Page 30 of Taken by the Icy Duke (Marriage Deals #3)

Chapter Thirty

G ilbert breathed a strained sigh of relief when the carriage finally rounded the last bend and the gates of Rivenhall House came into view. He had spent the day taking meetings and was relieved to return home. A stable hand hurried to the horses as soon as they halted.

Gilbert stepped down and strode toward the main entrance. A footman opened the door for him, offering a shallow bow. Gilbert acknowledged the gesture with minimal courtesy, too caught up in his thoughts to respond properly.

Inside, the foyer felt oddly still. Ordinarily, at this time of day, Gilbert would hear occasional servants bustling about, or the murmur of Diana’s voice as she gave instructions. Today, however, he heard only his own footsteps echoing on the polished floors.

He paused, glancing around. Something in the air felt amiss. There was no rustle of skirts from the corridor, and no subdued greeting from Diana, who often awaited him with a polite inquiry or a faint smile.

Gilbert’s chest tightened.

“Timmons,” he said sharply, summoning the butler with a note of impatience. The faint patter of steps sounded from a side hallway.

Timmons approached, his posture impeccable, although faint apprehension showed in his eyes.

“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head. “You have returned earlier than we anticipated.”

Gilbert stripped off his gloves and tapped them against his palm.

“Where is the duchess?” He scanned the foyer, half expecting her to appear from behind a pillar, but the silence persisted.

“Her Grace left for her father’s estate this morning, Your Grace,” Timmons explained, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

Gilbert went rigid and stared at the butler in utter disbelief.

“She left for Crayford Manor? Alone?” He forced the question through a tightening chest.

Timmons smoothed his jacket sleeves as though bracing for an onslaught.

“Yes, Your Grace. She departed soon after breakfast. She took only a small trunk and a maid, and Lord Leopold arranged a suitable carriage, ensuring no undue fuss.”

At the mention of Leopold’s involvement, Gilbert’s temper flared.

“Leopold arranged this,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Did she give no explanation?”

Timmons dipped his head with a wary expression.

“Her Grace mentioned a wish for rest in the country, citing her fatigue and the warm weather. She left a note for you, which I believe is on your desk in the study.”

Gilbert’s hand curled into a fist around his gloves.

“Very well,” he said curtly. “You may go about your duties.”

He did not wait for a response, pivoting on his heel and striding toward the study. Each step on the marble felt heavier than the last, and a pressure began to mount behind his eyes.

He reached the study door, noticing that it stood ajar. On his desk lay a folded sheet of paper. He snatched it up and recognized Diana’s neat, slanted handwriting at once.

Gilbert,

I have gone to Father’s estate. The house in town and London’s atmosphere have wearied me. I need time away, and I do not wish to burden you with my presence while you attend to your obligations. Please trust that I will be safe.

—Diana

He stared at the words as a wave of conflicting emotions—surprise, anger, worry—washed over him. She had not said how long she intended to remain or when she might return. She had chosen to leave without confronting him face-to-face.

He pressed the note against the desktop, his knuckles whitening around the paper’s edges. He could not imagine what would have driven her to leave London without him, not with all their efforts to demonstrate a united front. A surge of guilt and rage boiled within him.

He inhaled sharply, recalling Timmons’s mention of Leopold’s role in the matter. The betrayal stung. If Leopold had truly reformed, why abet her escape behind his back? Setting the note down, Gilbert strode from the study, his mind fixated on one aim—to find Leopold.

He navigated the corridors with swift, clipped strides, giving short nods to any servants who peered nervously from doorways. At the library, he paused, hearing low voices within, but it was only two maids sorting books. No sign of Leopold.

He continued onwards, eventually pushing open the door to a small sitting room near the back of the house. There he found Leopold at a small writing desk, scanning a ledger. At Gilbert’s entry, Leopold glanced up, saw the storm on his face, and stood with cautious composure.

“Where is Diana?” Gilbert demanded icily. “And do not parrot me nonsense about her father’s estate. You know what I mean.”

Leopold closed the ledger, then set it aside.

“She departed this morning,” he said. “I arranged her carriage as she was determined to go.”

Gilbert advanced, his posture rigid with anger.

“She was determined,” he echoed. “And you aided her, behind my back?”

Leopold swallowed, not meeting Gilbert’s furious stare.

“I feared she might try to leave on her own, without any proper accommodations. You know she has been unwell. She required assistance.”

Gilbert felt a bitter taste well up in his mouth. “She was unwell, and you did not see fit to inform me?” His retort emerged through clenched teeth. “You conspired with her to keep me ignorant.”

Leopold’s voice remained calm, though his eyes were clouded with worry.

“She said you were too occupied to accompany her. She… asked for privacy, for respite. I did not think forcing her to stay would help.”

“You have no right to decide on my behalf. She is my wife, not your ward,” Gilbert hissed, trying to quell his roil of emotions.

Leopold’s expression tightened.

“Your wife was miserable,” he said quietly. “That is not a matter of deciding anything for you. I only respected her choice to find peace away from here.”

“So, you hide behind a claim of respecting her,” Gilbert sneered. “Tell me, if she was so miserable, why did she not speak to me? Why this secrecy? Did you whisper that I would never consent or some such nonsense?”

“I whispered no such thing; I merely offered to help her travel safely. She believed you would not understand,” he said, shaking his head.

“Understand what, precisely?” Gilbert demanded, rage churning in his gut. “That she found everything so intolerable here that she had to flee?”

Leopold hesitated, clearly weighing his words.

“She struggles with your steadfast refusal to consider certain… possibilities,” he said. “She is unhappy with the distance between the two of you.”

“You speak in riddles. If she is dissatisfied, she should have told me plainly. We could have addressed it.”

