Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“The light’s different here.”
Cressida stood in the gallery doorway, speaking to the empty corridor behind her.
Mrs. Agnes had mentioned something about fresh flowers needing arrangement in the lower parlor, but Cressida’s feet had carried her elsewhere, drawn by the morning sun slanting through tall windows she’d passed dozens of times these past weeks.
The covered portrait waited at the far end, precisely where it had waited since her first exploration of Ashmere months ago. She’d asked Theodore about it once. He’d gone completely still, then a knock at the door had saved him from answering.
She walked the length of the gallery, her slippers silent against old wood.
Past landscapes of moors in autumn and seascapes wild with storm.
Past stern-faced ancestors whose names she’d learned from Mrs. Agnes during those early awkward weeks when the housekeeper had tried, with transparent hope, to make her feel at home.
The curtain’s edge had come loose again. A triangle of gilded frame showed where the velvet had shifted, revealing carved acanthus leaves catching the light.
She stopped three feet away, her fingers curling into her palms.
She’d told herself she would wait. That Theodore would tell her when he was ready, that patience was how trust grew between two people learning to be married.
She’d been so careful these past weeks not to push or demand anything, not to become the kind of wife who required explanations for every closed door.
But trust was meant to move in both directions.
The morning had started well. Theodore had lingered over breakfast, discussing the village visit they’d planned for next week.
He’d mentioned the blacksmith’s daughter was getting married, that perhaps Cressida might want to send a gift.
Small things, domestic things, the kind of casual planning that suggested a future they were building together.
And yet this portrait remained hidden. This one piece of his past, covered and forbidden, a wall she kept running into whenever she thought they might finally be moving forward.
She reached for the curtain’s edge.
The velvet was heavier than she had expected, dusty where it hadn’t been touched in years. She pulled it aside in one smooth motion, letting it pool on the floor, and stepped back to look.
A man stared down at her from the canvas.
Young, perhaps five-and-twenty, with Theodore’s dark coloring but none of his severity.
This face held warmth, humor in the eyes and mouth, the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being liked.
He stood in riding clothes with one hand resting on a horse’s neck, the moors spread behind him in careful detail.
The artist had captured him in late afternoon light, golden and warm, the kind of light that made everything beautiful.
The engraved plate fixed to the frame’s lower edge read: Charles Yeats, 1788-1805.
Cressida’s breath caught.
Charles.
She moved closer, studying the painted face. Looking for resemblance, for clues to whatever had prompted Theodore to hide this particular family member behind velvet and silence.
Charles’s eyes were lighter than Theodore’s, his mouth wider, his whole bearing more open. The artist had captured something magnetic in his expression, a charm that seemed to reach across the years.
This was a man people would have loved easily. A man who would have filled rooms with laughter.
No wonder Theodore couldn’t bear to look at him.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Cressida spun around.
Theodore stood in the doorway, his face white with fury. He crossed the gallery in five long strides, each footfall deliberate and terrible, and she found herself stepping back until her shoulders hit the wall beside the portrait.
“I asked you a question.” His voice was deadly quiet.
“I was—” Her throat had gone dry. “I wanted to see—”
“So you decided to invade my privacy? Touch what I specifically forbade you from touching?” He gestured sharply to the crumpled velvet on the floor. “That curtain has been in place for seventeen years. Seventeen years, Cressida. And you thought you had the right to—”
“I have the right to know my own family.” The words came out steadier than she felt. “Your family is my family now. Our marriage—”
“Our marriage?” Theodore’s laugh was harsh. “Our marriage gives you no claim to this. No claim to him.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “I wasn’t trying to claim anything. I was trying to understand—”
“Understand what? The parts of my life I’ve chosen to keep private?” He turned away, dragging both hands through his hair. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Couldn’t trust that some things are meant to stay buried.”
“How can I trust you when you hide everything from me?” Cressida pushed off the wall, anger overriding caution. “You say we’re learning to be married, to be partners, but you shut me out at every opportunity. I’m allowed into your bed, but not your history. Into your body, but not your thoughts.”
