Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
“ F or God’s sake, Your Grace, wake up!”
Ian jerked into consciousness, squinting up at the blurry figure before him. He had spent a long night drinking, before falling asleep again in his study. He rubbed his head, blinking his eyes.
“Hm?” was all he could manage.
“My goodness, Your Grace,” said the figure, chuckling a bit in what sounded like relief. “I had thought I had walked in to find you dead. You really mustn’t scare me like that.”
He was able to place the voice now. Ian blinked again, and dragged a hand across his eyes as he sat up straight. “My apologies, Mr. Ainsworth,” he muttered.
“We were to meet at eleven,” Mr. Ainsworth said. “It is nearly noon. I don’t begrudge you your indulgences, Your Grace, but I must say I am quite surprised. It is unlike you to be so…” His eyes crossed the room, no doubt taking in all of the half-finished bottles of liquor and empty glasses. “Sloppy,” he finished. “What does your wife think of this?”
Something lit up within Ian. “I doubt she will think much of me at all, anymore,” he mumbled.
Mr. Ainsworth blinked owlishly at him. “I beg your pardon?” he replied.
Ian stood up, nearly stumbling. His head pounded from the previous night’s overindulgence, but the roiling hurricane of guilt and sadness within him kept him standing. “She’s…gone”
“Yes,” said Mr. Ainsworth. “One of the manservants told me the duchess had left to see her mother. Are you telling me she fled rather to escape her drunken, boorish husband?”
Ian sighed and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It is none of your business what problems may arise between Cecilia and I. Just as it is none of your business whether my wife and I decide to have children. None whatsoever.”
Mr. Ainsworth nodded. “Ah. So that is what this is about,” he said.
“So you knew?” Ian said. “You knew what trouble you were stirring up when you raised the matter of children?”
“I was not trying to stir up any trouble, Your Grace. Only saying what would be obvious to any onlooker—that you and your wife are very much in love, and that it would be no surprise to anyone if you were to have children very soon.”
At the word love , Ian flinched. “You know no such thing.”
“Which of those two things is incorrect?” Mr. Ainsworth immediately said.
“You have no proof I love her.”
Mr. Ainsworth stopped. “You have not told the girl you love her?” he asked, aghast.
“I…” Ian trailed off. “As I told you from the start, this is a marriage of convenience. Cecilia knows that as well as I do,” Ian said insistently.
“Good God, my lord, if you cannot admit it to her, at the very least admit it to yourself!” Mr. Ainsworth cried, throwing his hands up in the air. “One argument with the duchess—an argument of your own doing, I might say—is enough to throw you into such a sorry state, and you will not even entertain the thought that the feelings you have for her might be love?”
“Whatever feelings I do or do not have, it does not matter,” Ian said, waving him off, “because she is gone. Fled to London, to see her family.”
“So?” Mr. Ainsworth said incredulously. “Go after her, Your Grace. She is your wife; that is your family, as well.”
“I cannot give her what she wants,” Ian said. “I will not have children. She wants children.”
“Have you had any discussion of the matter, other than to state that outright?” Ian shook his head, and Mr. Ainsworth followed by shaking his head in disgust. “Go to her, my lord,” he said again, “and speak your heart truly.”
Ian shook his head, collapsing back into his chair. “She does not wish to speak to me. She does not wish to even see me. There is no point in chasing after her. What’s done is done.”
After a long pause, Mr. Ainsworth finally spoke again. “I think it is long past time you removed your head from your own backside,” he said sharply.
Ian looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Ainsworth shook his head. “Beg though you might, you will not have it. You are acting the fool, Your Grace. For though you have been gifted with all good things in this world—good looks, a surplus of funds, a beautiful house, good friends, a wife who adores you and the prospect of a family—you seem most determined to waste them.”
“I am no such thing,” Ian said. He rose from his chair, shaking his head as he returned to pacing the room. “I am determined to waste nothing,” he said. “If anything, I merely wish to use my knowledge of the cruelties of the world to spare my wife and future child the potential pain of losing a parent.”
“I understand you are still hurting from the loss of your parents,” Mr. Ainsworth said, more gently, though there was a firmness to his voice, as well. “But…”
“But what?” Ian demanded. “But it is time I got over it? Is that what you mean to say? It is time I left the pain behind for good?”
“I am not suggesting you leave the pain behind for good,” Mr. Ainsworth said. As he continued to speak, he did so slowly, as though being certain to choose his words very carefully. “Grief never fully goes away; but it grows smaller as we allow ourselves to build a life around it. To live in spite of your grief is another way of allowing it to control you.”
“I am not allowing it to control me. I am in control of my own life,” Ian insisted.
“I am not certain you are, Your Grace,” Mr. Ainsworth said.
Ian clenched his jaw. “Are you saying you are a fortune-teller, now?” he said rudely. “That you can tell me, with certainty, any other manner of preventing the pain of loss to my wife, and any potential children? I am making the best decision available to me. It only makes sense.”
Mr. Ainsworth let out a frustrated laugh. “Of course I cannot guarantee that you will not die and leave your child and spouse heartbroken, Your Grace,” he said. “No more than you can guarantee that you will. Everyone experiences loss. Everyone suffers in this world, and you are choosing to add additional suffering atop that for no other reason than to satisfy your own stubbornness.”
