Page 23 of His Runaway Duchess (Regency Wedding Crashers #3)

CHAPTER 23

D aphne woke up in her childhood bedroom and promptly burst into tears.

And here I was, hoping it was all a dream.

At once, there was a shuffling of fabric in the corner, in what had appeared to be a pile of clothes tossed carelessly on a chair. Emily surfaced from the pile, disheveled and sleepy-eyed.

“You’re awake,” she gasped.

Daphne sat up in bed, wiping her tears on the corner of the quilt. “Emily, have you been here all night?”

Emily smothered a yawn. “Of course. I intended to stay until you’d fallen asleep, remember? But then I think I might have fallen asleep first.”

She disentangled herself from the fabric, revealing that she still wore last night’s gown, crumpled and creased.

Daphne pulled herself up into a sitting position, falling easily into the divot in the mattress worn out by many years of sleeping in the middle of the bed. A few weeks away from home hadn’t smoothed out the divot.

Emily settled herself on the edge of the bed, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Mama said I should let you sleep,” she said. “She’s gone out early to fetch Anna and tell her everything. She’s afraid that the Duke of Thornbridge will come storming back and fetch you. You’re his wife, so I suppose he could drag you back if he wanted to.”

Daphne shook her head. “He won’t do that.”

“How do you know?”

She hesitated, just for a moment. “I don’t know, I just do. He’s cold, but not cruel. He’ll leave me alone.”

Emily eyed her for a long moment. “You say he’s cold. What do you mean by that?”

Daphne considered for a while before she answered. Of course, she was not going to tell her sister about the events in the pond, or their wedding night, or any of those times that had left her feeling as though Edward did care.

No, there was more than that. There were a hundred little things he’d said, looks he’d thrown her way, and more that made her believe that perhaps he cared more for her than he claimed.

Or perhaps I was just seeing what I wanted to see.

“He’s fair,” she said. “He said I could live as a spinster if I wanted to. So, I will.”

Emily tilted her head, eyeing her sister thoughtfully. “But you don’t want to live as a spinster.”

Daphne closed her eyes. “No. No, I don’t. But it doesn’t matter what I want, does it? Life doesn’t work out perfectly. It’s not like in the novels, where all the threads are tied together at the end. Besides, Edward is obsessed with that curse nonsense.”

Emily’s eyebrows shot up. “Curse?”

“Yes, you know the story. His mother died giving birth to him, his wife died giving birth to his child. He claims not to believe it wholly, but it’s clear that he does. Part of me wonders whether that’s why he keeps me at arm’s length, but could it not be possible that he simply doesn’t… doesn’t…” Daphne swallowed hard and forced herself to continue. “Doesn’t care about me?”

Emily stared at her, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think that’s possible. I saw him look at you, Daphne. I saw the way he looked at you. I believe he’s fond of you, at the very least.”

Suddenly feeling restless, Daphne threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. Cold air immediately assailed her, cutting through the flimsy material of her nightgown with ease. She strode over to her case, still not unpacked, and began rifling through it, looking for a gown for the day.

“I don’t want fondness ,” she answered abruptly, not turning around. “You are fond of me. Mama is fond of me, as is Anna, Beatrice, Theo, and all the rest of them. Plenty of people are fond of me. I wanted more from my husband, Emily.”

There was a small silence.

Daphne pulled out a duckling-yellow gown. It wasn’t her favorite color by any stretch of the imagination, but it was easy to put on. She didn’t care about what she wore. Why should she?

“You didn’t always think that way,” Emily said, her voice small. “What changed?”

Daphne straightened up with a sigh. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It just crept up on me. I want him , Emmie. I want a family, a proper life. And his little boy, Alex…” she trailed off, wishing she hadn’t brought him up. A lump formed in her throat. “He likes me. I wanted to be a proper mother to him. Instead, I just packed up and ran away when things became difficult. Oh, Emily, do you think I should go back? Do you think I am in love with him? And if I am, what am I to do ?”

