Chapter 11 #2
He didn’t want to risk further conversation, so King rolled her onto her back and made love to her a fourth time, tenderly and slowly. But even as he held her and waited for slumber to claim him afterward, the gnawing of guilt in his gut refused to be banished.
Gray afternoon light leaked through the lone pair of windows in the portion of the attic that had been reserved for storage.
A cool, sharp dampness filled the air. Outside, a fine mist was falling on London.
The faint sounds of rattling tack and horses traveling down the road sifted up to King from far below.
An eerie stillness surrounded him, accompanied by the scent of musty wood and the crated remnants of generations of Castelyns.
There were trinkets that had been deemed too important to part with, furniture that might once again come into use, paintings no one had wished to sell off or display.
Pieces of the past, packed closely together in boxes and beneath coverings.
No doubt there was a full familial history tucked into the rafters.
Although he had made use of this town house for years, King had never, not once, paid a visit to this part of the edifice.
With good reason, of course. The low ceiling in this portion of the attic rendered it a danger to a man of his height.
Beyond that, the rest of the space consisted of servant quarters.
The highest level of Castelyn House was not where the duke belonged.
And he knew it.
But King had ventured to this small, cramped space, hidden away behind a small door and largely forgotten, for one reason. He had come alone in search of the wooden crate that had been packed just over a fortnight ago with the nursery remnants he hadn’t been able to face.
He wasn’t certain if he could face them now either.
But he did know that he needed to try.
Crouching, he sifted through the nearest boxes until he found the one he had been searching for. Within, there was a neatly folded coverlet, a doll, a handful of dresses, a bonnet, some swaddling. With trembling hands, he unveiled each piece, his mind winnowing the fragments of his memory.
He had not wanted to be a father. Daphne’s very existence had been the result of his own foolish lack of care.
Lucinda had been a famed actress, and he had fallen under her spell, along with half of London.
He alone had won her, setting her up as his mistress.
Their relationship had been volatile from the start.
Lucinda had been wildly jealous with a temperament that had been mercurial at best. She had been as likely to throw an epergne at his head as to welcome him with open arms. She would rage at him one moment, accusing him of taking lovers, and passionately kiss him the next.
He had found her fascinating and terrifying. Her beauty had drawn him to her, along with her unparalleled skill on the stage. She had been one of the finest actresses of their time. But she had also been unpredictable. Six months into their arrangement, they had mutually decided to part ways.
A few weeks later, she had sent word that she was expecting their child and had been, unbeknownst to her, for some time. King had been shocked. Such an outcome had foolishly never occurred to him. The very notion of a child—a part of him, perhaps even in his own image—had made him queasy.
But he had been determined to uphold his obligation.
He had provided Lucinda with all the funds she required.
He had purchased a home in the country for her with the intention that she could live there with the child.
But Lucinda had refused to do so. She hadn’t wanted to leave London, and she’d had every intention of continuing with her acting.
She was Lucinda Hawes, the darling of the stage.
Their communication had grown increasingly sparse and strained as they argued over what was best for the child.
And then word had reached him that she had given birth to their daughter, a baby girl named Daphne. Lucinda had struggled for days. She had been weakened and feverish. By the time he had been made aware of what had happened, Lucinda had already been near death.
He picked up a lace cap, holding it and remembering the first time he had ever seen his daughter.
She had been red-faced and tiny, and he had been instantly in love.
He had sent his physician to look after Lucinda, and he had taken Daphne with him because Lucinda hadn’t been lucid enough to care for the babe.
Everything had unfolded with imprecise haste.
A wet nurse had been procured; the nursery had been prepared.
Daphne had left him in awe—a tiny person, half of him.
He had vowed to protect her always. To love her and give her the best life he could.
Lucinda had died soon after he had taken Daphne to Castelyn House.
He could well remember the feeling—knowing he was the only one this tiny babe would have in the world.
He had mourned Lucinda, the loss of her, his child’s mother, a woman he had once cared for.
But he’d had Daphne to look after. And then…
King closed his eyes against a prickle and rush of heat.
Daphne had been weak. She’d never taken to feeding as she ought, despite the wet nurse’s best efforts to persuade her. It had seemed to King that one moment she had been crying in his arms, and the next, she had been listless and burning up with fever. Just as suddenly, she had been gone.
He hadn’t been prepared for the crushing weight of the agony.
For the finality.
He had ordered the nursery to be sealed away. Had done everything in his power to forget.
A hot tear slipped free, rolling down his cheek.
Forgetting wasn’t the panacea he had once believed it to be. Because forgetting hadn’t made the pain go away. It was still there, at the periphery of his every day, his every hour, waiting for him to lower his guard, to claim him in its relentless grasp.
