Chapter Eighteen
Darkemore Manor
Between St. Austell and Bodmin
Cornwall, England
Three weeks had passed since Michael had shot and killed Viscount Echerson. Three weeks since he’d said goodbye to his wife. Three weeks since his life ceased to have meaning.
It’s better this way.
How many times had he told himself that since he’d walked away from the life he could have had with the woman who’d made such a difference? Of course, he’d lost count, and obviously the advice had quite taken as he’d hoped.
Though it approached teatime, Michael stood on the shallow balcony at the top of the manor in a space that had once been his mother’s sitting room.
Here, near the sea and far away from the pollution in London, the air seemed clearer, and from this altitude, the roiling sea was visible, more so than from the land.
Where his estate was situated, he could access the water by walking a half mile to the coast, and sometimes, those hikes were the only thing that kept him sane.
Here, in the ruggedness of Cornwall, where time seemed to stand still and everything felt far removed from the skewed views and impossible standards of London and the beau monde, he could finally take a deep breath and try to either find peace in his existence or end it.
Several times a day since arriving, he’d contemplated jumping from this very spot or walking into the surf and never coming out.
Clearly, he hadn’t decided yet on either ending everything or the way to do it.
What the devil am I waiting for?
As he leaned a shoulder on the doorframe and crossed his arms at his chest, he continued to focus his gaze on the sea.
Its ever-shifting face that hid a million secrets beneath the surface, the fact that it would never be the same sea from one moment to the next, from one year to the next, that it would go from dark to light and back to dark again.
In many ways, the sea was much like he was, and he still hadn’t discovered if that was a good or bad thing.
Unbidden, an image of his wife danced through his mind.
An ache squeezed around his heart, for he missed her more than he’d anticipated.
Damn his eyes for letting himself get close to her and what was more, he’d let her into his heart when he’d thought it had been hardened far too long.
Did he love her? He suspected that he did, for it wouldn’t hurt so much to walk away, to set her free, yet he was adamant that she didn’t deserve the man he’d become, the man he was, the man he’d always be.
A half-stifled cry left his throat. Evangeline deserved a peaceful life, a happy ending. She deserved love and romance. He wasn’t capable of giving her that, which was why she needed to search for that with someone else.
Regardless of what he might want.
As he sank further into the morass of tortured thoughts, in the distance, movement caught his attention.
Narrowing his eyes, Michael pushed off the doorframe and leaned forward to concentrate on…
Surely not. “What the devil?” The longer he looked, the sharper the image became.
It was a long caravan of coaches and carriages that moved slowly up the lane that led to his manor, fed only by the main road.
There were no other dwellings along the way for anyone to visit, so the mass had to be coming to his manor.
Why? Why would anyone make the journey when it wouldn’t stop raining?
Today, of course, it was overcast with tiny, brief peeks of sun, but relatively cool, for the weather remained as wretched as it always had been.
Was it a contingent from London bent on taking him into custody and bound for a horrid prison?
A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth as he continued to stare at the parade.
Yet he knew the first thought was wrong.
Of course he did. How could it not be Evangeline?
The woman was as stubborn as the day was long, and she wouldn’t give him up, wouldn’t consent to having her life changed without handing him a strong fight.
What was more, odds were high that she’d prove it in quite the fury.
Fuck me.
He’d waited too long to remove himself from this mortal coil. But perhaps that was what he wanted all along.
A chance.
A care.
A hope.
A life.
A love.
His heart gave an unexpected leap. Christ, this had the potential to prove ugly and loud and drawn out.
With a curse, Michael entered his mother’s sitting room and then just as quickly dashed into the corridor beyond.
Precious moments were spent summoning his valet and then rigging himself out in proper attire for receiving visitors.
For receiving… her.
By the time he’d arrived at the drawing room, his butler met him in the corridor, which meant the caravan had made its way to his home.
“Jackson, who has arrived? I assume that is why you’ve sought me out.”
The butler for this estate was a far younger man than his butler in London.
It was better this way, for Cornwall could prove harsh when it wanted, and a man needed strength to survive it.