“Perhaps she doubted your willingness to bend. She asked nothing of me except that I might keep her departure discreet.”

Gilbert paced irritably, each stride echoing in the small sitting room.

“This is absurd,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “When did the two of you become confidants?”

“She is hardly my confidant,” Leopold said, stiffening. “But I have seen her faint, I have seen her near tears, and I wish to atone for my part in her original scandal. You cannot blame me for trying to ensure she did not suffer alone.”

Gilbert halted, repeatedly clenching and unclenching his fists. He wanted to strike something, to shout at Leopold for meddling, yet guilt pricked at him. He wondered if he had truly neglected Diana’s unhappiness to a degree that she had felt it necessary to seek help from Leopold.

“She left no word for me except a note,” Gilbert said, forcing himself to calm down. “That note is pitifully brief. Did she confide more in you? If so, tell me.”

Leopold appeared conflicted upon hearing Gilbert’s demand.

“She said little—only that she found no relief here and that the country air might improve her health,” he replied. “She seemed to be… in despair.”

Gilbert’s throat tightened with an unfamiliar ache.

“Despair,” he repeated, his fury deflating into a raw, gnawing worry. “And you assured her flight was the best course? By heaven, Leopold, you have gone too far.”

“I told her a respite might serve her well. That is all. If you had seen her face this morning, you would know she was not to be swayed.”

Silence hovered. Gilbert pressed a hand to his brow, his mind racing. He recalled every distant meal, every stiff word, and the way she avoided him after gatherings. He recalled how the rumor-laden Season in London had ground her spirit. Still, the abruptness of her departure stung.

He shot Leopold a glare. “You kept her secret about leaving. Are you keeping anything else from me?”

Leopold’s mouth tightened. “She only asked for my discretion. I believe you two must speak directly. It is not my place to betray what she might wish to keep private.”

“So there is more,” Gilbert snapped as his ire flared anew. “But you refuse to share it.”

“Yes,” Leopold stood firm. “I told her she must speak with you in time. I cannot say more.”

Gilbert’s heart pounded. The unspoken hint of something deeper than mere unhappiness gnawed at him.

“Your loyalty is misplaced,” he growled. “I am your brother. She is my wife.”

Leopold’s gaze did not waver.

“And she is my sister-in-law. I am trying to protect her, just as you once protected me. Perhaps you should reflect on how she came to be so distressed.”

The words struck Gilbert like a blow. He inhaled sharply, his rage ebbing into a hollow ache. His shoulders sagged in a spasm of helplessness.

“She was distressed, yes, and I have failed her,” he muttered. “But that does not excuse you for aiding her escape without so much as a warning to me.”

“I accept your anger,” Leopold nodded gravely. “I only ask you to recognize that she left because she saw no other remedy. If you would find her again, do not do so in anger.”

Gilbert could muster no response to that. He turned aside, his gaze sweeping the quiet shelves and the subdued lamplight. Every detail of the room grated on him; a reminder of how weak his control over his own household felt. At length, he spoke, his voice raw.

“She is at Crayford Manor, then.”

Leopold nodded once. “Yes. She took a minimal retinue, but she is safe. She asked that no fuss be made, to spare you public embarrassment.”

“She spares me embarrassment while leaving me powerless,” he said bitterly. He pivoted, crossing the distance to the door in quick strides.

Leopold called after him, his tone regretful. “Gilbert.”

Gilbert stopped without turning. “What?”

Leopold’s breathing sounded unsteady.

“She does not hate you,” he said. “She is… hurt, and something weighs heavily on her. If you go to her in anger, you may lose what remains of her trust.”

“She gave me precious little trust if she would vanish thus,” he said. Gilbert let out a ragged scoff, yet the edge in his tone vacillated, and he hastened to leave the sitting room, a thousand thoughts tearing at him simultaneously.

He stalked down the corridor, his footsteps echoing in ominous repetition. A maid spotted him and ducked quickly into a side passage, no doubt reading the fury on his face. He had no desire for an audience. Reaching the foot of the main staircase, he paused, raking a hand through his hair.

A swirl of memories assailed him: her quiet pleas for him to discuss children, his vow to never father heirs. The nights they had barely touched, the moments he glimpsed her pallor or heard her catch her breath in distress. Had she been ill all this time, and he let jealousy blind him to it?

He forced himself to climb the staircase, aiming for his study; somewhere he could pace without prying eyes. Yet once he was there he found the air too stifling, the note she had penned still on the desk, mocking him with its brevity. He tried reading it again, searching for some clue to explain her sudden departure.

…I do not wish to burden you while you attend your obligations…

The words seared him. Did she see herself as a burden? Did he give her that impression? He recalled their last argument, how she insisted she could not share intimacy when he refused to consider fatherhood. His heart beat painfully. Perhaps she believed him incapable of comforting her.

Perhaps she is correct.

He dropped into his chair, burying his face in his hands. The hush of the study offered no solace. All he could hear was Leopold’s assertion that she was deeply unhappy, and that something weighed on her. He lifted his head, his gaze falling on the neat stacks of estate papers. None of them held meaning now. He felt unmoored, his carefully ordered world undone by the absence of one woman.

He had never faced such a sense of helplessness. His mind whispered that she might never return if he refused to alter his stance. He clenched his jaw, recalling the weight of the tragedy that shaped his vow.

I cannot risk losing a child as I lost my sister.

But in that same moment, the knowledge that Diana was gone—that she could not be compelled to remain—settled over him like a suffocating cloak. Perhaps she had made her own vow to protect herself in a way he failed to do. The image of her traveling the lonely roads to Crayford Manor threatened to unman him.

He closed his eyes. For tonight, he would endure the emptiness of a house she no longer graced. Gilbert prayed that she would be safe and would find it in her heart to forgive him one day.