Page 36 of Matters of a Duke’s Heart

Spencer lay awake all night feeling wretched and awful and guilty and a whole myriad of things that clustered in his stomach like sludge.

Sophia had lurked over his thoughts all night, as if she might have been a phantom watching from the rafters of his chamber.

Her face, mixed with that of Lady Helena’s, and then Felicity’s.

Oh, how strong Felicity had looked, propositioning him.

How she had pieced together her courage to ask that of him.

But he could not bear the thought of their physical intimacy happening as the result of a test, or proof.

He had wanted it to happen naturally, and he thought it had been heading that way.

He had seen the hesitation in her face, and he had thought they would both regret such intimacies happening for the first time in such a manner had he agreed. He would have taken her to her bed there and then, had he thought she had asked only out of desire.

Spencer craved her—he wanted her in every possible way, but not like that. Not in that situation.

I should have told her all along about Lady Helena? he thought miserably. Rupert had been right, and Spencer should have pushed that night in the study to continue their conversation.

After all, he had told her he wanted to discuss something with her but let himself be sidetracked by talk of Sophia. And then he had been distracted chasing the taste of wine on Felicity’s lips, and Lady Helena’s behavior had been forgotten in the back of his mind.

Until now.

Until the viper had taken matters into her own hands.

When dawn broke over his chamber in a wash of pale light, Spencer finally dragged himself from his bed.

He had made a terrible mistake. He wanted her, and he should have fought harder to voice why he had rejected her. Felicity had bared herself to him with the request; he had seen her vulnerability, and he should have fought to make her understand.

In the end, he had been a coward.

He had been a coward this whole time, really.

But Felicity was not Sophia; she was not a woman who was preparing to sneak out to find other means of intimacy.

For so long, he had feared falling in love again, afraid of being so severely broken as he had been after Sophia’s betrayal and then her death.

Why did her memory have such a grip over his life?

He kept seeing Felicity crumble on that balcony, her face as white as a sheet, haunted by Lady Helena’s revelation.

He had truly—catastrophically—made a mistake.

Pushing himself from his tangle of bedsheets where he had barely slept, Spencer yanked on loose clothing and hurried to his wife’s chamber.

But when he burst in without knocking, he came to an abrupt halt.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

“What does it look like?” Felicity snapped. Surrounded by luggage and her belongings, his wife paced, but spared him the briefest of glances. Her eyes were dark and tired, as if she had not slept a moment.

“Felicity,” he murmured.

“No.” Her head shook furiously. “No, do not speak to me with that pleading tone. I asked you to come to my bed and you refused.”

“If you had only heard me out—”

“I heard enough!” Her shout startled even the maids who were bundling more gowns from the wardrobe. They dropped the pile, but before they could scramble to pick them up, Spencer snapped his fingers.

“Out,” he ordered rudely.

“You do not have to be so rude to them,” Felicity snapped. She turned to her maids. “I will only need a moment to speak with His Grace alone.”

“You will need longer,” Spencer cut in, but the maids hurried out, curtsying nervously. The door shut behind Spencer, and Felicity whirled on him.

“I am leaving,” she told him simply. “I am not wanted here, nor do I feel comfortable after yesterday. You have kept so much from me, yet you have asked everything from me. I gave up my family, my home, my future, my dreams of love, to be your wife, and you have—you discarded me last night like I was nothing.”

A thousand pleas ran through Spencer’s head but all that he managed to get out was, “You cannot, Felicity. Think of how it will look. Think, for a moment, on what people will say.”

“I do not care,” she lashed out. “I am going to stay with my parents.”

“Felicity.”

“You cannot do anything to stop me.” She surged toward him, her face angry and tight and unforgiving. “Pass on my apologies to Alexander. Do make sure he knows that his father is a cowardly fool who cannot be open even if somebody pried him apart.”

“Somebody has,” he muttered, looking right at Felicity. “I have been more open with you than anybody in my entire life! How can you not see that it means something?”

Felicity shook her head again. “I will not fall for pretty words when your actions keep saying otherwise. I understand my place, perfectly, Spencer. I am the mother figure for your son, and the dutiful wife that you need to continue your ton image. I cannot be Sophia, nor Lady Helena, and I certainly cannot be what you want, regardless, and I cannot stay here knowing all of that.”

Utterly speechless, he watched as she shoved her luggage case in frustration.

She did not even bother finishing packing.

Felicity merely stormed past him and called for the maids to finish the rest. Spencer stood there in silence, in shock, when the front door to the manor slammed shut behind his wife.

“I want to be with you,” he said, too quietly, and too late, staring at the hallway where Felicity had walked out.

***

Spencer had tried for hours to focus on his work, but he could not. Rupert had written down a report for him of debtors and creditors that Radcliffe owed money to, but he couldn’t concentrate.

His mind was on Felicity, the pain in her voice, the accusations, the helplessness with which she had spoken to him.

She truly thought he wanted her to be Sophia or Helena.

Had he made her feel so insignificant? They had both agreed to a marriage of convenience, and he had thought they had both begun to see it differently. Why was she still so insistent that he had not?

“Papa?”

So lost in his thoughts, he had not heard the study door opening. Tiredly, Spencer looked up to find Alexander shuffling into the room, dragging his feet.

“What is it?”

“I cannot find Miss Felicity anywhere.” Alexander took his place on the chair he had begun to occupy when he visited Spencer in the study.

“She promised to teach me translations for wildflowers in the woods. I heard shouting earlier, like when you and Mama used to shout. And then—and then Mama was gone, and she did not like me at all. Does Miss Felicity not like me?”

Spencer struggled to breathe around all the tension and emotion in his chest. It lodged in his ribcage like a physical ache, a fist he could not push off.

It all built up: he had failed his son, failed his wife, failed his late wife.

Felicity was right. He was a cowardly fool.

He had just begun to bridge the distance between himself and Alexander, and now he could only greet him with silence.

After a minute, Alexander did not retreat as he used to.

Instead, he dropped from the chair and came to Spencer’s side. Unexpectedly, he hugged Spencer, and it was only then did he realize he had tears in his eyes. Clinging onto his son, Spencer hugged Alexander right back.

“It is hard to explain,” he whispered, “but Miss Felicity likes you very much, Alexander. She is not like your mama.”

“I hope not,” Alexander mumbled. “I really like her, Papa.”

“I know,” he said. “Me too.”