He scratched his head, hardly disturbing the blond strands styled properly and sedately.
“Well, it is multiple people and their servants.” He met Michael’s gaze with interest shadowing his.
“Least of which is Her Grace, your wife.” One of the man’s eyebrows rose in question.
“We didn’t know you had married, Your Grace. ”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. “Yes, well, I didn’t think I needed to tell anyone because… Shit, it doesn’t matter now. Who else has arrived with her?”
A bit of a grin took possession of the other man’s mouth. “The Duke and Duchess of Steppingford, the Duke and Duchess of Ravenhurst, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, or as he called himself, the Duke of Udolpho.”
Bloody, bloody hell.
Of course the two dukes who’d been with him at the opera that night when Echerson had put the whole damned mess into play. Steppingford was there shortly after Michael had killed the viscount in cold blood. Not to mention Evangeline. Just knowing she was here had the power to send him to his knees.
“Is that all?” Would there forever be pain around his heart, a tightness to his chest that made it difficult to breathe? Were these the consequences for what he’d done? He certainly couldn’t remember feeling… anything after all his other missions.
His butler snorted. “You wished for more visitors, Your Grace? We never have any. You’ve seen to that.”
A tiny chuckle escaped him. “I’m merely curious, and you know why I’ve kept myself in isolation.”
“Along with your staff.” Jackson pinned him with a speaking glance. “But I understand. However, I don’t believe there is anyone else of importance just now. The dukes and your wife are adamantly demanding to see you.”
“I…” Suddenly, he couldn’t do this so soon.
Perhaps he was a coward. “Uh, no doubt they are fatigued from being on the road for such a long journey. Please have the housekeeper and maids prepare adequate guest rooms. Offer them all tea and a late luncheon; whatever we have, and yes, I’m fully aware the cook will wish me dead, for she’ll need to visit the market, meager though the offerings are. ”
“Never a bother, Your Grace.” Jackson allowed a grin. “I believe she has more chickens than she can handle just now in the rear garden, and she is rather a witch when it comes to stretching vegetables in a thick soup and adding herbs from her own collection to enhance the flavor.”
“She is, indeed, a miracle.” Michael nodded.
“Also, assign their servants rooms. Invite them to rest and refresh themselves in the servants’ hall, and then tell the dukes and their wives that I will see them at dinner.
” How did he become so weak that he couldn’t face his friends?
Would he truly come up to the mark and make an appearance for dinner, though?
“Very good, Your Grace, and Her Grace?”
God, Evvie would track him to earth no matter where he ran or how far.
He might as well talk with her. “Once she’s rested and settled, send her up to my mother’s sitting room.
No doubt she’ll wish to dress me down, and I’d rather not have my guests overhear what is sure to be a noisy argument.
” He gave a weak cough. “I, uh left London rather abruptly and without her, you see.”
“So, I can surmise, Your Grace.” The butler grinned. “In any event, it will be lovely to have the manor filled again, and I look forward to coming to know the duchess.”
He nodded. It was all too much. “Thank you.” Then he retreated, and once more closeted himself in his mother’s sitting room where he contemplated the sea.
Later that evening
When Evangeline joined him in the sitting room an hour later, every muscle in his body was tensed, waiting for her reception.
In the illumination of a few candles burning around the small room, her spirit burned intensely bright to combat the clouds and gloom outside.
He’d left the door to the shallow balcony open to encourage fresh air inside, and perhaps as an insane escape idea if things didn’t go well.
He rose to his feet upon seeing her, and the breath whooshed from his lungs.
“Evangeline.” God, but she was gorgeous.
Clad in a gown of navy silk shot through with silver thread, the fabric hugged her curves with every step.
Hundreds of tiny silver and clear glass beads lined the low bodice as well as the bottom hem of the skirt, and around her neck, she wore his mother’s emerald necklace.
The stones in smaller sizes stemming from the large cabochon at the bottom glittered against her pale décolletage.
The cuts from that horrible night had healed, were barely there any longer. “I wasn’t expecting you.”