Page 16 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Chapter Sixteen

“T ell me the truth,” said Oliver Fortescue, fixing his gaze upon Isabella and Beatrice who were seated directly across the dinner table from him. “I promise that I can bear it! Did you both like the gifts that I gave you today, or were they off the mark?”

Oliver had arrived at midday bearing gifts for the twins like St. Nicholas at Christmastide, much to his daughters’ ecstatic delight. Then they spent the afternoon playing archery together in the grounds at Ironstone, all of them giggling wildly.

“I liked my gift very much, Uncle Oliver,” declared Isabella, her eyes shining. “But next time, could you get me another doll, instead of a spinning top?”

“Done,” said Oliver, grinning widely. He turned to Beatrice. “And what about you, my little Bea?”

“I loved the new skipping rope you gave me, Uncle Oliver,” she replied, screwing up her nose. “But please, could you get me another book of fairytales next time, as well?”

“Beatrice adores reading,” said Christine, smiling at the little girl fondly. “I swear she would spend all her time reading if she could.”

“Ah, she takes after her mother, then,” said Oliver, his grin widening. “I recall that Rose always had her head buried in a book when she could.”

A sudden, strained silence descended over the table at the mention of his late wife.

Edwin felt Christine’s eyes upon him, but he refused to look at her. He had been trying not to look at her directly since that disturbing night in the parlor when he had almost lost control. He had been so close to dragging her to his chambers and making love to her that it didn’t bear thinking about.

“Did my mother really like reading as much as I do?” asked Beatrice, in a small voice. “What else did she like to do?”

“She enjoyed reading very much indeed,” replied Oliver, pulling at his cravat, his eyes darting toward Edwin. “But she also enjoyed a great many other things, like dancing, and singing, and playing the pianoforte.” He turned to Isabella. “You have inherited her talent with music, Isabella.”

“I have?” Isabella looked overjoyed. Then her face fell. “I wish she could have lived, and we could have played music together.”

“I wish she could read me her favorite story,” piped up Beatrice, looking equally crestfallen.

Edwin cleared his throat. “There is no point in dwelling on this,” he rapped, stabbing at the roasted duck on his plate with his fork. “We will speak of it no more.”

“The girls have a right to be sad about their mother,” said Christine, in a gentle voice, turning to him. “It is perfectly natural.”

Edwin felt a pang of anger. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he turned to Oliver, fixing him with a steely gaze.

“Perhaps Uncle Oliver will regale us with one of his endless stories about his travels,” he said quickly.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Oliver, jumping slightly. He looked guilty. “Have I told you about the time a rat took a ride with me in a gondola in Venice? It was most disconcerting!”

The girls squealed with dismay, begging him for details. The distraction was successful.

Edwin sat back, exhaling slowly, feeling Christine’s eyes upon him again—this time, in an accusatory way.

He stabbed his food with the fork again, feeling irritation overwhelm him.

* * *

Christine hesitated at the doorway of the duke’s study. It was late, but she knew that he was still inside, by the faint fog of cigar smoke wafting beneath the door.

She knew his good friend, Lord Browning, who had arrived at Ironstone today and was staying the night, had already retired, though. The duke was quite alone.

She steeled herself, then rapped on the door, holding her breath. It seemed an age before she heard his command to enter.

It was quite dark in the study, with only two candles burning. The fire was almost out. The duke was sitting in his favorite armchair near it, drinking his habitual brandy and reading a book. His expression changed imperceptibly when he looked up and saw her standing there, hovering uncertainly near the door.

Her heart filled with sudden pain.

The last time we were alone together like this, he was kissing me with the fervor of a drowning man. Now, it is as if we are strangers again.

“Well?” he growled, shifting in his seat, glaring at her. “What is it?”

Christine took another deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you about the conversation over dinner,” she began. “The conversation about the late duchess.”

“What of it?”

Christine reeled back as if he had struck her.

Where had the man who had defended her and apologized to her gone? The man who had gazed at her so ardently and touched her as if he was mad with desire for her? Had it all been an act?

“I want to reiterate that the girls should know about their mother,” she said, raising her chin, trying to ignore the hurt. “It is good for them to know who she was, even if it makes them sad for a bit.”

He kept glaring at her, almost as if he loathed her. When he spoke again, his tone was condescending, bordering on withering.

“There is no point talking about the late duchess with my daughters,” he said, in an angry voice. “She is long gone. It only saddens them and makes them speculate about her and the gap that is in their lives because she is dead.”

