CHAPTER TWENTY #2
“Well, I am here to gloat about the Season’s most harmonious event,” Lady Victoria huffed, sitting elegantly on her chair, looking more regal than either the duchess or the dowager. “You, of course, have heard of my musicale evenings, have you not, Amelia?”
“I have indeed, Lady Victoria,” she said, smiling, as she took her seat at the pianoforte bench. “Although I have not yet been fortunate enough to attend one.”
“Ah! Then you may be one of my honoured guests.”
Pride bloomed in Amelia as she let her fingers splay over the ivory keys.
“His Grace shall attend too, of course,” Lady Victoria continued.
“Aunt Victoria’s musicale evenings are one of the best events of the social calendar,” Daphne said, her fingers tapping the flute keys to ensure they were smooth and ready to be played. “Nobody has to worry about a dance partner but we may all converse over wine! It is perfect.”
“A most wonderful night,” Felicity agreed. “I am glad you will accompany us, Amelia.”
“Of course.” She smiled happily. “I would not wish to miss it for anything.”
***
Upon his return to the townhouse, Graham shut himself into his study, angry and at war with himself once again. How did he always manage to take two steps forward into better territory with his wife, only to launch several paces back and upset her?
Sitting at his desk, he stared hard at the pages in front of him.
Numbers and words swirled, forming nothing but inky black smudges, as all he could think about was their dance the night before.
Mercifully, his recollection skipped over Percival’s outburst and awful recollection, and recalled how his wife had felt in his arms, her eyes on his, as if holding his gaze was the only thing she had wished to do in the world.
Her skin had been soft beneath his touch, and her dress had swirled around his ankles too, swishing around her widely, as he had spun her around the floor.
For those brief moments, Blackthorn had become magical—they had worked in harmonious tandem, and he had glimpsed a future where he was not a beast, nor a scarred man, and simply was her husband.
Did that version of himself truly exist?
Could he temper his own beast long enough to discover such a thing?
But the more he questioned himself the more his scowl returned. He was letting his guard down far too many times. The dancing, the morning ride on the cliff, the tender conversations. How could he let Amelia perceive him so plainly? His fear clawed at his heart, turned his thoughts bitter.
Watching Amelia stand up for him was both terrifying and touching, and he had not known anybody that would ever do such a thing. His mother or Daphne had tried to silence Percival but nobody had ever spoken up for him when his own trauma had frozen him to the spot, unable to do it himself.
He sighed, running a hand down his face in exhaustion, but not of the kind that a full night’s sleep could cure. It was more the sort that would only get worse if he continued to chase his thoughts in circles. But he could not make sense of anything.
The only thing that makes sense is to distance yourself, his inner voice told him, almost taunting, as if knowing he didn’t want to.
You saw how hurt she was when you could not even jest with her this morning over staying away from the women in the music room.
What is one small rejection now to keep her distanced in order to save her a lifetime of pain?
Graham nodded. Marriages had been successful with far more animosity between the couple.
They could fulfill their duties separately, and only have to appear together for events, surely.
And if he had to endure a dance every now and then where he recognized how much he craved her then… he would simply have to endure.
His head ducked back towards the ledgers.
He moved everything with force, angry at himself as he tried to lose himself in the finer things to assess.
There was the redecoration of the sun-room that his mother had expressed wanting, and then there were frames to acquire to replace the old ones that had grown too worn in the portrait gallery.
He wished to have the stone wall mended on the outskirts of Blackthorn Manor in the countryside, and the townhouse’s garden wall needed tending to, the part that backed onto the woodlands.
They were minor things that did not require much thought but Graham dedicated his whole morning poring over the smaller details, telling himself that each minute detail was worth looking into.
He had to enquire through correspondence with every place he knew that made frames rather than only write a letter to a select four or five.
He dedicated himself to writing letters rather than going out to visit the staff that would do the redecorating and the wall repairs.
That way, the process was longer and it kept his thoughts from going astray.
He spent his morning that way, happily losing himself in a solitary activity where he did not have to question himself. This was familiar—this was comforting ground he knew how to stand on without falling over himself.