Emily climbed off the bed and crossed the room to stand beside her sister. “I think that you need time to clear your head,” she answered severely. “I think that you don’t have to make any decisions just yet.”

“I can’t seem to think. My head is packed with wool, and I can’t think .”

“One step at a time,” Emily insisted. “Now, I’ll help you dress. Once you’re dressed and washed, you’ll feel better. Then, we’ll go down and have breakfast, and once you’ve eaten, you’ll feel even better. And then we’ll sit together and talk about things. Then, you can decide. Then, you can think , and no matter what you want to do, Daffie, you know that we’re here for you. That we’ll support you.”

Daphne drew in a deep breath. Misery still hung heavy in her chest, like a weight pulling her down. But Emily was right.

I can’t lie in bed all day, feeling sorry for myself.

“Very well,” she heard herself say. “We’ll do that.”

On cue, carriage wheels began to rumble up the drive. Emily crossed to the window and peered out. She winced.

“Uh-oh. Better get started quickly, then. Anna is here.”

Edward felt the sting of bile in his throat. The whiskey sloshed in his empty stomach. He swallowed hard, trying to calm himself.

“Clarissa, put down the letter opener. It’s sharp. You might cut someone, or yourself.”

Clarissa stared at him for a long moment, then down at the letter opener, as if surprised to see it in her hand. She turned the handle over and over in her palm but did not drop the blade. Edward considered briefly whether he should step forward and wrench it from her. He quickly dismissed the idea.

She swallowed thickly, squeezing her eyes shut. “It wasn’t meant to happen. It was never meant to happen.”

“What wasn’t meant to happen? Clarissa, you must tell me. Please tell me,” he added, hating the plea in his voice.

The sense of unease had unfolded into fully-fledged dread, hammering at the back of his skull like a headache.

What have you done, Clarissa?

“I’ll tell you,” Clarissa whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t. It was the day you were born. Or the night, rather. There was a terrible storm, the worst we had in years, and your father couldn’t get home in time for the birth.”

Rain hammered against the window, making the glass rattle in its frame. Clarissa suppressed a shiver. The house was so big and drafty, with chilly winds racing across the floors and biting their ankles.

If I were the Duchess , Clarissa thought, with an all-too-familiar flare of bitterness, I’d have done something about how cold this place is.

The rain had flooded the road, and nobody could get to or out of the house. The midwives had arrived, though, sturdier and more determined than the doctor. Clarissa imagined that the Duke of Thornbridge was coming, too, his earlier letters having arrived mud-splattered and damp.

He was too late, though.

On cue, a wail filled the air, coming from a cot placed beside the wide bed. Amongst the disarranged sheets, a shape stirred.

The Duchess of Thornbridge sat up, wincing. “He’s crying, Clarissa. Do you think he’s hungry?”

“Perhaps. I will look at him. Shall I go and fetch the midwives?”

The Duchess shook her head, leaning over to dangle a hand into the crib. “No, let them rest. They’ve worked hard to bring little Edward into the world, and I’m quite all right without them. The birth was awful, but I feel better already. They said I was built for it, you know.” She paused, chuckling. “Do you think that is a compliment or an insult?”

It was the kind of jokes they used to share when they were younger, pretty creatures coming out for the first time, arm in arm and full of mischief. Before the world got between them.

Or, more accurately, the Duke of Thornbridge.

Clarissa’s father had flown into a rage when he learned that the Duke was marrying her friend.

“You bore his child!” he’d thundered, over and over again. “Does that count for nothing?”

No , Clarissa could have told him. No, it did not.

The Duke was not a romantic man. He had enough money of his own but wanted a wife with good breeding and a title to secure his position in Society. He was attracted to Clarissa, but her grandfather was only a merchant, and Miss Emma Wyndham’s grandfather was a baron.

So, Miss Emma became the Duchess of Thornbridge and tried to pretend that the tiny grave dug in the back of Clarissa’s rose garden did not belong to a baby at all, let alone her husband’s firstborn child.

“Clarissa?”

She glanced up sharply and found Emma looking at her anxiously.