“But—”

“No.” He got up, walking toward her, his dark eyes blazing with fury. “Do not ever challenge me like that again in front of them, understand?”

Christine flinched but held her ground. They were staring at each other as if they were about to go into combat.

“I am sorry you see it that way,” she said, in a tight voice. “My concern was for the girls. They deserve to know about their mother. I believe it would be good for them.”

His voice was low, almost a growl. “The past is the past. It needs to stay that way.”

“You cannot protect them from suffering and sorrow for their entire lives,” she said, in a gentle voice, raising her chin. “In fact, if you keep trying to avoid it, you will begin to push them away from you and make them resent you for withholding information about their mother.”

There was a tense silence. He kept glaring at her. She noticed a pulse beating rapidly in his right temple. But then, the anger in his eyes dimmed, and he looked almost reflective.

“My duty is to protect my children,” he said slowly. “It always has been—and it always will be.”

“They do not need a silent guardian,” whispered Christine, swallowing a lump in her throat. “They need a father. A living presence in their lives.”

His face flickered. “My role is to protect them,” he repeated, his jaw setting in a stubborn line. “That is my most important duty.” He sighed heavily, his face setting implacably again. “It is getting late. Is there anything else?”

Christine’s heart dropped. “No. Nothing.” She hesitated. “Good night, Your Grace.”

She turned, walking quickly out of the room, before he could see the tears glimmering in her eyes.

He didn’t even try to stop her. Her heart sank further. They truly were like strangers again.

He was just as determined as ever to keep his distance from her. It was as if that intimate night between them had never even happened at all.

* * *

“Let us stop here for a break,” called Lord Browning, smiling brightly, sitting atop his saddle as regally as any sultan. “It is lovely by the lake.”

Christine nodded, pulling the reins of her horse tightly, watching the girls do the same with their horses.

It was such a beautiful morning, and the long ride had cleared the lingering cobwebs from her mind, and the hurt about how the duke had dismissed her so thoroughly the night before.

When she descended to breakfast, the duke was gone, apparently away for the day on business. But Lord Browning was there, as well as the girls, and when he had suggested they all take a ride through the countryside together, she had accepted with alacrity, and the girls had been ecstatic. It would be good to get out of the castle, stop her ruminating about the duke, and she liked Lord Browning. He was charming, amusing, and very attentive to the girls.

They dismounted, tethering the horses. The girls ran away to the lake, watching a family of ducks swimming serenely. Lord Browning turned to her, watching her speculatively.

“I am sorry I put my foot in it last night,” he grimaced. “I should know better than to talk about Rose in front of the girls. Edwin does not like it.”

“No, he does not,” she agreed, her heart flipping. She hesitated. “I am curious. Can you tell me about her? I would like to know. Why is my husband so adamant there be no talk about her?”

He looked pensive. “Rose’s death was a tragedy,” he replied eventually. “She was so young—and she left two newborn babes motherless.”

He paused, looking over the lake, watching the girls, who had gathered small rocks, and were skipping them over the water, giggling together.

“She suffered from a lingering illness that came on suddenly,” he continued, frowning. “The duke tried to save her, doing everything he possibly could, sending for the best physicians from London—by the end, he resorted to quacks as well. Nothing worked.”

“I see,” said Christine, in a quiet voice.

Lord Browning turned to her, raising his eyebrows. “If you have not yet noticed, my friend is a stubborn man, wanting to control everything. And he could not control that.” He hesitated. “The guilt has eaten away at him. It does not matter how much time has passed. That is why he does not like to talk about her. The guilt is overwhelming.”

Christine frowned. “But he did everything he possibly could to save her. His conscience is clear.”

“He knows that intellectually,” said Lord Browning, smiling sadly. “But it does not change how he feels. And despite how it seems, Edwin feels very deeply. He swore on Rose’s memory that he would dedicate his life to protecting their children… and that nothing would sway him from that. It is the guilt over not being able to save her that drives him.”

Christine sighed deeply, gazing out over the shimmering lake, and the rolling, verdant green hills beyond. Then, her eyes settled upon the two little girls, sitting side by side near the lake, their heads bent toward one another as they talked.

Her heart filled with pain for their loss…and for the pain of their father, whose grief over that loss had caused him to harden and solidify, to try to grasp for control even more. So much so that it threatened to push his children away from him, rather than bring them closer to him.

He wanted to keep her away from him, as well. The duke’s heart was closed forever. He would never open it again.

And the sooner she accepted that, the better.