Page 41

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

C yrus rode as though his life depended on it, hoping that the distance between him and Teresa would not be like the staircase in his nightmares, never-ending.

The country roads flew past, his attention fixed directly ahead, noticing nothing of the landscape around him.

He could admire it on the way back, when he had his wife by his side once more.

By the time he came to the gates of Grayling House, the sun had transformed the world into a haze of buttery gold, putting on its last beautiful display before it began to descend to the horizon.

I will not let another night pass without you, Tess, he vowed, taking a breath as he viewed the long driveway ahead of him: the last stretch of what might have been the most important journey of his life.

The scent of cypress greeted his senses as he slowed his horse to a walk, hooves crunching the gravel. The windows of Grayling House winked in the golden light, though whether in encouragement or mockery, he did not know.

When his horse was but ten strides from the carriage circle, and the front entrance to the manor, a figure appeared. A blur in pale green, darting out of the house and down the steps, glancing back as if pursued.

Tess? His heart lurched and leaped, all at once.

But the young woman was not his wife. He realized it a moment later, when she ceased looking back, and turned her gaze toward him.

I ought to brace myself. This is likely to be the first of many unpleasant encounters.

Still, Prudence Wilds had been the one who was warmest to him when she had visited her sister at Darnley. He remembered that as she came sprinting toward him with a scowl upon her face, glancing back intermittently.

“You should not be here,” Prudence hissed, coming to a halt alongside him. “I saw you from the window, but no one else has seen you yet. You must leave, Your Grace.”

Cyrus looked down at her, shaking his head. “I cannot do that, Lady Prudence.”

“If you do not leave of your own volition, I shall have to spook your horse,” she warned, her gaze flitting up to the manor, searching the windows. “You have done enough to my sister. If she sees you, it will break her. Please, for her sake, leave at once!”

Again, Cyrus shook his head. “I know the pain I have caused your sister, but I am not leaving. I shall wait here until she is ready to see me. If that takes until tomorrow, so be it. If that takes a week, so be it. I will stay for as long as it takes.”

“For as long as what takes?” Prudence eyed him with sudden curiosity.

“That is between me and your sister.” Cyrus offered an apologetic smile. “I do not blame you for trying to protect your sister—it is entirely right of you—but all I want is to talk to her. I cannot leave until I have done so.”

Prudence frowned. “Do you believe you deserve to speak with her, after what you have done?”

“I believe everyone deserves a chance to explain themselves,” Cyrus replied. “If she does not accept my explanation, if it is not enough, and she tells me to depart, then I will.”

“Perhaps, I lied. Perhaps, I came down here as her messenger, to inform you that she does not want to see you, you are not welcome here, and you should bloody well go before you cause greater trouble for yourself,” Prudence countered, her demeanor anxious, every word spoken through gritted teeth.

Cyrus took a steadying breath. “If she wants me to leave, she must tell me so herself. It is the only way I can be certain that the message has come from her.” He dipped his head to the younger woman. “Apologies, Lady P?—”

“ What is that man doing on my grounds?” a voice bellowed, another figure appearing on the steps of the front entrance.

Vincent hastened down, striding across the gravel to where Cyrus sat upon his horse.

“Go!” Prudence hissed. “For goodness’ sake, go! I cannot promise that he will not kill you!”

Cyrus nodded. “That is a risk I am willing to take.”

“Leave this place at once, while you still have your head upon your shoulders!” Vincent snarled, his face angrier than Cyrus had ever seen it. “If my sister sees that you are here, and it upsets her all over again, it shall not end pleasantly for you.”

Prudence rolled her eyes. “I was just telling him that.”

“And I was just telling Lady Prudence that I shall not leave, not until I have spoken with my wife,” Cyrus replied, throwing his leg over the saddle, jumping down to Vincent’s height. It was only polite that they should be face to face if Teresa’s brother did demand a duel.

“The gall of you!” Vincent barked, his hands balled into fists, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“Have you not done enough? I was against this from the beginning, though I relented because I thought it was for the best, because you might be a better man than your reputation dictated, but I wish I had never allowed her to set foot in that church with you.”

Cyrus folded his arms behind his back and inclined his head. “As her brother, you have every right to be furious with me. Whatever punishment might give you satisfaction, I shall bear it.” He paused. “But I still shall not leave until I have spoken to her.”

“No, you will obey my command because you are on my lands,” Vincent shot back. “I have asked you to leave as civilly as I am able. My next request will not be civil.”

Cyrus met the man’s eye. “And I am telling you that I shall bear your ‘incivility,’ but I will not leave.”

The fury in Vincent’s eyes darkened to a wild glint, his lip curling, his breathing ragged with the force of his contempt.

It might have inspired a lesser man to obey to flee, but Cyrus remained unmoved.

