Chapter Thirty-Seven
Christiana had never been in the local inn before, and she found it to be a small, rather smelly building.
Wakeford was not along the Great North Road and had no particular claim to the population of England as a whole; thus, there was little traffic through the village.
The inn functioned more as a tavern than as a place of rest, and as she sat in the small room she and Baxter had procured for themselves, the merriment from below seeped through the floorboards.
She was a duchess. But, perhaps for the first time in her life, she felt small.
Baxter left the room to find some fresh linens, several coins in her pocket, and Christiana allowed herself some time for the shock to seep in.
She might not be her father’s daughter.
Was that a relief or a travesty?
If she were the daughter of a local stablehand, then it meant she did not have the lineage she had claimed all her life.
It meant her father had, knowingly or otherwise, raised a bastard.
Perhaps that had been preferable to admitting his wife had been unfaithful—though Christiana knew for a fact that her father had not been faithful to her mother, either.
Theirs had been a fractured marriage, filled with disgust and dislike and resentment.
If they had ever loved one another, that love had faded long before Christiana was old enough to remember it.
All she could remember was her mother fighting to escape the life she had entered into with the viscount and Lord Barnsley drinking to forget.
And the debts. So many debts.
She spread her fingers, looking at the slight web between each one, the skin thin and pale. Her fingers were still smudged with ink from the letters she had written before leaving on her wild goose chase to Yorkshire, and she scrubbed at them. Duchesses ought not to have ink-stained fingers.
She paused, mid-thought. If Hugh had somehow found out about her heritage—if indeed it was correct—then was that what he had wanted to discuss with her after? It was all very well for a nobleman husband to lie with his wife when she was genteel, but another thing entirely if she was of lowly birth.
If he believed it, whether or not it was true, then would that be reason enough for him to send her away before Amelia’s Season?
Dropping her head into her hands, she groaned.
What did it did it matter, anyway? They had agreed to live separately; what did it matter if it happened before or after Amelia’s Season?
At no point had they discussed it or agreed anything else.
If she had gotten her hopes up, that was entirely her fault.
The door opened, and Baxter slipped back into the room, her face pale. “Your Grace,” she whispered. “His Grace is here.”
Christiana looked up, shock firing through her body like heat. “The duke?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She had the dizzying feeling of having her legs swept out from under her. “What is he doing here?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. The moment I saw him, I came back here to inform you.” She wrung her hands. Christiana had not confided everything in her, but she knew enough. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I must.” Although she had hoped for more time. “Go downstairs and send him to me.”
“There’s something else,” Baxter said hesitantly. “I only got a glimpse of her, but it looked as though he had a lady with him.”
“A lady?” Christiana’s stomach dropped. Could he have found a lover? Replaced her already? Surely not, but dread crept across her skin regardless, bringing a hot surge of pain and tears to her throat.
“I can’t be sure, but I think it was Lady Amelia.”
“Lady Amelia?” What on earth could she be doing here?
If Amelia had come of her own volition despite Hugh’s command, he would be furious.
Not the best frame of mind in which to speak with Christiana, but what choice did she have?
If he had come here, it was no doubt because he had already gone to Barnsley Hall and found her missing.
“Well, I suppose you ought to send them both in, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She turned, but before she could so much as reach the door, it opened with a bang.
The paintings on the wall quivered. And there stood Hugh, his mask in one hand and his other outstretched.
Immediately, his dark eyes latched on Christiana, and a thrill ran through her. Part fear, part anticipation.
He was here without his mask.
Amelia followed him into the room, a hooded traveling cloak over her head. But although Christiana felt a great deal of affection toward the young woman, she had eyes only for her husband.
Something terribly sharp snapped inside her, and the pain was so acute, she pressed a hand to her chest as though she could hold herself together. If she lost someone else now, she would survive, of course, but it would take everything she had to do so.
“Amelia,” Hugh said, his voice almost eerily calm. “Go with Baxter to the room the innkeeper shows you and remain there until I fetch you.”
Amelia glanced between them, but she must have read danger in Hugh’s tone too, because she merely nodded and smiled at Baxter. “It seems we have been relegated.”
“This way, Lady Amelia.” With her kind efficiency, Baxter ushered Amelia from the room, and then Christiana and Hugh were alone. She looked at him, waiting for him to speak, not wanting to hear anything he had to say. There was a rushing in her ears.
Heavens, how she loved him. Every inch of that beautiful, scarred body. Losing him now would near kill her.
“Chris, you’re pale.” He moved purposefully forward, tossing the mask to one side, where it landed with a clatter. He didn’t so much as glance at it. “What did he say, my darling? Was it awful? I should never have let you come alone.”
‘My darling’? She blinked at the tenderness in his voice, her eyes cold and wet. It seemed she was crying. How odd. She so rarely cried.
“My father was as much my father as he has ever been,” she said, and she heard the tremulous note in her voice even as she wondered at it. “Which is to say I hardly know how much he is my father at all.”
Hugh cursed, taking her elbows and easing her into the warmth of his body. One hand cupped the back of her head; her nose pressed against the warm skin of his neck—the unburnt side. He smelled of horses and leather and sweat. “So he did tell you.”
“Wait.” She pushed back, and after some resistance, he let her go. “He told you?”
“As a passing shot, no doubt intended to do far more harm than it did.”
“I can’t confirm or deny it, Hugh.”
“And I’m not asking you to,” he said gently, his gaze searching hers. “Where you come from doesn’t matter, Chris. Not to me.”
