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Chapter Twenty-Eight

“ Y ou truly mean to sit here and come to terms with it instead of riding after her?” Mason asked, leaning back in his armchair with his brows raised skeptically.

Robert leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands tightly. The dying fire cast flickering light across his features, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes.

“I have to try, Mason. I told her I wouldn’t control her. That I respected her freedom. That this marriage would never be a cage.”

“Yes, but you love her.”

Robert’s jaw flexed. “I do.”

Mason spread his hands. “Then talk to her.”

“We already talked before,” Robert said quietly. “We had that conversation. We set our terms, drew our lines. I agreed not to ask for more than she could give. She kept her word. So must I.”

Mason’s expression softened. “But things have changed, for you at least. You weren’t in love with her when you made that agreement. Perhaps she wasn’t in love with you either, then. Perhaps… she is now.”

Robert stared into the fire for a long moment, the flames dancing in his reflection. “Then why would she leave?” he asked at last, voice low and aching. “If something had changed, wouldn’t she have stayed and told me?”

Mason sighed. “You two are very complicated, do you know that?”

That dragged a tired half-smile out of Robert. “You think I don’t know?”

That was when Mason stood up, stretching his arms into the air above his head. “Well, brooding by the fire won’t help you. Come on, let’s go knock the sense back into you with some sparring. If you can’t say what you feel, might as well throw a few punches.”

Robert huffed a laugh. “That’s your solution to heartbreak?”

“Works every time,” Mason said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And you look like hell, old friend. Come on. Let’s see if I can finally beat you.”

“You never have,” Robert muttered, rising to his feet.

“Well, maybe now that you’re love-struck and half-mad, I stand a chance.”

The two men stepped into the cool morning air. And though the ache in Robert’s chest had not eased, there was something grounding in the thought of fists meeting leather and breathless silence between blows. A brief escape. And perhaps, amid it all, clarity.

About half an hour, they reached their destination.

The boxing room smelled faintly of leather, old sweat, and the faint bite of linseed oil from the polished floorboards.

The familiar scent and setting might once have steadied Robert’s nerves, but today, it all felt distant, as if the world had drawn several paces away and left him floating within the husk of his own body.

Mason tossed him a pair of gloves. “Try not to embarrass yourself, Your Grace .”

Robert caught them, though belatedly. The leather slapped against his chest. He did not bother lacing them immediately. His fingers felt clumsy, heavy, as though waterlogged. Every movement was a delayed echo of what it should have been. Still, he forced the gloves on and stepped into the ring.

The first punch came quick. Mason always opened with a feint and then a clean jab. Robert should have known that. He did know it, but his body reacted too late. The jab landed square on his shoulder, snapping him back a step.

“Come now,” Mason taunted lightly, circling him. “You’re moving like a man twice your age and half your wit.”

Robert huffed, raised his gloves again, but it was all wrong.

He couldn’t settle into the rhythm. His breath was ragged already, not from exertion but from the turmoil roiling inside his chest. Every blow he attempted felt sluggish, as though his limbs were bound with invisible chains.

He struck but missed. Parried, but it was too late.

Another punch grazed his ribs.

“She’s all you’re thinking of, isn’t she?” Mason goaded, ducking a lazy swing. “Your Lady Bird.”

Robert’s jaw clenched. He swung again, harder this time, more out of frustration than any form. Mason sidestepped easily.

“Good Lord, Robert,” Mason said with a breathless chuckle, “if you fought the French like this, we’d all be speaking their damned language.”

Robert dropped his hands, momentarily winded not from the fight but from the weight in his chest. “It’s like I’ve lost control of myself,” he murmured. “My body… my thoughts… they aren’t obeying me.”

Mason lowered his fists too, watching him carefully. “Because your heart’s too loud to hear anything else.”

Robert stared at the floorboards, jaw working. A fine sheen of sweat dampened the back of his neck. His cravat felt too tight. His gloves suffocating.

He missed her.

Mason turned sharply. With a low growl of frustration, he stormed forward, fist raised, and in one clean motion, aimed a punch directly at Robert’s face.

But he stopped.

The blow hovered just inches from Robert’s jaw, his knuckles trembling with contained force. Robert didn’t even flinch.

Mason arched a brow, smirking slightly. “See?” he said, calm and unflinching. “You’re good for nothing. All dramatics and wounded sighs.”

Robert scowled. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re an idiot,” Mason snapped, pulling off his gloves with sharp, annoyed jerks. “Now stop whining, and go speak to her. Get your blasted life in order.”

“I told you,” Robert said, jaw tight, “I’m following my wife’s wishes.”

Mason stepped forward, dropping the gloves onto the bench with a thump. “And how, precisely, do you know what her wishes are?”

Robert blinked, caught off guard. “She wrote me a letter.”

“Ah yes,” Mason said with biting sarcasm, “a letter penned in a rush, filled with apologies and assumptions. Did she say, explicitly so, that she did not love you? That she did not wish for a life with you?”

Robert faltered. “No, but?—”

“People change, Robert. Their hearts shift. Circumstances shift. And feelings,” Mason jabbed a finger into his shoulder, “can deepen. But no one can make a choice if they aren’t given the chance to do so.”

