molly in the doorway, slightly breathless as though she’d run up the stairs.
“Molly. I thought I just saw you in the courtyard.”
The maid had the grace to look abashed. “Mrs. Agnes sent me up, Your Grace. She wondered if you might like a tour of the village today? The weather’s fine, and the tenants have been asking after you. They’re ever so curious about the new Duchess.”
Another distraction. Another attempt by the well-meaning servants to keep her occupied while Theodore fled to London rather than share a roof with her for more than the minimum duration propriety demanded.
Yet, Cressida found herself nodding. “A tour would be lovely. Thank you, Molly.”
Because what else was there to do? Sit alone in beautiful rooms, counting the hours until her husband returned, only for him to avoid her with renewed dedication?
At least the villagers might wish to see her.
Theodore urged his mount faster along the road, though he knew perfectly well that speed wouldn’t outrun what pursued him.
Two weeks of carefully maintained distance, of rising before dawn and retiring after midnight, of fleeing to London whenever the walls of Ashmere Castle seemed to shrink around him.
Still, he remembered the way she had looked descending the stairs on their wedding day.
“Bloody fool,” he muttered to his horse, who flicked an ear in what Theodore chose to interpret as agreement.
John had sent word requesting a meeting, but Theodore harbored no illusions about his friend’s motives.
Whitebrook possessed an unfortunate talent for perceiving truths Theodore preferred to keep buried, and the summons had arrived with suspicious timing—barely a fortnight into a marriage that existed in name only.
The coaching inn appeared around the bend, and Theodore felt his shoulders tighten with pre-emptive defensiveness.
Whatever lecture John intended to deliver, Theodore had already catalogued every failure himself during sleepless nights spent staring at the connecting door that separated his chambers from Cressida’s.
“Ashmere!” John’s voice carried across the yard as Theodore dismounted. “Punctual as always. I was beginning to think matrimony might have softened you.”
Theodore handed his reins to an ostler and turned to face his friend’s too-knowing smile. “Some of us take our responsibilities seriously, Whitebrook.”
“Responsibilities, yes.” John fell into step beside him as they moved toward the inn. “Such as fleeing to London every few days to avoid one’s wife?”
“I’m not fleeing. I’m managing estate business that requires—”
“Save it.” John pushed open the door to a private parlor he’d apparently secured in advance. “Harriet’s been corresponding with your Duchess. My wife is concerned. When Harriet’s concerned, I hear about it. Extensively.”
Theodore entered the room and moved immediately to pour whiskey from the decanter waiting on the sideboard. “Lady Whitebrook should focus on her own household.”
“Lady Whitebrook considers your Duchess a dear friend, and the said Duchess has apparently spent the past two weeks wandering your castle like a particularly elegant ghost while you perfect the art of avoidance.” John accepted the glass Theodore thrust at him.
“So, care to explain what the devil you’re playing at? ”
“I’m maintaining appropriate boundaries in a marriage we only chose out of necessity.”
“Appropriate boundaries.” John’s face scrunched up, as though testing wine gone sour. “Is that what you call eating alone in your study? Rising before dawn to fence yourself into exhaustion? Riding to London every time you might actually have to exchange more than three words with your wife?”
Theodore’s jaw clenched. “You don’t understand the situation.”
“Then enlighten me. Use small words if you must, as I’m apparently too dim to comprehend why a man married to an intelligent, beautiful woman is acting as though she carries the plague.”
The whiskey burned Theodore’s throat, though not enough to erase the memory of Cressida’s hurt expression when he’d announced their marriage would be a formality only. “She makes me lose control.”
“And this is problematic because…?”
“Because control is all that stands between order and chaos.” Theodore set down his glass carefully. His uncle would have hurled it at the wall. “Between a functioning existence and the kind of destruction I watched consume my family.”
John’s expression sobered. “Theodore—”
“Don’t.” Theodore turned toward the window, unable to bear whatever sympathy might cross his friend’s face.
“I know what you’re going to say. That I’m not my father, that she’s not my mother, that history needn’t repeat itself.
But you weren’t there, John. You didn’t see what unchecked passion can do.
What desire can destroy when it overrules reason. ”
“I know what your mother’s choices destroyed,” John said quietly. “That’s not the same thing as passion itself being dangerous.”
Theodore’s hands clenched against the window frame.
“Every time I’m near her, I forget everything.
Every rule, every boundary I’ve set to prevent precisely the kind of disaster that killed my father and uncle.
