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Wordlessly, he shook his head.
"It was so obvious. We all knew she loved you."
"I have a letter written in her own hand that would attest otherwise."
"There must be some mistake."
"There is no mistake, Belle." He let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. "Other than the one I made when I said, 'I will.'"
Belle paid Dunford another visit after he'd been in London for a month. He wished he could have said he was delighted to see her, but the truth was there wasn't anything that could have lifted him out of his melancholy.
He saw Henry everywhere. The sound of her voice echoed in his head. He missed her with a fierceness that was painful. He despised himself for wanting her, for being so pitiful that he loved a woman who would never return his feelings.
"Good afternoon, Dunford," Belle said in crisp greeting as she was shown into his study.
"Belle." He inclined his head.
"I thought you might like to know that Emma was safely delivered of a baby boy two days ago. I thought Henry might like to know," she said pointedly.
Dunford smiled for the first time in a month. A boy, eh? Ashbourne had his heart set on a girl."
Belle softened. "Yes, he's been muttering that Emma always manages to get what she wants, but he's as proud as a papa can be."
"The baby is healthy, then?"
"Big and pink, with a thick patch of black hair."
"He'll be a terror, I'm sure."
"Dunford," Belle said softly, "someone should tell Henry. She'll want to know."
He looked at her blankly. "I'll write her a note."
"No," Belle said, her voice stern. "She should be told in person. She'll be very happy; she'll want to celebrate with someone."
Dunford swallowed. He wanted to see his wife so very badly. He wanted to touch her, to hold her in his arms and inhale the scent of her hair. He wanted to hold his hand over her mouth, so she couldn't say any more damning words, and make love to her, pretending all the while that she loved him back.
He was pathetic, he knew, and Belle had just come up with a way for him to go to Cornwall without sacrificing what was left of his pride. He stood.
"I'll tell her."
Belle's relief was so obvious it was almost as if she deflated on her chair.
"I'll go to Cornwall. She needs to be told about the baby. She'll want to know," he reasoned. "If I don't go and tell her, I don't know who will." He looked over at Belle, almost as if asking for her approval.
"Oh, yes," she said quickly. "If you don't go, I don't see how she'll find out. You really must go."
"Yes, yes," he said distractedly. "I really must. I have to go see her. I really don't have a choice."
Belle smiled knowingly. "Oh, Dunford, don't you even want to know the baby's name?"
His expression was sheepish. "Yes, that would be helpful."
"They named him William. After you."
Chapter 24
Henry was shoveling slop. Not that she much liked shoveling slop. She never had. She had always felt that, as the person in charge of Stannage Park, she should take part in the day-to-day chores of the estate. But she had never before been so democratic as to force herself to do the messiest tasks.
But now she didn't mind it so much. The physical activity kept her mind blessedly blank. And when she tumbled into bed in the evening, her muscles were so sore she fell right asleep. It was a blessing, that. Before she'd decided upon exhaustion as a cure for heartbreak, she'd lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. Staring, staring, staring—but seeing nothing aside from her failed life.
She thrust her shovel into the mess, trying to ignore the clumps that splattered onto her boots. She focused her mind on how nice a bath would feel that afternoon. Yes, a bath. A bath with... lavender. No, rose petals would smell nice. Did she want to smell like roses?
Henry spent most of her afternoons like this, desperately trying to think about anything besides Dunford.
She finished her chores, put the shovel away, and walked slowly back to the house, heading for the servants' entrance. She was a mess, and if she tracked any of the slop on the front hall carpet, they d never be able to get the stench out.
A maid was standing on the steps, feeding a carrot to Rufus. Henry asked her to see to her bath, leaning down to give the rabbit a pat on the head. She then pushed open the door, unable to muster the energy to call out her customary hello to Mrs. Simpson. She smiled faintly at the housekeeper, reached for an apple, took a bite, then looked back at the housekeeper. Simpy's expression was rather odd, almost strained.
"Is something amiss, Simpy?" Henry inquired before lifting the apple to her mouth for another bite.
"He's back."
Henry froze, her teeth lodged in the apple. She slowly removed the fruit from her mouth, leaving perfect little toothprints. "I assume you mean my husband?" she said carefully.
Mrs. Simpson nodded as she let loose a torrent of words. "I would've told him what I think of him, too, and hang the consequences. He'd have to be a monster to leave you the way he did. He..."
Henry didn't hear the rest of her words. Her feet, acting with no direction from her brain, were already carrying her out of the kitchen and up the side stairs. She didn't know if she was fleeing to him or away from him. She had no idea where he was. He could be in the study, the sitting room, or the bedroom.
She gulped, hoping he wasn't in the bedroom.
She pushed open the door.
She swallowed. She'd never been an exceptionally lucky person.
He was standing by the window, looking unbearably handsome. He'd taken off his coat and loosened his cravat. He inclined his head. "Henry."