Chapter Twenty-Six
Hugh watched Christiana in wonder as she finally stopped, her chest rising and falling and her cheeks flushed a deep pink. In that gown, she looked like spring itself, and he wondered how anyone could ever look at her and think her unworthy of being a duchess.
She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Oh, heavens,” she said, giving a shaky laugh. “I think I need to sit down.”
He drew her close. “You do not need to run to my defense every time you hear someone speaking about me.”
“I most certainly do. The best way to conquer gossip is to give it something new to discuss. You cannot tell me the Ponsonbys are loved in these parts.” She released a long breath. “What an odious woman.”
“And you put her down magnificently,” Amelia said, her eyes sparkling. Hugh had the vague thought that he ought not to encourage such opinions, but damn it all, she was right, and his wife had defended him.
Publicly.
He very much wished he could kiss her here and now.
If he did, he had the sneaking suspicion she would faint.
“Was I too rude?” Christiana asked. “I was trying not to be. At least, not overtly. But I confess subtlety has never been my strong suit.”
“You were perfect,” Hugh said.
“I quite agree,” a familiar voice said. Hugh turned to see a lady whom he had not seen since he had thrown her from the house seven years ago.
His godmother and a lady his mother had cherished, she was one of his family’s greatest allies, and in one fatal morning, he had wrenched her from their lives.
All because she had the audacity to care about him, offering motherly kindness and well wishes when he’d known for a fact nothing would ever be well again.
He had been in so much pain, so much anger and regret, that he had been half mad with it.
Out of his mind. Unable to regulate his temper.
That had been the same time he had dismissed the servants, raging at the very world and everything that had reminded him of the past he could no longer have.
In the years since, he had contemplated apologizing, but it had been easier to cut himself off from the world and declare himself a recluse.
Until Christiana.
Until now, when Mrs. Barnaby extended her hand in welcome as though no time or ill will had passed at all.
Amelia’s face immediately wreathed in a huge smile. “Mrs. Barnaby! You’re here!”
“Of course I’m here, pet.” Mrs. Barnaby patted her hand. “George and I never miss a year.”
Amelia flung her arms around Mrs. Barnaby’s neck, and Hugh stood stiffly by, wondering how on earth to apologize when apologies would never be enough.
“Mrs. Barnaby,” he said, hating the tight, curt sound of his voice.
But she just turned a warm smile on him.
“Hugh, dear. When I heard you were here, I simply had to find you for myself. And married, too! Imagine how I felt when I saw your lovely wife defending you from those awful Ponsonbys.” She directed her smile at Christiana, still pressed against his side. He loosened his grip a little.
“I—” Once again, words failed him. “I beg you to do me the honor of accepting my deepest regrets for the last time we—”
Mrs. Barnaby waved the thought away. In the past seven years, she had aged the way his mother might have done, her gray hair neatly tucked on her head, her face still pretty—a little plumper, but just as kindly as he remembered her to be.
To his surprise, the sight of her, and all the memories she inspired, didn’t provoke a jolt of grief and despair.
Yes, she had been his mother’s greatest friend, and George had been close to his father, but he was no longer reminded in the same painful way of his loss.
And to think, all these years, he could have reached out if it were not for his pride.
“The last time we spoke, you were grieving, and I was pushing my way into your life the way I had no right to,” she said, taking his gloved hand and patting it. “I have regretted it many times over.”
Shame forced him to say, “The fault is mine.”
“No, dear. You cannot take every burden on your own shoulders. It was a tragedy all around. No one is to blame for feeling its burdens. And this is your wife?” She looked expectantly at him.
“Yes.” He took Christiana’s hand in his own, pride rising in his chest at how well she looked, and how earnestly she had defended both him and his mother. “Christiana, this is Mrs. George Barnaby, my godmother. Mrs. Barnaby, this is my wife, the Duchess of Somerset.”
Christiana smiled. “A pleasure to meet you.” She glanced up at Hugh, a question in her eyes. If this is your godmother, why have I not been introduced before now?
“Mrs. Barnaby is another victim of my terrible temper,” he admitted ruefully.