“Because some thoughts aren’t yours to access.” He faced her again, jaw set. “Some parts of my past have nothing to do with you.”
“Nothing to do with me? Theodore, we’re husband and wife. We’re supposed to—”
“We’re supposed to what?” His eyes were black with rage. “Share everything? Bare our souls? Is that what you expected from this marriage?”
“I expected honesty.” Her voice broke on the word. “I expected that after everything we’ve shared these past weeks—after I’ve given you everything—you might begin to trust me with the things that hurt you.”
“I never asked for your trust.” He bit off each word. “I never asked for your understanding or your prying curiosity or your determination to fix whatever you decide is broken.”
“Then what did you ask for?” She was shaking now, hurt and fury warring in her chest. “What exactly am I to you, Theodore? Your wife? Your Duchess? Or just a convenient body in your bed when the loneliness becomes too much?”
The silence stretched between them, awful and complete.
Theodore’s expression had gone cold, closed off in that way she recognized from their earliest days together. The duke who trusted no one, who kept everyone at arm’s length, who would rather be alone than risk being vulnerable.
“This is my family.” He gestured to the portrait without looking at it. “Mine. The tragedy that destroyed us, the shame we carry—it’s mine to bear, not yours.”
“I’m your wife.”
“You’re a contract I signed to satisfy my aunt’s meddling and your father’s greed.” The words came out flat, deliberate. “That’s what you are. That’s all you’ve ever been.”
The air left her lungs.
Cressida stared at him, at the man she’d woken beside that morning, who’d traced idle patterns on her back while discussing which tenants needed winter supplies.
Who’d kissed her forehead before leaving for the stables, casual and warm, as though such gestures had become habit.
Who’d made love to her two nights ago with a tenderness that had left her breathless, whispering her name like a prayer against her skin.
A contract.
“I see.” She was surprised by how steady her voice came out. “Thank you for the clarification, Duke. I appreciate you making your position clear.”
“Cressida—”
“No.” She held up one hand. “You’ve said enough. More than enough, in fact.”
She moved past him, heading for the door.
He caught her wrist. “Where are you going?”
“To pack.” She pulled free with more force than necessary. “I’m returning to London. To my parents’ house.”
“You can’t just—”
“Can’t I?” She turned in the doorway, fury and grief burning through her restraint.
“You’ve just said I’m nothing to you but a contract.
Surely the contract doesn’t require my physical presence when you’ve already fulfilled your marital duties.
I’ll be available should you need an heir, Duke.
Simply send word, and I’ll present myself for the task. ”
“Stop.” His face had gone gray. “You’re being—”
“Honest?” The word tasted bitter on her tongue. “Yes, I suppose I am. It’s a trait I learned from you, though clearly I’ve misunderstood its value.”
Theodore took a step toward her, something desperate flickering across his expression. “I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” Cressida’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “That’s what makes it so much worse. You meant every word.”
She left him standing there.
Her legs carried her through familiar corridors on instinct alone—past the breakfast room where they’d shared honey and toast that morning, past the library where he’d read to her two nights ago, past the conservatory where he’d taught her the names of his mother’s roses.
Each room held memories now. His hand on the small of her back as they walked to dinner.
His rare smile when she’d made an absurd joke about estate management.
The way he’d looked at her across the drawing room last week, with an expression that had made her think perhaps he was learning to love her.
That he saw her—the opinionated, bookish, unsuitable spinster—and chose her regardless.
She’d been such a fool.
Mrs. Agnes appeared in the upper hall, took one look at Cressida’s face, and immediately stepped aside.
“Please have my things packed.” Cressida kept her voice level. “I’m leaving for London this afternoon.”
The housekeeper’s expression crumpled. “Your Grace, if you’d only—”
“Please, Mrs. Agnes.” Cressida couldn’t bear kindness right now. Couldn’t bear the sympathy in the older woman’s eyes, the knowledge that the entire staff had probably heard every word of their argument. “Just the packing.”