Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Why are you wandering about?” Leo asked, then faltered, surprise flickering across his features before he masked it with careful neutrality.
“I am recovering, yes, but that does not mean I must remain hidden. That is beside the point.”
His shoulders stiffened, and she could almost feel the tension radiating off him. “And what is the point?”
“This,” she said, her voice low but firm, “is about us. We need to talk.”
He hesitated, and something flickered in his eyes—fear, resistance, maybe guilt.
For a moment, she wondered if she would have to force the man she had grown to love to confront her. But he gave a stiff nod and gestured toward his study.
She followed, closing the door behind her with deliberate care.
She faced him, her hands clasped loosely before her. “Since the musicale, you’ve barely looked at me. You’ve withdrawn completely.”
Leo moved to the window, distancing himself. “I am occupied with the investigation. Blackwood is close to apprehending Westbury.”
“That is not an answer.” She stepped closer. “You’ve avoided me. As if what happened between us, everything we shared, never existed.”
His face remained unreadable, the mask in place, but she caught the briefest flicker of emotion before it vanished.
“I watched you nearly die in my arms. Is that not reason enough for my… distance?”
“Distance implies negligence,” she said sharply. “This is avoidance. Deliberate avoidance.”
He shifted, his hands clenching at his sides. “I failed to protect you,” he mumbled.
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have,” he countered, his voice hardening. “As your husband, it is my duty.”
That last word stung. “What about what’s beyond duty? What about my feelings?”
“Our agreement was to protect your reputation. To rescue you from scandal,” he said coldly.
Her chest tightened. “Is that what’s more important? Our initial agreement?”
He remained silent, his jaw tight, his eyes dark.
She stepped closer, her courage surging. “Then tell me the truth. Were the past weeks, our closeness, our intimacy, merely a way to pass the time until we found Philip? Until Westbury is caught?”
“Selfish,” he said finally, the word clipped. “It was selfish to let it progress. To let you—”
“To let me care?” she interrupted, incredulous. “To feel? You think that was a mistake?”
“To put you at risk,” he said simply. “My attention made you a target.”
The truth hit her with cold clarity. “You believe Westbury would harm me because of us.”
“I know it,” he admitted, his voice almost a whisper. “He saw what you’ve become to me. Used it against us both.”
“So your solution is to push me away?” she asked, her voice trembling with emotion, though she forced herself to remain steady. “To pretend there’s nothing between us?”
“My solution is to keep you safe,” he said, stepping toward the door. “Once Westbury is dealt with, we can live the separate lives we agreed upon.”
Separate lives. As if their marriage were a ledger of obligations, nothing more.
Her hands clenched at her sides. “You are… Heavens, Leo, you are a coward,” she whispered, the word sharp and unflinching.
He paused, his hand on the doorknob, his jaw tightening. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” she said, her voice stronger now. “You’re not pushing me away to protect me. You’re pushing me away to protect yourself. Vulnerability terrifies you more than any threat outside this house, and now you’re punishing us both.”
He did not reply, and the silence that stretched between them was heavy, almost unbearable.
Beatrice drew herself up, her chin lifted. “I will not retreat. I will not hide. I will not let fear dictate how I live. Or how I love.”
His profile was sharp in the morning light, his jaw rigid, his eyes stormy, but she saw the slightest hesitation in his posture, a crack in his armor.
But he didn’t offer a response.
“I see,” she said quietly, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “Then I will trouble you no further, Your Grace.”
“Rest well, Duchess,” he said, then inclined his head in a formal bow and left the room.
Beatrice stood alone, her hands pressed to her chest as tears threatened to spill over. But she would not let him see them. Not now, not ever.
She would carry her agency with her, even if he could not yet match it.
Morning dawned gray and cheerless, rain tapping against the windows like impatient fingers. Beatrice stood in her chamber, watching Emilia pack a small valise with mechanical efficiency.
“Just for a few days, Your Grace?” the maid asked, folding a pale green morning dress with practiced care.
“Yes.” Beatrice’s voice was steady, betraying none of her inner turmoil. “I wish to visit my family. It’s been too long since I’ve seen my siblings.”