“No reason to speak of that now,” Mrs. Barnaby said, taking Amelia’s arm and squeezing her close.
It was such a motherly gesture, Hugh’s heart squeezed.
If he had just reached out sooner with an apology, instead of letting his shame fester, perhaps she might have sponsored Amelia in London.
Then he would have had no reason to marry.
He looked down at Chris and her unruly hair, curls falling out despite Baxter’s best attempts. If that had been the case, he would never have met Christiana.
And then, perhaps, he might never have found a reason to overcome his shame, or strive for anything other than the life he’d inhabited for the past seven years. She had been his catalyst for change.
“Have you seen the pigs this year?” Mrs. Barnaby asked.
“Mr. Barnaby is there now, and he declares he has never seen such exemplary prize sows. You ought to get back into the habit of judging them, Hugh,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“That would do you a world of good. And the people here miss you.”
“Not me,” Hugh said, keeping his voice light. “My father.”
“Your father was a good man, and so are you. What is the difference between you, pray?”
There was a tug on his sleeve, and he looked down to see Christiana beaming up at him. “Nothing,” she whispered. “There is no difference between you at all.”
For once, perhaps, he felt inclined to believe her.
By the time the group had made it back to the house, Christiana felt as though her nerves had been sawed on by an incompetent physician. They were a second from snapping entirely, so worn were they by the constant stimulation.
But when they had left, bidding Mrs. Barnaby goodbye, Hugh had smiled.
He had even removed the mask so Mrs. Barnaby might see his true face and kiss his cheek in a motherly gesture that had Christiana’s heart feeling several sizes too big in her chest. A medical impossibility, and yet there was no denying the sensation.
No one had screamed and run. No one had even stared more than they usually did.
The world had not ended. Admittedly, this was not a London drawing room, but this was a start, and a good one.
With luck, he would gain confidence in being seen.
And, hopefully, word would spread that the duke had been seen out and about, and he was not the monster the world thought him to be.
Baby steps, but at least they had begun to walk.
“Chris.” Hugh drew her closer to him as they entered the front door. The now-familiar entrance hall greeted them, twin swords above a large stone fireplace. Home. “Are you well?”
“I have a headache,” she mumbled.
“Here.” He removed her glasses, tucking the wire frames in his waistcoat pocket, and she realized they had been pinching behind her ears, making her sore head worse.
“I can’t see without them,” she protested.
“Then I will carry you.” Without warning, he scooped her into his arms, and she had no choice but to loop her arms around his neck and hold on tightly.
Without her glasses, the world was a blur; she could barely make out the concern on Amelia’s face, or the impassive expression of the butler as Hugh carried her through the house as though she weighed nothing.
“Do your scars not hurt?” She directed the question directly into his ear, in case anyone should be listening. After such a successful day, it would be a shame to undo all the good work they’d done.
“Stop fussing.”
“You are fussing over me.”
“That is my prerogative as your husband.”
More of that liquid warmth spread through her, only marred a little by the pain in her head. “Oh well, in that case, fuss away.”
The corner of his mouth curled into a little smile, and without thinking, she traced the line it made. He tensed slightly under her, his steps faltering. Again, she was reminded of all the ways they had yet to venture past a certain point of intimacy.
“You have a headache,” he said firmly, ascending the stairs. “When did it come on? You ought to have said something.”
She would rather have been cleaved in two by an axe than admit anything that would have dragged Hugh away from the carnival and Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby’s attentions. “It only began hurting when we got home,” she said.
“Liar.” His voice was affectionate, and she only dimly registered that he had carried her into her bedchambers. Carefully—more carefully than she ever could have supposed such a large man capable of—he lowered her against the pillows. He took her hand in both of his. “Thank you for today.”
She closed her eyes, content to be with him like this. All her planning had paid off. “You’re welcome,” she murmured, holding his hand as tightly as she dared. “Did you have a good time?”
“It was better than I had anticipated.”
With her eyes shut, she huffed and gave a small smile. “Is it too much to say you enjoyed it?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.” He leaned forward, and she felt the warmth of his breath before his lips brushed her forehead, light as a feather. “I enjoyed spending my day with you, Chris. Sleep well.”