Two weeks, and I can barely keep my distance in my own castle.
What happens when proximity erodes the last of my restraint?
When I allow myself to want what I’ve sworn never to want again? ”
“Perhaps,” John suggested, moving to stand beside him, “you discover that wanting your own wife isn’t actually the catastrophe you’ve convinced yourself it must be.”
Theodore said nothing. How could he explain that the catastrophe wasn’t the wanting itself, but what lay beneath it?
The fear that once he lowered his walls, once he allowed Cressida past his defenses, he’d be as lost as his uncle Charles—destroyed by desire, ruined by attachment, unable to see clearly enough to prevent tragedy.
“She’s waiting for you,” John said. “In that castle. Alone. While you run to London and convince yourself you’re being noble.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re being a coward.”
The words landed like a slap.
Theodore’s head whipped toward his friend, but John’s expression held no malice, only the brutal honesty of someone who’d known him long enough to name his demons.
“Go home, Theodore. Stop making up reasons to avoid her. Stop hiding behind estate business and early morning exercise. Actually try…” John’s voice softened. “… before you’ve wasted so much time that there’s nothing left to salvage.”
Theodore wanted to argue. To list all the reasons why John didn’t understand, why this was different, why caution was wisdom rather than cowardice.
Instead, he finished his whiskey and wondered if his friend might be right.
Ashmere Village proved more welcoming than Cressida had dared hope. Molly had accompanied her in the carriage, chattering about which families lived where, which tenants had served the estate for generations, small histories that painted a picture of a community that had survived multiple dukes.
“The bakery there belongs to Mrs. Fletcher,” Molly explained as they alighted from the carriage. “Her husband works the mill. And that’s the smithy—Mr. Bartlett does all the estate’s metalwork. His son’s apprenticing with him now.”
Cressida absorbed it all, grateful for something to occupy her mind beyond thoughts about her absent husband. The villagers emerged from shops and cottages as word of her arrival spread, curtsying and bowing with expressions that ranged from curiosity to genuine warmth.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Fletcher approached, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “What an honor. We’ve been hoping you’d visit. The whole village has been talking about His Grace’s marriage.”
“I hope favorably,” Cressida managed, summoning a smile.
“Oh, very favorably, Your Grace. We’re just pleased to see His Grace settled at last. He’s been alone in that castle for too long.
” Mrs. Fletcher leaned closer, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur.
“Between you and me, Your Grace, we’d begun to despair of him ever taking a wife.
After everything that happened to his family…
well, it’s good to see him moving forward. ”
Cressida’s curiosity sharpened. “I’ve only heard speculation around ballrooms. What happened to his family?”
Mrs. Fletcher’s expression shifted, as though she’d suddenly remembered to whom she was speaking. “Oh, nothing for you to worry about, Your Grace. All ancient history now. Though His Grace does carry his burdens heavy, if you get my meaning.”
Before Cressida could press for clarification, another villager approached, an elderly gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Webb, the former steward.
“Your Grace, permit me to say how delighted we all are. His Grace is a good man, despite what London society might whisper. Strict, yes, but fair. He’s reduced rent for families struggling through poor harvests, funded the new school himself, and personally ensured Mrs. Lowe had adequate housing after her husband passed.
” Mr. Webb’s weathered face creased with genuine affection.
“He’s nothing like his father, and that’s to his eternal credit. ”
The words settled over Cressida with revelatory weight. This was the man who couldn’t bear to dine with her, who fled to London to avoid her, yet he’d personally ensured that a widow had a home and children had a school.
Theodore wasn’t cold. He simply didn’t know how to extend the care he showed his tenants to the woman he’d been forced to marry.
“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Webb,” Cressida said quietly. “That means a great deal.”
The tour continued, each villager offering small insights into her husband’s character—his fairness, his attention to their welfare, the way he’d transformed the estate from his father’s harsh regime into something more humane.
By the time Cressida returned to the carriage, she carried a portrait of Theodore that bore little resemblance to the distant stranger haunting Ashmere’s corridors.
“They love him,” she said to Molly as they rode back to the castle.
“They respect him, Your Grace,” the maid corrected gently. “Though I think love might come, given time. He’s not an easy man to know, but he’s a good one. The servants all say so.”
Cressida stared out the window at the passing countryside and wondered if she’d ever be allowed to discover that goodness for herself, or if Theodore would continue his campaign of avoidance until they’d wasted decades in separate wings of the same castle.