The sharp pain lodged in her chest moved to her throat. “You can’t mean that. If it transpires that I am the daughter of some nobody, then surely it calls our union into question.”
“By what means?”
“Because I am not who you believed me to be.” And he was a duke. Moreover, his entire world revolved around Amelia. If his wife did not know who her sire was, there was a scandal for the taking—one that would reflect poorly on Amelia if it ever got out.
“You are ever what I believed you to be,” he said gently. “Besides, what does it matter? Your father claimed you as his own; what happened privately is neither here nor there. Plenty of bastard children have inherited over the years. How is this any different?”
“Amelia—”
“She doesn’t have to know. No one has to know.”
“You don’t know my father if you think he will let this lie. He will be writing letters to all his acquaintances as we speak, informing them of my lack of pedigree.”
Hugh growled in annoyance, the sound so very animalistic that she frowned at him. “Then let him try. You can be sure he won’t succeed.”
“But, Hugh—”
“What? Have you forgotten that we are husband and wife?” He caught her hand, bringing it to his scarred cheek. “I wish I had been there with you.”
She did her best to hold on to her composure.
All her life, she had prided herself on her control—sometimes it felt as though it were the only thing that stood between her and misery.
If she’d ever let her father wound her too deeply, at least she’d let no one see.
When the other girls at St. Mary’s had teased her for her needlework or singing or lack of womanly accomplishments or physical beauty, she had closed off the part of herself that had cared.
But with Hugh, she was split wide.
He had forced himself into her heart, and so when he wielded the axe, he was able to render her utterly in two.
From him, there could be no hiding.
He caught her tears as they slid down her cheeks, and a choked sob left her lips.
“Chris,” he murmured. “Christiana. Don’t cry.”
“I don’t understand,” she forced through a thick throat. “I don’t understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“I thought you would send me away.” She shook her head, but he caught her chin, forcing her to look at him.
“We agreed,” she whispered. “When we married, we agreed that would be our arrangement, and I thought you had changed your mind about waiting until after Amelia married.” Another thought occurred to her. “Why is Amelia here?”
In answer, he sat on the bed, the sad mattress sagging somewhat, and pulled her down on his lap.
It was so reminiscent of the way she had curled up on him the day she had discovered her father had asked for her—but instead of stiffening under her, unwilling to show affection, Hugh wrapped his arms around her.
“She brought me the portrait you used to hire Mrs. Quince,” he said once she was firmly wrapped up in him. When she attempted to escape, he tightened his grip. “And she helped show me what a fool I have been.”
Christiana stared at him, her heart rocketing into her mouth. “You saw?”
“I saw. And, for a time, I was angry.”
She knew she ought to have thrown that stupid portrait away once it had completed its purpose. But she had grown so oddly fond of it.
A mistake, and one she paid for now.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be.” He touched her face. “Amelia tells me you kept it because you liked it. Is that true?”
“You see the scars, and I see the whole.” She looked at his burned cheek, now on display. “Yes, I loved it. I never intended for you to see.”
“I know that.” He sighed, long and heavy.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me the most. The fire did not strip me of my pride, but it did teach me shame, and I’ve been living shackled by it all this time.
Will you forgive me?” He swiped his thumb gently across her cheek, though it was dry now. Just like that, he had taken her tears.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, reaching for him.
He met her gladly, kissing her with all the relief of a thirsty man given water.
He drank her in until she was dizzy with it, until his sweetness softened the sting of her father’s words.
His hands moved down her body, as though reminding himself of all her curves and lines.
As though she were a map he was retracing so he might never lose his way from her again.
“I love you,” she whispered against his mouth, moving her way to the right so she could kiss the disfigured skin there. “Every part of you, scars and all. Every part, Hugh. I would not have you change anything about yourself.”
He smiled, one side of his mouth tilting higher than the other, as was his wont. She loved every lopsided angle of it. “Then even if it were in my power to change, I would change nothing.” He held her closer. “I cannot imagine my life without you,” he murmured.
“Then don’t.”
“I never did, even when I was angry—unjustly so. I’m sorry, Chris. I should have been there with you facing your father. He is a vile, heartless man, and you should not have endured his cruelty alone.” Hugh’s smile twisted into a grimace. “I’m afraid when I saw him, I rather lost my temper.”
Christiana shifted closer, safe in the cocoon of his arms. The ache in her chest had eased, the pain almost gone. “You did? How wonderful.”
“I may have thrown a few things and threatened him.”
“Better and better.”
“I doubt he will apologize to you for all that, but I made it plain to him that you could be anyone’s daughter, and I will still want you for my wife. In fact,” he added, his tone contemplative, “I think I would rather you were not his.”
“Though you asked Mrs. Dove-Lyon for a lord’s daughter?”
“In the eyes of the ton, you are. What care I for the details? A stableboy may well have been a better man than your father could ever be.”
“Without my mother around to tell us, I think it will be difficult to know for certain.”
“Some mysteries in life are destined to be unsolved. But I need you to know how little it matters. I was a fool, Chris, and I thought you saw me as a monster. But you accept me as a man. And I accept you as my wife and a duchess, no matter whose blood runs through your veins.” His eyes softened, so dark and deep, they melted every part of her.
“And if we ever have children, I hope they inherit your eyes and heart and beautiful, intelligent mind.”
He hadn’t yet said he loved her, but she knew it to be true all the same.
“Kiss me again,” she said. “And this time, don’t stop.”