Chapter Thirty-Two
Hugh stood in the small parlor Christiana had claimed for her own. The book of accounts was open on her desk, and she had notes and half-written letters scattered chaotically about.
The library was where she most enjoyed spending her time, but she had slowly, over the period of weeks, made this room feel undeniably hers. The air even smelled like her; strange that now he knew that scent as well as he knew his own.
Part of him thrilled at the thought. That was the part so in love with her, he felt as though he had been living a half-life until she’d come into it. The part that wanted to memorize every single book she gave her attention to, just so he could better understand her quick mind.
That man was not the same man who stared out at him from the portrait before him.
The subject was unmistakably him. No one else had a face so fantastically twisted, rendered in such sick clarity. His melted, warped skin, committed to the canvas.
This portrait was of a monster.
He sat, heavily, in the chair that she so often occupied. The only reason he had entered this space had been to find her and speak about the possibility of hosting a dinner of their own, to capitalize on the success of Mrs. Barnaby’s dinner.
For that, he needed Christiana.
Or at least, he had needed Christiana.
This portrait made him question everything.
How had she commissioned it? Had she painted it herself? The questions circled round and round his head, vicious like sharks. If she had kept it here, did that mean she saw him in this light?
This was the one rule he had insisted upon: no portraits.
If she had come to him with a request—but she had not. She had gone behind his back and produced the most repulsive rendition of him she could muster.
His hand shook as he reached for it. Every instinct inside him urged him to rip it apart. Perhaps if he did, if there was no more proof of her betrayal, he could pretend he hadn’t seen it and go on with his life. They had come so far, and he had believed she cared for him.
No, he still believed that. But she had been working so hard to convince him to reveal his face to the world, all while concealing this. Proof that she thought him horrifying. There could be no other explanation.
Somewhere distantly, there was a crash. He raised his head, but all he could hear was Amelia’s voice, loud and shrill in panic.
Of course. Another disaster. Something else for him to fix; he couldn’t have just one moment to grieve his loss of faith in his wife. Or even to come up with an explanation for this.
For Amelia’s sake, he would swallow the lump of coal in his throat; he would repress the hurt and the anger until he barely felt it. That was the way he had lived his life for the past seven years. How arrogant of him to think that might change merely because he’d married Christiana.
Another crash.
Exhaling slowly, he rose, leaving the painting where it was as he moved back through the house, seeking the source of the commotion.
The drawing room. He paused in the open doorway, taking in the scene before him.
Amelia stood in the center of the room, standing protectively over Christiana and facing down Miss Byrd.
The normally timid woman’s face was red, and she looked on the verge of an apoplexy.
Resignation felt cold and tired in his chest. Of all the moments for Amelia to act on the brewing tension between her and Mis Byrd, it would have to be now.
He stepped into the room. “What’s going on?”
“Your Grace.” Miss Byrd immediately turned to him.
“Your sister thought it prudent to inform me she would be going to the residence of a rake, and I informed her that she would do no such thing. And then, when she refused to listen to my guidance, I attempted to explain to Her Grace that her father, the viscount, was regrettably an unsavory person unsuited to delicate ladies such as Lady Amelia. That was when Lady Amelia made that frightful noise and attempted to send me from the room. But I will not stir from my duty here!” She raised her chin, looking as though she expected to be blasted from the face of the earth.
Hugh very much wished he were capable of such a thing.
“Oh, you bird-witted wigeon!” Amelia burst out.
Christiana raised her head, and for the first time, Hugh noticed her red eyes.
The coldness in his chest cracked, and he almost went to her.
But before he could, he recalled the painting.
Besides, he could not ignore this mess before him solely to tend to her needs. He was the duke.
Just once, he wished the duke were someone else.
“Amelia,” he said. “Where did you learn that vocabulary?”
“What does it matter?” Amelia demanded. “Christiana’s father is about to die. She must go to him at once, and I must accompany her.”
Miss Byrd’s face turned puce. “She shall not!”
“Miss Byrd.” Hugh didn’t raise his voice, but he put every ounce of authority he possessed into it, and the room fell silent. “I’m afraid you do not make the decisions in this house. That right belongs to me.”
“Your Grace.” Miss Byrd’s hands trembled as she clasped them before her. “Surely, you will not allow your sister, your dear sister, to go to such a place.”
“Do not forget, Miss Byrd, that you refer to my childhood home when you speak of such a place.” Christiana fixed Miss Byrd with such an icy stare that the lady almost stumbled backward.
“Well, ma’am, you must confess that your father—”
“What do you know of my father?”
“I may have come to work here thirty years ago, but everyone in London already knew about Lord Barnsley and his wastrel ways. And your mother—your poor mother—”
“Oh, no,” Christiana said, still in that icy tone, the dignity of a duchess falling about her even in her devastation. “If you will insult my father, you ought to treat my mother with the same respect.”
“Enough, Miss Byrd.” Hugh had, abruptly, run out of patience. For so long, he had clung to the way things had been before the fire, but no longer. “You will not speak to my wife in that way. Or my sister.”
Miss Byrd clasped her hands together. “Your Grace, you know I only have the best wishes for you all at heart, and I—”
“You overstep,” he said. “And more pertinently, your role in my household is no longer necessary. You were generous in remaining with us after the fire; you may have a good reference and two months’ pay. Please see Mrs. Quince about gathering your belongings and anything you are owed.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Your Grace—”
“That is my final say on the matter. I will not have the members of my household insulted in such a way. You are dismissed.” He looked away from her to Christiana, who watched him with damp eyelashes behind her salt-flecked spectacles. Her hands were balled on her lap, knuckles white.
They had been intimate numerous times over the past few weeks. Enthusiastically. She had been determined to explore all the ways she could give him pleasure; she had treated his burned skin with reverence.
He wanted to shake her and demand why she’d had such a hideous portrait painted.
Instead, he knew, he must address this latest misfortune: that of her father.
Amelia must have rung for Mrs. Quince, because the housekeeper arrived in the doorway and led Miss Byrd gently away.
The older woman was crying. Hugh knew he ought to have felt something—she had been a part of the household for almost the entirety of his life, and despite her managing ways, he knew she cared deeply—but he felt nothing.
Christiana released a long breath, blinking away the remainder of her tears. Once again, in control.
“You received a letter from your father?” he asked.
“From my father’s steward. According to him—and he would not lie about this—my father’s condition is severe. He has asked for me.” She met his gaze squarely. “And I must go to him.”
Mr. Arnold had begun the process of acquiring the house and the land; if Lord Barnsley died before the transaction completed, then he would no doubt have to attempt it all over again.
When Hugh said nothing, Christiana adjusted her glasses. “I know he has done unspeakable things, but I must have closure. I must, Hugh.”
He stepped closer, bringing Christiana into focus. Her eyes met his, and another ache split his chest, this time at her pain.
If he were a tree, he would have been on the verge of falling.
Yet what choice did he have but to endure?
They would have a conversation about the portrait and the betrayal it signified, but not yet.
Not until she had seen to her father and dealt with her grief regarding that; Hugh knew better than to think Christiana would feel nothing at her father’s death.
However the man had attempted to sever the ties between them, they were bound by blood.
“Then,” he said, each word deliberate, “there is nothing else to do but arrange our travel.”
“Our?” She blinked up at him, her expression hopeful. “You will come with me?”
“Would you rather you went alone?”
“No, of course not. But…” She chewed her lip. “Yorkshire is a long way from here, and I know you dislike traveling.”
All true, but… “Do you need me?” he asked.
Fresh tears bloomed in her eyes, and even now, he wanted nothing more than to wipe them away. “I do, Hugh. Really, I do.”