Robert stood very still, breath caught in his throat. Evelyn’s laughter, her fierce eyes, her trembling voice when she said she would follow whatever path he chose—it all rushed through him like a gust of wind breaking open a shuttered window.

“You’re right,” he whispered, the beginnings of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Damn it, Mason. You’re right!”

Mason stepped back with a smug shrug. “Of course, I am.”

Without another word, Robert ripped the gloves from his hands, tossed them at Mason, who caught them with a grunt of surprise, and bolted for the door.

“Where are you going?” Mason called after him.

“To find her,” Robert shouted over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor. “To give her the choice she never got.”

Mason shook his head, chuckling as he watched his friend disappear. “Finally,” he muttered to the empty room. “About bloody time.”

The scent of lavender and old wood hung gently in the air as Evelyn stepped through the threshold of her new townhouse.

It was modest by London standards but fashionable with delicate molding, tall windows, and just enough character in the creaking floors to make it charming.

The walls were still bare, the fireplace cold, and only a handful of her belongings had arrived, but it was hers. Her own space.

Matilda hovered nearby, draping a shawl over the back of a chair, while Hazel and Cordelia busied themselves with unpacking trunks and fussing over curtain colors.

“It’s rather cozy,” Cordelia said gently, smoothing her hand over the mantle. “I quite like it.”

“It will be perfect once you’ve put your touch to it,” Hazel added. “A few paintings, perhaps a new rug… yes, this could very well be a lovely little escape.”

Evelyn smiled faintly though the expression didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yes. I think so too.”

She knelt beside a half-opened trunk, withdrawing a familiar silk dressing gown and folding it with care. It still smelled faintly of lavender water and something else, something that reminded her of her dressing room at the ducal estate. Her throat tightened.

Matilda watched her with silent concern while Cordelia perched on the arm of a chair.

Hazel, always the direct one, finally spoke. “Evelyn, dear… are you certain this is what you want?”

Evelyn paused, smoothing the fabric over her knees. “It is what we agreed upon. From the beginning.”

“Yes,” Matilda said gently, “but much has changed since then.”

Cordelia nodded. “You love him.”

Evelyn’s fingers curled slightly in the silk. “I do.” She forced the words out before they could choke her. “But that is not enough, not if he doesn’t feel the same.”

“You don’t know that,” Matilda said softly.

“I do know,” Evelyn replied, rising slowly to her feet. “He had every chance to say something. I waited… and he said nothing. And I… I couldn’t bear to stay just to be told goodbye.”

She turned toward the window then, with her arms folded across her chest, watching the misty outline of carriages pass along the street. Her heart ached like a bruise pressed too often.

“This was for the best,” she added, more quietly this time, as if trying to convince herself. “We both deserve a life not built on pain. And he deserves to be free of the past.”

There was a pause, heavy with words left unsaid, until Cordelia stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Evelyn’s shoulders.

“You are the bravest woman I know,” she whispered.

Evelyn closed her eyes, breathing through the ache in her chest. “Then why does it feel like I’ve broken my own heart?”

Cordelia’s arms tightened around her, and Evelyn leaned into the embrace for a breath or two before stepping away with a fragile smile.

Hazel knelt by the open trunk and began folding the rest of Evelyn’s gowns with brisk efficiency. “Because you have,” she said simply, not unkindly. “But sometimes a clean break is better than lingering in uncertainty. Time will ease it.”

Evelyn turned back toward the center of the room, her fingers twisting in the fine muslin of her sleeve.

“I thought I had prepared myself. I told myself this was always going to end.” Her voice trembled despite her best efforts.

“But last night, before he left… I hoped. I don’t know why, but I hoped he would say something, do something. Anything.”

Matilda spoke up from her place near the hearth, her voice hesitant but clear. “He may not have known how to.” She was pale but steadier than she had been the night before. “The Duke… he is not a man accustomed to speaking his heart.”

Evelyn gave a soft, humorless laugh. “No. He speaks through action. And last night, he acted. He left.”

Silence stretched across the room. The only sound was the ticking of the small clock on the mantel, counting out each painful moment.

Cordelia sat herself down beside Evelyn and took her hand. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever happens next, we are with you. Always.”

Evelyn blinked away a tear and squeezed her friend’s hand. “I know. And I am grateful. Truly.”

Hazel stood, dusted her skirts, and gestured to the disheveled pile of trunks. “Then I suggest we stop mourning and start arranging. There’s far too much to do in this house, and I, for one, refuse to allow you to wallow when there are curtains to be hung.”

That earned a small laugh from the group, and the tension in the room eased just a little.

Matilda stepped forward with folded linen in her arms, her expression both earnest and timid. “May I help too?”

Evelyn smiled warmly at her. “Of course you may. This is your home now, too… for as long as you need.”

Matilda’s eyes shone, and for a moment, Evelyn could forget the sharp ache in her chest. There was comfort in this sisterhood, one born of pain but tempered in love.

Still, as she turned to help Cordelia with the books, her gaze drifted again to the window. She told herself not to look for him. But she did.

Suddenly, a deep, loud voice echoed through the corridor, just outside the drawing room.

“Evelyn?”

Evelyn suffocated a gasp. Her head was shaking, and she was unable to stop it.

“It can’t be,” she kept repeating to herself.

But it was. And a moment later, Robert appeared in the doorway.