“Stubbornness? I am acting logically,” Ian argued.
“You are acting out of fear,” Mr. Ainsworth snapped. “Living cautiously is one thing. Being aware of the pain of loss is quite normal, given what you have been through. But living your life as though it is a foregone conclusion? That is a waste indeed.”
“I do not need an old man lecturing me about what I will and will not do with my life!” Ian thundered.
Immediately, he regretted it. But it was too late to take back. Mr. Ainsworth’s usually placid face filled with hurt, and then disappointment. The expression cut Ian worse than any knife.
“Mr. Ainsworth…” he began, before trailing off. He did not know what else to say.
Mr. Ainsworth shook his head. “You are a stubborn mule,” he said, and walked out of the room, leaving Ian alone once more.
Cecilia could not sleep a wink.
She tossed and turned all night, tormented by dreams that kept slipping just out of her grasp, dreams full of sharp words and cold, unfeeling blue eyes.
When at last she woke, there was a moment of peace. Light filtered in through the window, and birds chirped merrily in the early morning. Though she was tired, she reached out by instinct to touch her husband.
When her hand met only cold, unoccupied sheets, her eyes flipped open, and she remembered where she was. Not in her marital bed, but her childhood one. Alone. So very far away from the estate that had, without her realizing it, come to feel like her home. And, worse, far away from the husband she was falling in love with.
A husband who would not—could not—ever love her back.
She bit her lip, fighting back tears as she remembered Ian’s cruel words.
How could she have possibly allowed herself to think he would ever love her? The very idea was preposterous. From the very first moment she had met him, Cecilia had pegged the duke as a callous, shallow rake. The kind of men who would only ever play at being in love.
And yet, it was impossible to deny the feelings that had begun to grow in her heart for him.
Feeling which she had almost thought he had reciprocated.
It made no sense. She remembered how he looked at her, when they made love in his chambers. Surely even the worst of rakes could not fake such emotion?
She shook her head.
I must stop thinking of this, or else I will go mad, she thought. The entire point of coming home to London was to avoid that. I must find some ways to distract myself while I am here, before I go back.
If I ever have reason to go back.
She tried to ignore that last thought. She needed a distraction.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” said the maid who had come in to help her dress.
“Good morning, Jane.” As she sat up out of bed, looking at the inviting expanse of grass and sky, she was struck with a sudden desire to move. “Would you be able to put out some of my riding clothes, please? I think I shall go to the park.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll let the footmen know to ready a horse.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And tell my mother I won’t be home for tea. I shall be paying Miss Banfield a visit directly after my ride.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Jane curtsied and left the room.
In the park, the pale dawn sun provided a faded light which arced across the sky. The air was cool and peaceful. The grass was damp with dew. A few other riders trotted across the park, but it was still largely silent, giving Cecilia plenty of space and time to sort through her thoughts.
She guided her horse down the path, trying to enjoy her surroundings as she thought of her upcoming reunion with Nancy. It had been all too long since she had had word of any new developments in her friend’s wedding planning with Zachary.
Oh, but it was so difficult to stop thinking of Ian! After all, she could not deny that he had had a hand in nudging Zachary towards acting on his feelings for Nancy. At the news of their recent engagement, Cecilia found that, somehow, the person she most wanted to tell was her husband.
Somehow, thoughts of him had become entwined with every memory she had, especially the good ones, so that now she could not even think of her family or her best friend without him being somehow involved.
It was so unfair. She had come to the park to clear her mind of all of this! And yet, she could not help but running over their argument in her mind, over and over.
What could she have said to change his mind? What could she have done? Was there anything at all?
Had the changes she had seen in him really all been in her imagination?
So caught up in her thoughts she was, she didn’t notice a small shadow darting across the lawn towards her. A small dog, which, in its excitement, ran straight across the path, and right in front of her horse.
Her horse reared up, pulling Cecilia out of her thoughts and back into the present. Before she could do anything to calm the steed, he took off down the path.
Cecilia tugged at the reins, but she was helpless. Her horse was too frightened for her attempts and calming words to do any good.
Finally, with a particularly strong buck from the horse, her hands slipped from the reins.
The ground rushed up to meet her with alarming speed. The smack of her head against the cold dirt was so strong that, for a moment, she lost all sense of where she was, and what had just happened.
“Oh, God! Are you all right, Miss?”
A crowd began to gather around her. She was only dimly aware of them, as the world seemed to spin. Her vision blurred in and out of focus. The voice that had spoken to her seemed to belong to a figure above her, but the pain and dizziness were so strong that it was difficult to make out their face.
They sounded concerned, Cecilia thought dimly. Why were they concerned? Where was she? Was she hurt? Her head hurt like anything, that was for certain. She touched a hand to her head. It took a great deal of effort, as though she was moving her hand through molasses, but she finally made it.
When she touched her head, she was surprised to find it was wet. Is it raining? She wondered. She brought her hand to her eyes, and saw that it was red.
I’m bleeding , she thought, calmly. She no longer had the energy to be anything other than calm. Even as her vision continued to fade, she searched the faces around her for the only one she wanted to see.
No luck.
“Ian,” she muttered. “Please, I want…Ian…”
The world went black.