Page 24 of A Bride for the Forbidden Duke (Forbidden Lords #2)

Chapter Twenty-Four

“ M ust you leave so soon?” Veronica asked. “The guest chamber is not needed. It is free for your use.”

“That is very generous of you, sister, but I truly must leave,” Robert said, glancing over her shoulder at the Duke. “You have both shown me incredible generosity even when my earlier behavior did not warrant it.”

She waved him off. “You are my brother, and this is my home. I wish for you to feel comfortable in it.”

His gaze returned to her. “Nevertheless, I must not keep our fretful mother waiting longer for her reunion, and I believe you have a ball to organize.”

Over breakfast, which she had been overjoyed to see her brother accompany her for, she had announced her plans for the ball. He had almost wept with gratitude.

“I am sure the rumors about me have been vicious,” he’d said. “While it will be good to set them right and be a part of society again, I am rather nervous. I do not want the ton to find me lacking.”

But Veronica was very confident that the ball would be a success, and by the end of the night, the Earl of Grantham would be reinstated as one of the most eligible bachelors, rich with tales from Europe. Perhaps they could tailor the stories to make him look like a warrior who had fought his way out of battle with the pirates.

She hugged her brother goodbye, and he shook hands with the Duke. Thomas was already waiting in the carriage and would see Robert back to London. Entering the manor once again with Henry, she paused, looking up at the entrance hall.

“I would like to begin my planning today,” she said. “I shall organize invitations shortly.”

Henry nodded at her. “Then I shall definitely leave you to it. Should you need anything, I will be in my study.”

He leaned down and kissed her briefly as a farewell, and only as he pulled away did they both hesitate, realizing how naturally it had happened outside of their bedroom. As if… as if he had kissed her out a true desire to simply show affection rather than a sexual intimacy.

He cleared his throat, stepping back. “I shall be in my study.”

Before he went, Veronica blurted out, “Would you like to have a luncheon together? I have always been fond of tea rooms, and I noticed there was one in the village.”

“Miss Hettie’s?” he asked.

“That is the one.”

Henry did not answer her for a moment, and she prepared herself for disappointment, but then he glanced at her over his shoulder, having walked a few paces before stopping. “Yes.”

And then he was gone, his boots clicking on the marble floor, and Veronica was left wondering at the swoop in her stomach watching his retreating figure.

Veronica drifted from room to room, assessing where to host different parts of the ball.

“Of course, there shall be the main ballroom for dancing,” she told Mrs. Nelson. “And we shall dine in the dining hall. But I wish for something else. Something… different. Perhaps Robert could host a space in the manor to recount his stories at intervals.”

“That would be lovely,” the housekeeper told her as they walked through the halls.

“I am very familiar with Westley Manor, but do you have any suggestions?” Veronica asked. “I feel as though the drawing room might present too casual of a space. After all, he has been gone for a year. I wish for him to feel truly welcomed back to the ton .”

“How about the library?”

Veronica shook her head.

“The music room?”

“It is too crowded,” she explained. “I am hoping for an open space where he can present his stories quite theatrically if he wishes.”

Mrs. Nelson considered for a moment before her face lit up. “There is always the gallery room. His Grace never uses it, but it is open, would project his voice wonderfully, and many guests can space out in there.”

“Perfect!” Veronica said. “Lead the way.”

Mrs. Nelson produced a set of keys and took her to a white door on the ground level of the manor, further back than she usually frequented. She unlocked it and pushed the door open, and Veronica entered the tall space filled with dozens of frames, all bearing paintings of different kinds.

“This is incredible,” she gasped. “My father had something similar in Grantham House, but it was nowhere near the size of this.”

“Most of the landscape collections are His Grace’s,” Mrs. Nelson said. “But the family portraits are the forefathers of the former Duke of Westley. Of course, he also brought the abstract paintings into the manor.”

She gave a small laugh at that, as Veronica’s eyes landed on a strange-looking flamingo whose feathers burst out like a peacock. She was suspecting a pattern.

“And who is this?” she asked, drifting to a cluster of family portraits.

A couple posed behind a young boy. The woman clasped the boy’s shoulder gently while the man’s hand on the boy’s other shoulder looked heavy. The boy’s face looked positively miserable, even against the unsmiling expressions of the couple.

“That is His Grace,” Mrs. Nelson told her. “He was merely six and ten when the portrait was painted. His mother, Francesca Banfield, the former Viscountess of Kemble.” She gestured to the woman in the portrait, her long, dark hair pinned back elegantly to expose a soft face. “And the former Viscount of Kemble, Dominic Banfield.”

Her voice curled around the man’s name, and it was only then that Veronica recalled Lady Sheridan’s words.

