Chapter 8
brIGHAM PACED BACK and forth in the tiny cottage office, unable to bring himself to return to rational thought.
He removed his spectacles and tossed them onto the desk, but they skidded and fell off the side, clattering to the plank floor.
He didn’t retrieve them, he did not even hurry over to see if he’d damaged them…
blast it all, but he had no desire to even look at them.
Much as he was doing now with Mellie. He should have run after her. Should have hurried to her and made certain she was uninjured despite his harsh, cruel words. He should want to behold nothing but her.
She was selfless to a fault.
…and he’d failed her once again.
Peddling her body to give him an heir? She deserved far more than to be reduced to a breeding tool as a way to serve both Brigham and society, producing a much coveted and demanded heir.
She was worth far more than what her body could produce.
Using her for that purpose would be the ultimate betrayal, something beyond forgiveness, no matter how profusely he begged at her feet.
And that was exactly where Brigham deserved to be: at Mellie’s feet, begging her for mercy he didn’t deserve and hadn’t earned.
First, he’d convinced her to wed him when she was grieving her dead father.
Then he’d abandoned her to her own hell, leaving her to care for her dying mother.
And lastly, he’d only returned but once a year, sharing nothing of himself. In turn, she’d kept her longings and desires to herself. He’d been rash to think she’d ever open up to him when he’d done nothing but keep her at arm’s length.
He shouldn’t have come to Hockcliffe. He should have accepted her choice to remain in the country unburdened by him.
To think Mellie thought she owed him something—anything.
It was Brigham who owed her everything.
He hadn’t been man enough to stick by her side after they wed, help her care for her mother, and discover if there could be true affection between them.
They’d kissed once. They’d spent nearly every holiday together, their families being very close.
They’d played, they’d laughed, they’d conversed together for all these years.
Since childhood, they’d spoken of grave matters and trivial occurrences; however, that had all stopped when they wed. But why?
Brigham had long held that they had, indeed, shared a mutual affection in their youth.
He scrubbed at his face, running his hands through his tangled curls. That was a bad choice, too, as all he could think of was Mellie’s delicate fingers caressing his neck and tugging at his hair when they were wrapped in their intimate embrace.
Why had he sought his own work, leaving their budding love to deteriorate?
Love.
Neither had ever so much as spoken the word before or after they wed. Brigham because it would have crushed him, left him without drive to go on if she did not return his love.
Nevertheless, Brigham had loved her. Continued to love her, if only from a distance.
How had they never found time to discuss this?
His heavy steps echoed angrily in the tiny cottage, mirroring the disdain he felt for himself.
“A gentleman?” he snorted. “Hardly.”
What sort of man worth anything allowed his wife to wallow and languish alone in the country for years on end?
A coward.
And he’d thought he could return home with a trinket for Christmastide and all would be as it should have been years ago. Perhaps he’d lost all sense with his failure in London.
London.
He’d had plans before her father fell ill.
Mellie was to journey to town during her seventeenth year for a proper London Season.
Brigham would have followed behind her, watching as she explored life among society while he championed his first reform bill.
They would have eventually come together, and he’d thought to offer for her hand before the Season was complete.
Instead, the sickness—which took so many hardworking coalminers—had struck, bringing her father low long before his time. Mellie had selflessly delayed her Season, unknowingly dooming herself to nearly eight years of hardship.
What would have happened if fate hadn’t dealt them the harsh blow it had and made their marriage a necessity?
Would Mellie have chosen another man to wed, perchance a far more suitable lord? A man whose courage and honor dwarfed Brigham’s?
She deserved a man unafraid to speak of love—a man who didn’t find it necessary to hide his true feelings their entire lives.
His cowardly way of securing their marriage had denied Mellie the husband—and no doubt the horde of children—she’d been destined to have. It was a regret he would live with his entire life and be haunted by in the hereafter.
There was no one and nothing to blame but himself.
