Chapter 16
Five weeks later
R ufus was struggling. Struggling harder than he had in years. He had not understood what the actual marriage would do to him. Portia was a duchess now. She wasn’t just a young lady that he was pursuing. She was his wife. She was supposed to fulfill a myriad of obligations, things that he had been raised to expect and demand and want.
But he didn’t want to be like his father. He didn’t want to make those sorts of hard commands towards his wife.
And so he had, over the last weeks, written her lists, given her information, made several suggestions on how best to be the most effective duchess. How to be more of a Barret than a Briarwood.
It wasn’t working.
She didn’t like it. He could see it on her face when he spoke to her about the best way to address lords at political dinners. Her face would change as he instructed her that joviality was lovely, but jests should remain free of the sort of wit that lords might not follow.
And of course…it might have been the fact that he was speaking to her less and less about anything that was not related directly to her role as a duchess.
He was failing her, and yet he couldn’t stop. But if she could just see that she was so close to being perfect…
He knew that he didn’t wish her to be some automaton. That’s not why he had married her. If he had wanted an automaton, he could have picked a dozen other ladies in society. No. He had wished for and wanted her . So, why couldn’t he have her? Why couldn’t he let her be as she was?
He ground his teeth in the breakfast room. She would come down at any moment and their daily difficulty would begin. There should have been no difficulty. They were newlyweds, and it was as though once he had married, he had lost the ability to communicate with her.
Oh, in the hours in her chamber, when he could leave the world behind, when he could forget that he was the Duke of Ferrars, things were different. He could give into the passion that simmered in his soul for her.
But when dawn came, his rules returned and his strict code of how he had to live.
He was no longer a man courting a lady. He was a duke giving commands.
And he hated it.
He hated it with every fiber of his being. How could he go back to how he’d been with her for that short time? Just with her.
He had known that once he married her, he would need her to be everything that he required. He had even told her that, and yet it all felt terribly wrong. It no longer felt easy. He no longer felt like he could simply banter with her.
Was it this house, this place? Was it too permeated with the memories of his father and his grandfather, his mother, his grandmother? The coldness and cruelty that had taken place on a daily basis? Was that why it was all going so wrong?
Everything had been different at Heron House. Hadn’t it?
He grabbed his coffee and drank deeply, wishing to distract himself from the turmoil of emotions cycling through him.
“Good morning,” Portia called with a forced smile.
He knew it had to be forced. She wasn’t pleased with him, and he couldn’t blame her.
As she strode through the breakfast room doors, she swept forward and placed a kiss on his cheek. How he admired her for continuing to try to bring more out of him than was there.
“Good morning to you, Portia,” he said. “Sit. All of the things that you prefer are here.”
He’d arranged it. He’d arranged a great many things for her. But they were all things. No spirit. No soul. And that was what she longed for. It was pure hell because it was the one thing he could not figure out how to give.
“Thank you,” she said. “You are always so thoughtful.”
He was thoughtful. He was good at thoughts, but he was not good at feelings, and the feelings inside him were coming to such a boiling point that he did not know what to do.
He could hear his father making demands for what he had to do and what a duchess should do. But he had not wanted what his father wanted! Not really. Not truly. Just a few rules. That was all. And yet the coldness that had overcome him in the last weeks—it was terrifying. It was like something had reached out from the past, grabbed him, and refused to let him be happy.
He looked at his wife, who was so beautiful, so boisterous, so wonderful, and he knew he was letting her slip away from him somehow.
“I found several engagements for you, my dear,” he said, clinging to what he knew. His position. “I need you to go to into the city and give a little speech today. Then I have arranged for a dinner party where you will lead the discourse on the changes in rules to chimney sweeps.”
“All of that sounds wonderful,” she said, taking a piece of toast. “But it is a bit late notice. I had a plan of my own for this afternoon, and I would like it very much if you came.”
He frowned. She had made plans of her own?
She poured out a cup of tea for herself, lifted it to her lips, and looked over at him expectantly.
“I’m very busy,” he said.
“You are always very busy,” she replied. “But surely you can make a bit of time for me.”
“You knew that I would always be very busy,” he pointed out.
“Yes, of course,” she rushed, reaching out to touch his hand. “You’re a duke. My Uncle Leander is always busy too, but I find he and my Aunt Mercy do wonderful things together.”
He tensed under her touch, wishing he could relax, but years and years of being driven to be the sort of duke his father wished was holding him hard. “Your aunt is also the owner of a publishing company,” he said. “I think your aunt is very busy.”
“Yes,” she said, frowning. “Are you suggesting that I am not busy?”
“Not exactly,” he said, realizing even as he spoke that he was making a muck of everything. He had assumed she would do all that he asked, but with her nature. Perhaps with a touch less eccentricity now that she was married… He’d been a fool. And he’d no doubt lied to himself to have her. To convince himself that she would be perfect.