Henry’s childhood was difficult… His father was tyrannical, ruling their home with an iron fist… If Henry was not adhering to that iron fist, then he was surely under the blows from it .

Veronica looked at the deceased Viscount. “Henry has his father’s eyes,” she noted, seeing the warm brown of Henry’s gaze, except on Lord Banfield, it was a cold, hard stare.

As if he was even disapproving of the painter.

“It is one of the few things he brought from his former residence,” Mrs. Nelson said. “The painting. Although he rarely comes in to look at it. I think it causes him too much pain.”

Veronica nodded slowly, her heart aching.

What did you do to him to cause so much damage ? she wondered, looking at Henry’s father.

She knew that fist he had on Henry’s shoulder in the painting had caused him pain, but there was more beneath his surface. Not just cold anger but devastation. Something else had happened to Henry—to his mother, too. Lady Sheridan had alluded to a fateful night but had said nothing more about it.

The Viscountess looked… sad, almost removed. Her eyes were slightly lowered, her mouth pinched as though she had to hold her tongue.

What had they endured?

“We must not dwell in here, talking of such things,” Mrs. Nelson muttered. “Do you think it is a good space for Lord Grantham’s story, should he wish to tell it?”

Veronica did not really want to parade her brother around anymore, and her passion for the presentation of his disappearance suddenly drained, seeing such a broken family. Her own had been but not in the same way as Henry’s.

“I think I shall leave the performance planning, after all,” she said. “My brother’s tale is his own to tell wherever he should like to. That can be among small circles, or he may find his own corner to speak of it.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

Mrs. Nelson gave her a sympathetic look before she led them out of the gallery and into the hallway where Veronica tried to distract herself from her questions by planning a theme for the ball.

Masquerade, perhaps.

“You are quiet,” Henry noted as they rode in their carriage to Miss Hettie’s Tea Room. “Is there something bothering you?”

Veronica jolted back into the present, realizing she had lapsed into thoughtful silence. “I am merely mentally preoccupied.”

“Are you thinking of your brother returning home?” Henry asked.

I am thinking of you , she thought.

“I should have encouraged him to stay,” he considered. “I hope I did not make Lord Grantham feel unwelcome.”

Veronica shook his head. “No, I am sure my brother is very well. And he was grateful for you letting him gather himself overnight.”

“So, what ails you? Is it the ball? We can cancel it if it is adding too much pressure.”

“No,” Veronica said quickly. “It is not the ball. I am quite fine.”

“And I am not convinced,” he replied, his tone light, and an unconvinced smile played on his lips, but Veronica shook him off.

He gave her a worried look. In all honesty, Veronica could not get the thought of Henry’s parents from her mind. Her thoughts had become a tornado of worry and questions and doubts, and she had never done well at hiding her true emotions.

But the Duke dropped his questioning, and they rode to the tea rooms in relative silence. Henry was not a conversationalist, and for once, Veronica was glad. He did not press her until they were seated at a window table in Miss Hettie’s, being served delicate slices of cake.

“Lemon,” Henry noted as Veronica picked up her fork. “Interesting.”

“What?” she asked, a half-hearted smile on her face. “Did you not think I liked lemon?”

“I… Well, I actually imagined you as a vanilla cake sort of lady.”

“Had you thrown me a proper wedding breakfast with a cake, then you may have seen what sort of cakes I liked sooner,” Veronica tried to tease, but it came out sharper than she planned.

She winced. “I apologize for my tone.”

Henry actually looked bashful, hanging his head. “I was crass with my arrangements,” he said. “I merely wanted to provide for your mother and you before that vile lord could inflict more damage. I have never apologized for being so clinical about our wedding.”

Was that… a softness she detected in his voice?

Their wedding had been a convenient service and nothing more, and although Veronica had disliked the whirlwind, snappish decisions made for her, she had at least understood.

“If anything,” she said carefully, “it was better it was that way. It removed any sentiment.”

He eyed her strangely. Slowly, he forked a piece of raspberry-covered chocolate into his mouth. “Yes. Indeed.” He paused. “Veronica, are you sure you are all right?”

“I am fine.” She forced a smile. “I did not take you for a chocolate lover.”

“I have always had a soft spot for it since I was a boy,” he said, smiling. “It was a… singular love of mine as I grew up and learned where my mother kept her sweet treats. On one of my birthdays, she took me to the most expensive chocolatier in London.”

Veronica stopped, her fork halfway to her mouth. A piece of lemon icing dripped from the cake. She had not expected him to talk so freely of his mother.

