Page 39 of The Duke that I Lost

Dash shook his head. “They could not bring themselves to visit while she lived. Why pretend to care now that she is gone?”

Beatrice’s frown deepened. “They never came. Not after the wedding. Not when she was strong enough to receive callers. Not even when she could barely lift her head from the pillow.”

“‘Too far to travel,’” Dash supplied dryly.

Her bark of laughter held no mirth. “It was never about her, was it? Only the title. The satisfaction of saying their daughter had married a duke.” She looked at him then, sharp but fond. “Thank God Lark wrote to me. Else how should you have known to save her from Groby?”

Dash simply nodded. Taking Sebastian’s place had never been a question. And despite everything, he could never regret doing so.

“And once their daughter moved away…” Beatrice began.

“ Loin des yeux, loin du c?ur.” Dash gave a small, weary shrug.

“Far from the eyes, far from the heart,” Beatrice murmured, staring down at her hands. “That’s not the case here, with us.”

“No,” Dash agreed.

“Here, at least, she had both a kind husband and a family who held her dear.”

“You were a good friend to her.” Dash met his sister’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“You needn’t thank me. I loved her. And with Lark as well, it felt for a time as though I had two sisters.” Beatrice hesitated before adding, “She told me she is leaving tomorrow.”

Hannah’s companion—and Beatrice’s friend.

Lark Montague was the one good thing Lord Beresford had ever done for his daughter.

Loyal, discreet, not a single complaint.

The young woman had been there through every turn of Hannah’s illness, but had also been good for Beatrice.

Lark had a way of making herself a calm center in the middle of storms—a quality Dash valued without ever thinking of her in any other way.

“I told her she could remain here indefinitely,” Dash said. “She earned that, many times over.”

Beatrice gave a faint smile. “She’s determined to make her own way. Has been, ever since her father’s death, you know. She’s accepted a post at Barrington Willows.”

“For the Marquess?”

“With his daughter, Lady Theodosia. I think Lark wants to keep busy. Not to forget, but…”

“I understand.” Lark had been more than a paid companion to her young charge; she had loved her. Dash imagined there’d be ghosts in every corridor, in the rooms they’d spent Hannah’s final days.

And he understood the feeling all too well.

Dasborough Park already held its collection of ghosts—memories of his parents pressed into the walls, lingering in the scent of a particular room or the creak of a familiar floorboard.

Some he would not part with for the world; others caught him unawares with an unpleasant jolt like he’d missed a step going downstairs or with a sudden swell of grief.

They all managed to leave a hollow ache in their wake.

And then there were the ghosts one carried in the heart, the ones that followed you no matter how far you tried to run.

Beatrice exhaled slowly. “Things won’t be the same now, will they?”

“No.” Even moreso since, if he departed for London, Bea would be totally alone.

He let out a long, heavy sigh—one Beatrice didn’t miss.

“How are you holding up, mon frère ?” she asked.

Dash barely lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. He was… numb. Relieved. He wouldn’t deny some relief in that Hannah no longer suffered.

But he was also… a little lost, oddly. Adrift.

“Free?” his sister answered for him, causing him to nearly choke.

That was what Hawk had said as well. And although Dash was perhaps not quite there yet in his mind, the fact remained that he was, in truth, free. After two long years. Not that he’d ever admit to such a thing aloud. It felt cruel.

But Beatrice wasn’t a fool. And although his sister knew the nature of his marriage to Hannah, she believed he’d entered into it out of the goodness of his heart.

She didn’t know about the guilt. About the fact that it was his fault Lady Hannah was ever in that position in the first place. Cleaning up his own mess, as Grimm had once put it.

Dash sent her a disapproving glare. But his sister…

“Will you go to her?”

…would not let this go.

Sacrebleu —he never should have told Beatrice about Ambrosia.

Bad enough he’d shared it with Hawk. But she’d noticed the ring he wore on his right hand, and at a particularly low point—one of too many over the past two years—he’d told her the truth.

“You might at least try to make her understand—that you’d already made a commitment, and that you only did what you did so that she might better go on,” Beatrice insisted. “You fancy Mrs. Bloomington holds you in hatred, but if she knew the truth… would she not see differently?”

Dash crossed to the window.

He was a widower now; society would expect him to be in mourning—though men were often granted liberties women were not.

Not that he cared to protect his reputation.

No, what gnawed at him was the question of whether he should go to Ambrosia at all. He’d made his choice two years ago. Walking back into her life now might be the most selfish thing he could do.

But there was a truth, deep inside, that he couldn’t ignore: that he’d known he would go to her from the moment Hannah’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” he said at last. Especially with Lark leaving.

“Then take me with you. Let us both go. I’ll help open up Beckman House.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “You would do that?”

And yes—he would be glad to see her step back into the world, even if she was not yet ready to claim her place in society again.

“I can help you win her back, Dash. If you still love her, that is. Let me do this, please? If Lark hadn’t written to me, if I hadn’t come to you about Hannah—about Lord Groby—you might never have lost her. I feel… I need to see you happy.”

His hand closed warmly over hers. “Bea, listen to me. I have never blamed you. Not for a moment. Do you understand? None of this—none of it—is on your shoulders.” His voice softened, but the firmness in it could not be mistaken. “I will not have you think so.”

She held his gaze, silent, searching.

“It has been a difficult year,” she said at last. And he knew she was thinking about their mother’s death. And then Hannah’s.

“But you hate London,” he reminded her.

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “I hated it five years ago.” She gave a delicate shrug, one of the few mannerisms left over from her time in France. “I am not the same girl I was back then. I can even go to Mrs. Bloomington for you?—”

“No.” His tone was gentle, but there was no mistaking the steel beneath it. “If she is there, you must leave her to me. You are not to involve yourself. Is that understood?”

“Yes. So you will take me? We’ll go together?”

They would both be expected to mourn. But perhaps he’d done what was expected of him for far too long.

Beatrice, he knew, couldn’t give two figs for what people thought.

“Very well,” he said at last. “Can you be ready to depart in three days?”

Her smile was the first he’d seen from her in far too long. Even if Ambrosia sent him away, getting away from Dasborough Park might be just what they both needed.