Pivoting once more and heading back toward the desk, Brigham noted something lying upon the chair. He swooped down and retrieved his glasses. He set them to rights and brought the object into focus.
Mellie’s cloak and gloves.
She’d fled the cottage, into the icy morning, without the benefit of cloak or gloves—and with her gown askew.
It was a long, brisk walk back to the manor, especially in the harsh December weather.
Even with the snow holding off for the better part of the season, the biting winds would make their way through her gown and chill her to the bone within minutes.
She’d be near freezing long before she made it back to Hockcliffe.
Grabbing her cloak and gloves, Brigham departed the cottage, slamming the door behind him but not bothering to replace the ledger in its place on the shelf.
He cared not a whit about the bloody accounts.
The only thing holding his attention and worthy of his time was Melloria.
Brigham pulled his reins free from the post and swung up onto his horse, driving his heels deep into the beast’s sides as he took off in the direction of the manor. She couldn’t have journeyed far on foot; however, glancing up, the sun had progressed in the sky.
How long had he wallowed in his self-pity?
Thundering across the field, he kept his eyes on the landscape and any sign of Mellie.
He rode unheeded through crops and barren meadows without regard for anything but finding his wife.
All the while, his chest burned, ached with the need for her forgiveness.
Her understanding, though he was unworthy of either.
Hockcliffe came into view on the horizon, but Mellie was nowhere to be seen.
Had she gone in another direction? Was she out in the elements, freezing and in danger because Brigham had rebuffed her offer—her generous and selfless proposal?
Leaning low over his horse’s neck, he prodded the beast forward, much as he’d rode into Hockcliffe the previous day.
Yet, the day before, he’d been riding headlong to get away from something. Today, he rode toward someone.
He should have never ridden away from her to begin with.
Brigham had leapt from his horse before the animal even stopped and ran for the door. If she weren’t within, he would return to search for her.
Danvers pulled the door wide before Brigham reached the top step. “My lord. Is something amiss?”
“Your mistress, Mellie,” he shouted. “Is she within?”
“Why, yes, I believe I caught sight of her scurrying up the servants’ stairs not five minutes ago, my lord.”
Brigham pushed past the servant only pausing to discard her cloak and gloves, ignoring the man’s confusion and offer of assistance as he took the stairs three at a time until he strode down the hall that housed his room.
Though he did not continue to the large double doors at the end of the corridor; instead, he stopped before the entrance to Mellie’s private chamber.
He reached for the latch, prepared to throw the door open and rush inside, but he stilled his hand and took a deep breath.
She’d arrived home safely, and there was no need to barge into her private quarters like a brute devoid of all manners.
Quashing his aggression, Brigham lifted his clenched fist and knocked.
Footsteps sounded inside as someone moved swiftly to answer the door.
As the door swung open on well-oiled hinges, he realized he’d never taken a step into her chambers before, nor so much as even looked past the threshold.
This day would be no different as he stared into the widened eyes of Lilly, Mellie’s lady’s maid.
Brigham stood mute, listening for any sign that Mellie was within.
“Yes, my lord?” Lilly dipped into a curtsey. “How can I be of service?”
Everyone in his household was offering him assistance, but he feared the situation had progressed too far for anyone to be of any help to him in his plight to secure his wife’s forgiveness.
“My lord?”
“Mellie—Lady Whitmore—is she within?” His voice was gravelly as if he’d been crying… and perhaps he had. His anguish paled in comparison to the heartbreak he’d noted on Mellie’s face before she fled the cottage. “Is she here? Where is your mistress?”
The servant shrank back into the room.
“She—she—she left this morn in pursuit of you, my lord.”
“Are you certain you have not seen her since?”
“No, Lord Whitmore,” the maid squeaked, placing her hand to her throat. “Did she not find you at the steward’s cottage?” Concern flooded the servant’s face, furrowing her brow.
How was he to admit to the women who’d watched over his wife when he was too much of a scoundrel to care for her properly that he’d wounded Mellie and caused her to flee in desperation?