Emilia nodded, though her eyes held concern. “And His Grace? Shall I inform him of your plans?”
“I’ve left a note in his study.” The words tasted like ash on Beatrice’s tongue. “He’s aware I’ll be staying at Ironstone House temporarily.”
In truth, the note had been brief to the point of coldness: I shall be at my father’s house. Send word when Westbury is apprehended.
No farewell. No endearment. Nothing to suggest the intimacy they had shared only days ago.
An hour later, Beatrice descended the stairs, her traveling cloak fastened against the autumn chill. Peters waited in the entrance hall, concern evident beneath his formal demeanor.
“The carriage is ready, Your Grace,” he informed her. “His Grace asked me to convey his regrets that pressing business matters have prevented him from seeing you off.”
“Thank you, Peters.” Beatrice kept her voice even, though the slight burned. Leo couldn’t even bid her farewell? “Please make sure that His Grace has everything he needs during my absence.”
The footman bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
The journey to Ironstone House passed in a blur of rain-streaked streets and gray skies that matched her mood. London bustled around her carriage—merchants hawking their wares, ladies dodging puddles, gentlemen striding purposefully toward clubs and coffeehouses.
Life continued, oblivious to her heartbreak.
The Ironstone butler received her with a dignified welcome, though surprise flickered briefly in his eyes at her sudden arrival.
“Is my father at home?” Beatrice asked, surrendering her damp cloak. “And my stepmother?”
“In the morning room, Your Grace, with the young master and Lady Eleanor. Lady Isabella has just returned from her ride.”
Beatrice nodded, steeling herself. She had cried herself to sleep the night before, but no trace of those tears must show now. Her family would worry, pose questions, might even confront Leo—and that she could not allow. This pain was hers to bear alone.
She paused outside the morning room, drawing a deep breath and arranging her features into a pleasant mask. Calm. Collected. The dutiful daughter come to visit her beloved family.
“Beatrice!” Eleanor’s delighted squeal was the first thing she heard as she entered.
Her seven-year-old half-sister abandoned her watercolors and flew across the room, barreling into her with unrestrained enthusiasm.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Beatrice said, bending to embrace the child, grateful for the moment to compose herself further. “Have you been practicing your painting?”
“Every day!” Eleanor tugged her toward the table where her artwork lay scattered. “Look, I’ve been doing landscapes, just like you showed me.”
Henry approached more sedately, though delight brightened his serious young face. At eleven, he was already conscious of his position as heir, modeling himself after their father in both appearance and conduct.
“Sister,” he greeted with a formal bow that made Beatrice’s heart ache with affection. “We didn’t expect you today.”
“A surprise visit,” she explained, ruffling his dark hair. “I’ve missed you all.”
“Beatrice!” Christine rose from her chair by the window, elegant as always despite the early hour. Her keen eyes searched Beatrice’s face, and Beatrice forced herself to meet her gaze steadily. “What a lovely surprise. Is His Grace with you?”
“Leo had business in town,” Beatrice replied, the lie coming easily to her lips. “I thought I might spend a few days here, if that’s not an imposition.”
“Nonsense,” her father’s deep voice rumbled from the doorway. Edwin Hunton, the Duke of Ironstone, stood tall and imposing, though his stern countenance softened at the sight of his eldest daughter. “Your home is always open to you.”
Beatrice crossed to him, accepting his brief but warm embrace. “Thank you, Father. I hope I’m not disrupting your plans.”
“Not at all,” Christine assured her. “How are you feeling now, dear?”
“Just tired from the journey,” Beatrice replied. “Traffic was abysmal in the rain.”
Isabella burst into the room then, her riding habit streaked with mud, her cheeks flushed from exertion.
“Beatrice!” she exclaimed, surprise and delight mingling in her voice. “What are you doing here? Where’s your brooding Duke?”
“Isabella,” their father reprimanded mildly. “Mind your manners.”
“It’s all right,” Beatrice said, forcing a smile. “Leo is occupied with estate matters. I came alone.”
Her twin’s eyes narrowed, suspicion replacing surprise. “Estate matters,” she repeated skeptically. “In London?”