After all, he was not afraid of violence, or of injury to himself.

The only thing he was afraid of, in the entire world, was losing his wife forever.

Not to death, but to his own stupidity in ever letting her go in the first place.

Vincent let fly the punch that Cyrus had known was coming, the man’s knuckles colliding with Cyrus’ cheek. But it was not well thrown, too hindered by anger, Vincent’s knuckles more of a sharp graze than a bone-cracking hit. Or, perhaps, Cyrus simply was not accustomed to a more gentlemanly punch.

The sting of the hit smarted, Cyrus’ skin throbbing where a bruise would undoubtedly begin to form. Yet, he did not make any attempt to retaliate, his arms still firmly behind his back, his determination unwavering.

“You can hit me until your own hand is broken, Lord Grayling,” Cyrus said. “I will continue to stand where I am.”

Vincent’s eyes flashed. “Then, I demand a duel. I have my pistols; let us see how long you can stand after my shot is fired.”

“Brother!” Prudence yelped, grabbing Vincent’s sleeve. “Do not be ridiculous! Oh, for pity’s sake, where is someone reasonable when I need them? Where is Isolde?”

Vincent gave her a light shove. “Return inside, Prudence. Instruct the butler to bring my pistols. And stay inside.”

“No, Brother, I will not,” Prudence argued. “I am not going to let you kill each other. This is not at all what Tessie wants.”

Vincent turned a dark glare on his youngest sister. “Do as you are told. Instruct the butler. Stay inside. That is all you need to do, and if you do not obey, I shall carry you inside myself and lock the door behind me.”

“Idiots,” Prudence muttered. “Both of you—idiots.”

She turned on her heel and fled toward the manor, sprinting up the steps and disappearing into the house. Leaving the two men alone on the driveway: an arena that only one of them would survive.

“You have one final opportunity to leave before the pistols are brought,” Vincent warned, nodding toward the gates.

Cyrus mustered a smile. “I am aware of how this may end, Lord Grayling. I still will not move. I came here to speak with your sister, and I shall not leave unless I do, or unless you fire a fatal shot.” He sighed.

“We can duel, Lord Grayling, but I will tell you now that I do not intend to fire my pistol. So, the victory is already yours.”

“You would just… stand there?” Vincent asked incredulously.

Cyrus nodded. “I will not raise a pistol to the brother that my wife cherishes so much. I have upset her enough; I would not add injuring you or killing you to that list.”

“But it is a duel,” Vincent insisted. “You have to oppose me in the proper fashion.”

“I do not and will not.”

“There can be no satisfaction for your behavior if you do not duel me as a gentleman ought,” Vincent replied in a frustrated tone, sweeping a hand through his hair.

Cyrus gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “I will partake in a duel if that is what you want, but I will not participate.”

“For goodness’ sake, man, you—” Vincent began to retort, when another voice came shivering across the carriage’s turning circle, high and tight with fear.

“What on earth are the two of you doing?” Teresa shouted. “Please, tell me that you are not about to duel. Please! I cannot bear it!”

Prudence had reappeared in the doorway of the manor, a look of mischief upon her face. Cyrus only had a moment to notice the sly expression before Teresa was right there, standing at her brother’s side, grasping him by the arm in an attempt to pull him away.

“There will be no duel!” she chided. “Heavens, the last thing I need is for the two of you to duel one another! Have some sense, Brother. This is not the way to contend with this. Violence is not the remedy, though I—Vincent! What did you do to his face?”

“I punched him,” Vincent replied. “And mean to do far worse.”

Cyrus barely heard what they were saying, his gaze resting on the beautiful face of his wife.

She was as extraordinary as she had always been, more beautiful than he deserved, yet he could not help but notice the slight hue of purple beneath her eyes.

Evidently, and understandably, she had not been sleeping well.

I have caused that…

“Cyrus?” she said, glaring at him, her voice wavering slightly on his name. “Who is it you have come here to see? Me or my brother?”

“You,” he replied softly.

She glanced back at her brother. “Then, Vincent, this is not your concern. You will not do far worse. You will go inside, and you will grant me a moment with Cyrus, so that I may find out why he is here.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “Please.”

Whether it was the plea or the strength of her voice that persuaded Vincent, it was unclear. The man flashed one more glower at Cyrus, muttering, “I shall permit it, but only for a minute.”

“Thank you,” Cyrus replied, but that only seemed to rile Vincent further.

“I am not doing it for you,” he hissed, marching back to the manor with a black cloud hanging over his head.

Left alone on the driveway, Cyrus gazed at his wife, marveling at her beauty and her strength.

Yet, he found he could not speak, his tongue tying into knots as he thought of the hurt he had caused her.

It was there on her face, glimmering in her eyes, shaping the grim line of the mouth he longed to kiss.