She wished to ask him if he one day wanted a son or a daughter to take to the chocolatier, Veronica at their side. But the last time she had asked about children, he had dismissed her cruelly. He had grown detached for a moment, and she did not feel confident to ask about them again.

Yet she was driven to insanity not asking.

Seeing the portrait in the gallery brought up even more questions than she already had.

“What is it?” he asked her. “And do not answer me nothing , or that you are fine. I can see you are not.”

Veronica deliberated.

I should not be asking and yet… if he wishes to have a future with me, surely, I need to know.

“Whatever ails your mind, I would like to listen,” Henry told her.

Around them, the clattering of cups on saucers grounded her racing thoughts, and she set down her mouthful of cake, tracing the embroidery idly on the tablecloth.

“I wish to ask about something, but I worry about your reaction,” she said.

Henry stiffened. “Then I shall keep that in mind.”

“It is only that as I was organizing the ball today, I searched for a space for Robert to host a small audience in case he wished to tell the tale of his journey.” She paused, only for him to nod and gesture for her to go on. “And I found the manor’s gallery.”

Henry’s walls rose; she watched it happen, even as he fought it.

He is trying for me , she thought, incredulously.

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I am sure you know what portrait you brought with you,” she told him. “I found it. I… I asked Mrs. Nelson a few things about your parents. She would not say much, do not be cross with her. She only told me your age when the portrait was completed and the names of your parents.”

“Their names do not matter,” Henry muttered. “Their names are in the grave as they are.”

“I understand,” she said quickly. “I only… Well—Henry, what happened between your father and yourself?”

“I do not think this is really the place to answer that.”

His voice was laced with a hard edge, and she knew she should have kept her questions to herself, but he had encouraged her to ask. She had wanted him to have the chance to be open with her.

“Shall we promenade?” Veronica offered.

Henry finished his last bite and turned to stare out of the window. “I suppose it hardly matters. Wherever we are, the mere mention of that man’s name pollutes the air.”

He sighed.

“He was cruel to you,” she said. It was not a question.

Henry’s jaw worked, and eventually, he nodded. “Very much. To my mother and myself.”

“And I know something happened in your family,” she pressed quietly. “Something… terrible.”

“Many things happened in my family, but there is one night particularly, yes. If you are finished, then perhaps we can promenade.”

Veronica nodded, and they left the tearoom, walking past their carriage towards a nearby park.

Silence shrouded them until they reached a small, arching bridge over a lake, and Veronica stood at the fencing around the bridge, watching Henry carefully.

“My father…” He sighed again. “My father was callous, and cruel and had not an ounce of kindness in him. Not to me, not to my mother. Not to anybody.”

Henry avoided her eyes, but she ached to have them on her. She wished to drown in them—to read him much better than his tone, already closed-off, told her.

“He… he preferred his mistresses to his wife and gambling to his son. He was not a father nor a husband. He was a man who came home after indulging himself and remembered we existed. And when that did not please him, he raised his fists.”

Henry’s face was detached, his voice flat as though entirely removed from the heaviness of the words.

“I am sorry,” Veronica said quietly, clasping her hands before her. “I should not have asked.”

“I tried to protect my mother,” Henry said quietly, looking down into the lake below them. “I grew up hearing her muffled cries and the sound of blows that would always echo terribly from their chamber. And when I cried, only a young boy who was scared of his father, those blows turned to me to quieten me down.”

Veronica’s chest swelled with sadness. She moved closer to him, and Henry let her. “What happened to him?”

“I intervened one night.” Henry’s shoulders were tight, and she ached to soothe them with gentle touches, but she could not. “It got too much. I was around twenty years old, and I could no longer stand the cruel things he said or did to her. I intervened, only trying to push him off my mother, but he—he slipped and fell. I still remember how his head hit the marble floor in the entrance hall. I remember the blood and my mother’s scream.”

He shuddered, his eyes vacant for a moment before he squeezed them shut. When he reopened them, he was stoic.

“My mother never recovered,” he told Veronica. “As awful as he was to her, the abuse ensured she was a puppet with her strings cut when he died. As though, without him, she lost her capability. But he had taken everything away from her already. She sank into an illness borne from that grief and stress, and the guilt ate away at me for causing it. His death was an accident, but it leaves me with guilt nonetheless.”

His head hung.

“And that is why you keep your distance,” Veronica whispered. “For fear of repeating your past. Your guilt for not being there for your mother sooner.”

Henry eyed her, witheringly. “Yes.”

It sounded as though it hurt him to admit such a thing.

“Henry,” she murmured, reaching for his hand, but he pulled away.

“That man—that vile plague of filth that ruined my childhood and every year after—is the very reason I shall not have children, Veronica, and I vow that to you. His blood runs through me, and I have stared my own anger in the face and seen what I could be capable of. I could be my father’s son, well and truly.”