“I was thinking about attending this Season. You should come with me. I’ll find you a good husband. The Duke has plenty of decent friends. You can stay with us, and we’ll go to parties together. It’ll be like old times.”

Clarissa forced a smile. “That would be nice.”

Emma’s face relaxed in relief, and she leaned back against the pillows. The baby was still grousing, his tiny face creased up.

She doesn’t deserve him , Clarissa thought, with a flare of rage. She doesn’t deserve any of this.

She edged closer to the crib, peering inside. The baby blinked up at her, momentarily distracted. A wave of affection swept over her, just like when she’d held her own baby for those brief moments before her little heart stuttered to a halt.

This should have been mine.

“Would you like some tea?” Clarissa heard herself say before she could stop herself.

Emma smiled at her. “Oh, yes, please. I’m dry as a bone. No wine, I suppose?”

“No, no wine.”

Clarissa went over to the table at the back of the room. Various birthing supplies were scattered around—rags, bowls of cooling, bloody water, a pair of sharp scissors, a wooden spoon to bite down on, and more. And a pot of tea, sent up by the midwives only a little while ago.

Clarissa poured a cup, then slid a hand into her apron pocket, her fingers curling around the glass dropper bottle.

She wasn’t entirely sure what was in the bottle. When she had given birth, the doctor had called them ‘drops’. Morphine, perhaps? It hardly mattered. He’d allowed her a couple of drops in a cup of tea after the birth, to dull the pain and help her sleep. When she had asked for more, he’d refused, telling her that too much of the stuff would stop a person’s heart. It had to be administered carefully, he’d scolded her.

And then he’d gone ahead and forgotten to pack up the bottle. Perhaps he was too flustered, having delivered a baby that died so quickly. Perhaps Clarissa’s howling grief had unnerved him.

She stared down at the bottle in her palm, the viscous liquid sloshing about inside. She couldn’t even say why she’d brought it, except that it might help with the pains of childbirth.

Unscrewing the bottle, Clarissa upended it in one fell swoop. There was barely half a bottle left, and her heart sank.

It wouldn’t be enough. She shook the bottle, hoping to squeeze out a few extra drops.

What am I doing? This won’t work.

“Is the tea ready, Clarissa?” came Emma’s fretful voice from behind. The baby was wailing again, his cries setting Clarissa’s teeth on edge. “I’m dry as a bone.”

Clarissa clenched her jaw. “Just coming.”

Emma’s taut face relaxed into a smile as she took the tea. “Oh, thank you. Ah, it’s the perfect temperature to drink, too. Why aren’t you having any? You must be thirsty.”

“There’s none left.”

“Oh, we should have had a smaller cup each, then. Go and ring the bell, we’ll have tea and cake. You deserve it.”

“Of course,” Clarissa responded woodenly.

She turned, heading towards the bell pull, but she did not reach out to touch it. Instead, she stared at the velvet rope, her heart thudding. The baby squalled louder.

What am I doing? What am I doing?

She whirled around. “Emma, don’t…”

The words died on her lips.

Emma drained the last drop of the tea with a sigh of satisfaction.

“I’m exhausted,” she yawned, sliding lower against the pillows. “It’s so warm in here. Come sit by me, Clarissa.”

Clarissa moved across the room in a daze and perched on the edge of the bed. She sat there, talking about nothing, until Emma’s eyes fluttered shut and stayed shut. She stayed until Emma’s chest ceased to rise and fall and the color began to drain from her face.

Then, she picked up the cup and slipped it into her pocket, alongside the bottle. Both items would need to be thrown away, destroyed. She considered ringing the bell but then decided against it.

Clarissa got up carefully from the bed, straightening the sheets and tucking them around her dead friend. Then, she picked up Edward carefully, so carefully, and cradled him against her shoulder. Then, she went out to the hallway and began to scream for help.

There was silence at the end of Clarissa’s story. Edward’s legs were like jelly, threatening to deposit him unceremoniously on the ground.

“You murdered her,” he whispered. “You murdered my mother.”