“Portia, you are ready now to take up all of the responsibility of a duchess. And so I think…”
She cocked her head to the side. “You do realize that my aunt is a very responsible duchess, but she also has the publishing company. Perhaps I should take up something as well.”
He blinked. Something else? The Ferrars dukedom was all that mattered. His father had beaten that into him daily for years. “I beg your pardon?”
She sipped her tea, her eyes glowing with excitement. “It’s what I was inviting you to. One of my uncles has the most wonderful institution in the east of London. He also works with his father-in-law to bring education and theater and Shakespeare to poor people all over England. I think it’d be wonderful if you came and you witnessed what they’re doing. They do the most tremendous work with children.”
A cold shiver went down his back. “Yes, that sounds marvelous.”
“Oh, good,” she said. “I think it’s very important that when we have children, they go about and they understand what the world’s really like. Perhaps our children can study Shakespeare with the children my uncle works with.”
His hand curled under hers and his heart began to slam against his ribs, all whilst an icy sweat broke out along his back. “You wish me to be involved with the children of commoners?” he asked. “I’m more than happy to give whatever money is required.”
“No, no,” she protested, clearly certain he was simply confused and not alarmed. “It’s more than that. You should go and meet them and speak with them and see what kinds of lives they have.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.
“Why not?” she asked, tilting her head to the side. “It is so important to get involved in the lives of people—”
“Beneath me,” he said.
She flinched. “I beg your pardon?”
He cleared his throat and sat a little straighter, willing his memories to stay at bay. “I understand that your family is very passionate about helping people. So am I. I think you would agree with that if you considered all I have done in the House of Lords and all the work I am doing with the King. I want to improve the lives of the common man, but I don’t actually interact with the people—”
“Beneath you,” she finished, flinching.
And in that moment, he felt as if he had failed her desperately.
“Yes, that’s correct,” he rasped. “And it’s not because I think that there’s anything wrong with them. It’s just that it’s best if we keep a distance. You see, I’m a duke and—”
“Yes,” she said, “I see. You are a duke, and you mustn’t lower yourself.”
Her words were clear, but the tone to them was so disappointed, so appalled that he felt a wave of nausea come up from his stomach and threaten his throat. Memories of his father channeled through him—grabbing him as he tried to sail those kites that day, beating him, being cruel to him, being disdainful of him.
For playing with boys who were not of his class.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I can see it on your face.”
She was silent for a moment. “What can you see?”
He shook his head. “You think that I’m being cruel, cold, superior.”
“Aren’t you?” she asked.
“No,” he bit out, grabbing his napkin and balling it in his fist. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “You are so full of life, or at least you were. What is this change in you? Please let me in.”
“What do you mean let you in ?” he growled, a tide rushing up inside him. “I’ve never tried to keep you out. I’ve shown you exactly who I am from day one, more than anyone else.”
She winced, but she did not give way. “And that’s why I feel the loss of it so much more recently,” she said. “It’s as if when we got married at St. Paul’s, everything changed. You became someone else.”
A muscle tightened in his jaw as a part of him longed to confess. Confess the horror of his childhood and how he had been shaped into a person who couldn’t be with others. “I am a duke. This is exactly who I am.”
“But where is the man who raced a curricle with me? Where is the man who followed me into gardens?”
“I am right here,” he ground out. “But my role takes precedence and that consumes most of my day.”
“So you are only yourself with me at night. Is that it?”
Any reply died on his lips. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps he could only unburden and unfurl himself in the shadows, in quiet, in front of the fire with her in the evening.
They sat like that. Two enemies on a battlefield. Waiting to see who would fire another volley.
At long last, he began, “I won’t deny it. But you need to understand this is how I was trained to be. I am fulfilling my role.”
“My uncle fulfills—”
“Stop comparing me to your uncle,” he hissed, his heart twisting. Leander Briarwood, Duke of Westleigh, had had parents who loved and understood him. He’d not had the hard stick, a lonely room, and utter derision to mold him. “I am not your uncle, and I don’t think I will ever be.”
“No,” she agreed tightly. “You are correct. You are not, but I feel that there is something you are not telling me. Something happened to you to make you push me away. You are not truly like this, Rufus, not in your heart. I can see it deep in your eyes. You long for so much more. It’s why you picked me. So allow your choice to hold.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” he gritted suddenly, and then he tried to swallow the words back.
“You regret it?” she whispered, her eyes widening. “You regret me?”
“No,” he rushed. “I do not regret you. I do want more for myself, for my children, but you need to understand that I was taught most strongly that…”
The words froze in his throat. He couldn’t. He couldn’t admit it. And he couldn’t face it.
Rufus pushed himself back, placed his napkin down, and headed out of the room. Something was flooding through him. It was like a typhoon stealing his words, stealing his thoughts.
He could make no sense of it. Unable to speak, unable to defend himself, unable to justify his own behavior, he hated himself for his weakness.
For the way his father had stolen his happiness, and all future happiness too, to make what he thought was a perfect duke.
He hated his father, even though he was in his grave, for not allowing him to change.