His face was tight, as if it pained him to think about.

“I cannot put you through that. I cannot put any child through that possibility.”

Veronica gaped at him in disbelief. “You truly think that is what you will become? Henry, I believe such actions are a choice, and you are too good of a man to choose such ways.”

“I have treated you roughly,” he told her.

“I have asked for that,” she countered. She lowered her voice. “Such pleasurable moments are not the same as heavy fists and cruel ways.”

He looked at her, devastation pinching his brow, tightening his mouth.

Moving closer, Veronica pulled him from the bridge and tucked them within an overhanging willow tree that concealed them from view of passersby.

Her fingers curled into his jacket. “Henry, you are good . You are kind and considerate. I have seen how you speak with your tenants. I have seen the glimpses of joy Mr. Shawcross and your family bring you. You hide your moments of happiness well, but I can see through that facade. You told me not to pretend you care for anyone, but you have shown me so many moments where you do. As it sounds, your father would never act in such ways.”

“And so… you would be a wonderful father,” she insisted.

Henry’s pained expression hurt her too greatly to look at him, but she persisted. Even as he pushed her back towards the tree trunk, her back pressing into the rough bark.

Her breath escaped her when she had the full weight of his emotions on her in his eyes.

“You are nothing like him, and that fear from your past should not have the power to jeopardize your future.”

“Except it does,” he growled. “Because I grew up under his fist. I was never taught kindness, so how am I to teach a child it? I deny anybody who tries to get close to me. I have shut you out many times.”

“And I am stubborn enough to come back,” she argued.

His hands were hot on her hips, pressing through her thin dress. She ached for them to seek her body beneath the fabric, to be so daring in such a place. But he was not fired up in such a way. No, anger blazed through his eyes—but not the kind that meant he would bring her to a dizzying climax from his intensity.

“So that is what you will teach our children?” he spat. “That to earn their father’s love they must be stubborn and persistent? I was stubborn and persistent. I craved my father’s love, and the more I searched for it in places where it could not grow, the angrier he became.”

“He is not you, and you are not him.”

“I do not know that for certain.”

“You shall not even give us the chance to learn? For yourself to learn love and tenderness? You are dismissing any children we have before I am even with child.”

“It is a good thing you are not.”

His declaration shocked her and pierced something right through her. Veronica craved children—she wished to be a mother more than anything. Her best memories were with her mother, and she wanted that connection herself.

“You truly shut down the notion so easily?”

“I warned you of it from the day we were wed.” His voice was low, warning.

“I feel as though you are merely trying to prove you are the same as your father. As if you wish your predetermined opinion of yourself to be right, so you do not give yourself a chance to learn otherwise. If you cannot trust yourself to love, then what will you leave yourself with, Henry?”

“Certainly not you,” he whispered. “For you will not wait around for such a heartless man to love.”

Her chest grew heavy with grief. “You do not mean that as a threat.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Henry.” His hands bunched in her dress, as if he wanted her even as they argued—as if this fire between them was either going to explode into an inferno or extinguish. “Are you truly so stubborn you will purposefully ruin what we have just to prove yourself correct? Because I believe that is what you are doing.”

“I did not mislead you,” he warned her.

And she knew, then: this would be no inferno. This was about to be a rainfall, dousing the flames of their craving for one another.

“We talked of living separately, did we not? It is better that way, for I will not have children, Veronica, and I will not be swayed on the matter. You cannot force nor convince me.”

Veronica gasped, stinging pain spreading through her.

He is surely not causing such catastrophe… Surely…

She gathered herself, hardening her expression as she had watched him do. “Of course,” she agreed, grateful her voice did not crack and betray her hurt. “After all, our marriage was only a convenient one.”

“Yes, and now that your brother has returned, it has served its purpose.”

Veronica forced herself not to look away from him in hurt. “Indeed, it has.”

He stared back at her, and she wished she could read deeper into his face. His eyes told her nothing but cold removal. Only an hour ago, they rode together in the carriage, and he had told her he was trying to open up. But now all she saw was a hurt boy that had turned into an ice-cold man.

She lifted her chin, her mouth quivering, the only betrayal of her true emotions. “Then I shall return to London after my brother’s ball, and I shall leave you be. If you wish to live in that manor, childless, alone, and pushing everybody away who tries to care for you, then you may do so, but I shall not stand by and watch.”

Angrily, she walked away from him.

She waited for him to call her name, to bring her back to his side, to kiss her and beg forgiveness, but only resolute silence lingered, and by the time she reached their carriage, Veronica could not keep her tears at bay any longer.