“Some business with his solicitor,” Beatrice elaborated, the falsehood bitter on her tongue. “Nothing of interest.”
Isabella looked unconvinced, but before she could press further, Christine intervened smoothly. “Why don’t you join us for breakfast, Beatrice? We were just about to ring for more tea.”
The morning passed in gentle domestic activity—breakfast with her family, watching Eleanor’s watercolor demonstration, listening to Henry’s serious discourse on his latest history lesson.
Beatrice moved through it all as if in a dream, her responses automatic, her smiles never quite reaching her eyes.
Isabella cornered her in the library after luncheon, shutting the door firmly behind them.
“Something’s wrong,” she stated without preamble. “Don’t insult me by denying it.”
Beatrice turned to the window, watching the rain pelt the glass. “Nothing’s wrong, Isabella. I simply missed my family.”
“Nonsense.” Her twin’s reflection appeared beside hers, blue eyes identical to her own but blazing with determination. “You got sick, yet now you’re here with us. Did you quarrel with Leo?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here without him? The two of you have been inseparable for weeks.”
Pain lanced through Beatrice’s chest at the reminder, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. “We’re husband and wife, not conjoined twins. We can exist separately.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed. “Something happened. Aside from your illness. I can see it on your face.”
“Nothing happened,” Beatrice insisted, turning away from the window. “I’m simply tired, Isabella. The Season has been exhausting.”
Her twin studied her face, clearly unconvinced. “You know you can tell me anything, Bea. Whatever it is—”
“There’s nothing to tell.” Beatrice injected firmness into her tone.
Isabella’s lips pressed into a thin line, frustration evident in every line of her body. But after a moment, she relented. “Fine. Keep your secrets for now. But I know you, Bea, better than anyone. And I know when you’re hiding something.”
Beatrice maintained her composure until her twin departed, then sank into the nearest chair, suddenly exhausted. The effort of pretending that everything was fine drained her more thoroughly than any physical activity could have.
She spent the afternoon with Henry and Eleanor, reading stories and playing chess, grateful for the distraction their innocent chatter provided. Dinner was a quiet affair, her father discussing estate matters with Christine, while Isabella watched her with barely concealed concern.
“Will you be staying long, my dear?” Christine asked as they retired to the drawing room afterward.
“Just a few days,” Beatrice replied, settling before the fire. “Leo will send word when… when his business is concluded.”
Her stepmother nodded, though something in her eyes suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced by the explanation. “Well, we’re delighted to have you, however long you choose to stay.”
When it was time for the younger children to retire, Beatrice volunteered to tuck them into bed, reading Eleanor a fairytale while Henry pretended not to listen from the adjoining room. Their simple affection was a balm to her wounded heart, if only temporarily.
“Beatrice?” Eleanor asked sleepily as she tucked the blankets around her small form. “Are you sad about something?”
Beatrice’s hands stilled. “What makes you ask that, sweetheart?”
“Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes,” Eleanor said simply. “Father says that’s how you can tell when someone’s truly happy—if their eyes smile too.”
Throat tight, Beatrice leaned down to press a kiss to her sister’s forehead. “I’m just tired, love. Nothing for you to worry about.”
Eleanor nodded solemnly. “If you say so. But if you are sad, you should tell someone. Keeping sad things inside only makes them sadder. That’s what Mother says.”
“Your mother is very wise,” Beatrice murmured, extinguishing the candle. “Sleep well, little one.”
Later, safely ensconced in her old bedchamber, Beatrice finally allowed her composure to crumble. She dismissed her maid with a murmured word, locked the door, and sank onto the edge of the bed, her body shaking with the effort of containing her grief.
The tears came then, hot and silent, soaking the pillow she pressed to her face to muffle any sound. She wept for the tenderness Leo had shown her, for the intimacy they had shared, for the future she had begun to envision at his side.
Most of all, she wept for the man beneath his facade—the wounded boy who had never learned that vulnerability could be a strength rather than a weakness.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed her, dragging her into fitful sleep still fully dressed, tears drying on her cheeks.