He hadn’t allowed himself to weep. Not since he’d held his precious daughter lifeless in his arms. He had believed he had lost his heart along with Daphne, or what had remained of it. But Verity—and, in her own way, little Emma—had made him realize that he hadn’t. He still had a heart after all.
“King?”
He started at the sound of Verity’s voice, finding her hovering at the door. He hadn’t heard her open it, and he wasn’t sure he wanted her to see him this way, but it was too late to avoid that now.
He sniffed, hoping she wouldn’t take note of the tear. “Angel. What are you doing up here?”
“Looking for you.”
“I didn’t think anyone knew where I had gone.” Christ knew he hadn’t told any of the servants where he was going or what he intended to do.
It was no one’s concern but his.
Verity’s gaze traveled over him, stopping on the bonnet he held in his hands before returning to his. “Mrs. Sendall did.”
“The bloody woman is omnipotent,” he grumbled, grateful for the distraction.
“I am persuaded she is as well,” Verity said. “Certainly, she has to be, to run a household as efficiently as she does.”
He tucked the bonnet back into the crate with gentle care. “You must be wondering why I’m riffling through the attic.”
“I can see which crate you are inspecting.” The look Verity gave him was tender. “Do you wish to be alone?”
“No,” he said at once, realizing that he didn’t. He had come here on his own, but having her with him felt at once comforting and…right.
“May I join you?”
He nodded, swallowing a lump of emotion that had risen in his throat. “Of course you may. Though I must caution you that it’s damp and the air is quite cool.”
“I don’t mind.” Daintily lifting her skirts in one hand, she bent and entered the filled attic cavity.
She didn’t stop until she was on her knees at his side. The scent of bergamot and roses chased some of the mustiness. She extended a hand to him, and he realized she was holding a small scrap of linen embroidered with initials.
His.
He stared, remembering the exact moment he had given her that handkerchief. They had been alone in an alcove overlooking Riverdale’s ballroom, people teeming below. She’d been hiding herself there, weeping over the man she loved.
The man whose place he had taken.
His heart froze. Did she remember? No. She couldn’t have regained her memory, or she wouldn’t be looking at him as she was now, with such tender sadness and love.
He swallowed down the rush of icy dread and accepted it. “Thank you.”
He began to tuck it into his coat in a force of habit.
But she caught his hand in hers, stopping him. “The handkerchief is to dry your tears.”
He stared at her, horrified she was seeing him this way, that she was acknowledging his grief so openly when he scarcely could himself.
“Here,” she said softly. “Let me.”
She took the linen from his hand and gently wiped first one cheek, then the other.
King held still, allowing Verity to tend to him, warmth invading his chest. She didn’t remember; he was certain of it now. He hoped to God she never would.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly.
“You needn’t thank me, my love. I am here for you, always.”
Her unwavering love and unconditional loyalty weren’t his to claim, but he couldn’t deny needing them both. He had never wanted something that didn’t belong to him more than he wanted this woman’s heart and devotion.
He should tell her. Tell her everything right here in this cramped attic. Set his guilt free the same way he had his grief.
He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bear the way she would look at him when she knew. If he told her the truth, he would lose her, and he couldn’t lose her because he needed her.
Because he loved her.
The realization was overwhelming. He wasn’t merely falling for Verity.
He already had. Perhaps even from that long-ago night at the ball.
And here they were, coming full circle. She was using the same handkerchief he had given her then to dry the tears she had shed over the loss of her betrothed.
Using it to dry up the tears he was crying over the daughter he had loved and lost.
Grief had brought them together.
Perhaps it could hold them together.
He reached into the crate and extracted the porcelain doll, which had been carefully wrapped and placed within. “This is what I was looking for. It’s a doll I bought for Daphne. I thought that perhaps Emma would like it.”
Verity’s brow creased. “You don’t need to do that, King. We can buy her another doll, and you can keep this one safely packed away.”
Yes, they could afford to buy the child a different doll, a new doll. Hell, they could afford to buy her hundreds of them. That wasn’t the point, however.
He shook his head. “I want her to have this one.”
“What if she breaks it or loses it? Children can be rather irresponsible. Only look at what happened with her mother’s locket.”
“I want it to be Emma’s now. This doll is not Daphne, and hiding it away in the attic won’t bring her back. Nor will shutting up the nursery or packing up her belongings. It won’t make my sorrow any less either.”
He had spent far too many years avoiding the pain of his past, and he had locked away his heart along with it. No longer.
“You truly want Emma to have it?” Verity asked hesitantly.
“I do.” He took a deep breath, feeling some of the heaviness in his chest lift. “I’d like for us both to give it to her together.”
Verity smiled at him, tears glistening in her eyes. “Together, my love.”
He took her hand in his and brought it to his lips for a reverent kiss. “Always.”