Clarissa was weeping, quiet, open-mouthed sobs. Tears ran hotly down her face, dripping unchecked from her chin.

“It wasn’t meant to happen that way,” she whispered. “Why should she keep her baby and get to be Duchess of Thornbridge, when I had lost everything?”

“It wasn’t her you should have resented! It was my father! And… and you married him? After all of this?”

Clarissa shrugged limply. “He never knew. And I suppose he felt some guilt about me and the baby. And Edward, you needed a mother. You needed me .”

Edward shook his head violently, backing away. “My… my wife. Jane. You didn’t…”

“I did nothing to Jane. She was small and frail, and her health was never good. It was unfortunate. I swear, Edward, I never…”

She reached out to touch him, but he threw himself away, knocking into the table that held the whiskey decanter. It toppled off, almost slowly, and crashed to the floor. A dark stain spread across the carpet, filling the air with the stink of alcohol. Edward gagged.

“How could you?” he gasped. “Your friend. She was your friend!”

“You must forgive me, Edward!” Clarissa begged. “It was for you, all for you!”

He shook his head. “I can never forgive you.”

Clarissa flinched back as if he’d struck her. More tears rolled down her cheeks.

“If you won’t forgive me,” she said numbly, “then I will have lost everything. If I have lost everything, why should I go on living?”

She raised the sharp edge of the letter opener to the side of her neck, where an artery thrummed just under the surface.

Edward leaped forward with a cry. “Clarissa, no! No, you cannot do this to me! Not after everything! You cannot do this to Alex .”

Clarissa paused, opening her eyes. The edge of the blade rested against her skin, and a bead of red blood welled up.

“Do you have any idea how my conscience has tortured me?” she whispered. “Do you think I don’t know what I have done? I promised her that I would care for you, and I tried to convince myself that she would understand. Most of the time, I can live with it. But sometimes, when I’m alone, it all comes rushing back. The enormity of it. It’s too much. I… I can never undo it. I never did another bad thing in my life, you know that, but this… this is too big. I can never atone, can I?”

Edward rubbed a hand over his face.

Murdered . My mother was murdered. By her oldest friend, by the woman who raised me. The woman who was the closest thing to a mother I’ve ever had.

Then, he looked at Clarissa’s wide, pleading eyes, bulging out of a bone-white face. He saw the bead of blood and the way her hand shook around the handle of the knife.

“You can’t kill yourself, Clarissa,” he heard himself say. “You stole my mother’s life, so you don’t get to decide where your own ends.”

She let out a hoarse laugh. “Well, I daresay it ends at a hangman’s noose.”

He shook his head. “No. I won’t bring more shame on my family, and neither will you.”

She blinked, tears glistening on the tips of her pale eyelashes. “Then what am I to do?”

“For starters,” he responded, holding out his hand, “you can give me that.”

There was a taut moment. For one awful instant, he thought that she was going to cut her throat anyway.

Then, with a ragged sigh, Clarissa moved the blade of the letter opener away from her throat and carefully placed the handle in his upturned palm. There was a smear of blood on the side of her neck, and he tried not to look at it.

“You’ll leave here,” Edward heard himself say, his voice hoarse, “and you’ll never come back. That is how you’ll show me you’re sorry. By staying away from us all, and staying away from the rest of the world.”

“W-Where will I go?”

“I’ll find a convent. And you must promise me to take this to your grave, do you understand? I… I don’t know if I can forgive you. I don’t know if my mother would have forgiven you. But if you want to even try to earn my forgiveness, this is what you must do. Don’t come to see me. Don’t write to me. Don’t ever speak Alex’s name again. Do you understand?”

“Will… will you tell him?” Clarissa asked listlessly.

Edward crossed the room and tugged on the bell pull.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “One thing is for sure, though. I won’t tell him for many, many years.”

The door creaked open, and Peter peered in. He did a double-take when he saw Clarissa’s state.

“Y-Your Grace?”

“Take my stepmother back to her home,” Edward said, his eyes fixed on her. “She’s going to pack.”