Page 57 of The Duke that I Lost

WELL MEANT ADVICE

T he door to Beckman House closed behind him with a dull, final thud, the sound echoing through the quiet hall.

Like a coffin lid sealing shut.

He shrugged free of his jacket and passed it to his waiting butler, releasing a weary breath—only to stiffen at the words: “Lord Hawkins and Lady Beatrice are waiting in the drawing room, Your Grace.”

“For me?”

“I believe so, Your Grace.”

He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. “ Merde…”

His shirt hung loose from where her hands had tugged it free, his cravat twisted, his hair standing on end from her fingers. But it wasn’t the disarray that stopped him cold. It was his own eyes staring back. Hollow. Defeated.

He pushed into the drawing room and, for the barest instant, hesitated. His sister and his closest friend leapt apart on the settee, guilt flashing across their faces.

But no. Their expressions were not scandalous. They were troubled. Guarded.

Of course. They had been speaking of him. What else could they possibly have in common?

Hawk recovered first, his eyes hardening into resolve. “You need to stop.”

Dash didn’t need to ask what he meant.

Beatrice, pale but steady, gestured toward a chair. “Dash… please, sit down.” Her brow furrowed as her gaze raked over him.

Dash did not sit.

Beatrice pursed her lips. “You’ve lost weight. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. I hear you pacing the corridors half the night. This… it has gone too far.”

Hawk leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his usually careless expression grave. “She’s right, my friend. You’ve driven yourself to the edge over this. And for what?”

“Don’t you think that, perhaps, it’s time to just… let her go?” Beatrice added.

Par Dieu!

The only two people he truly trusted had been lying in wait to ambush him.

Dash barked a laugh, short and sharp. “Let her go? You speak as though it were so simple.”

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed and she lifted her chin, that typical stubbornness of hers rearing its head. “I know it isn’t simple. And I know you. But what more can you do? You’re destroying yourself. And still, she hasn’t chosen you.”

He bristled.

“You don’t know,” he growled. “You’ve no idea what passes between us.”

“Do you?” Beatrice asked.

“I can’t expect… Two years. I was gone for two years… Of course it will take time to repair things after—” He broke off, teeth grinding.

Hawk rose then, putting a hand on his shoulder. “If she hasn’t forgiven you by now, she never will.”

But Dash had heard enough. He sliced his hand through the air.

“I’ve come this far,” he bit out. “She will decide in three days. I will give her that.” The look Beatrice sent him was thick with pity. The look Hawk sent was… resigned. “Until then, both of you. Keep to your own business.”

Neither of them agreed, nor disagreed.

Dash shouldered past Hawk and marched out of the room, boots striking hard against the marble floor.

Upstairs, he barked for a bath. The order was half impulse, half necessity.

He needed the scalding water. Perhaps he could drown the memory of her hands in his hair, the taste of her still lingering on his mouth.

At the very least it might wash away the image he’d seen in the mirror: a man facing defeat.

His valet hesitated at the doorframe, as though tempted to comment on his employer’s present circumstances.

“Not a word,” Dash snapped. He raked a hand through his disheveled hair. “Not a single, bloody word.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Edwards bowed low and withdrew at once, leaving Dash to the solitude he’d demanded.

Closing his eyes, his sister’s worried eyes came back to him—and then Hawk’s pity. Two people who wanted only the best for him, who, he had no doubt, would do anything for him.

But they did not know how important this was to him, how important she was.

He could not imagine defeat. He would not.

Three days. Three days, and then he would have his answer.

If she turned from him then, if she chose another… he would have no choice but to walk away.

Even so— Dieu me pardonne —he could not leave without saying goodbye.

* * *

After wallowing, waiting, enduring , for two long days, Dash could no longer stand his own company. The entire household, it seemed, was taking pains to avoid him. It was what he’d asked for—and likely for their own preservation—but the silence had grown unbearable.

He’d tried going over estate reports, but the numbers swam uselessly before his eyes.

He’d stepped into his own garden, only to find it already in perfect condition, each bed neat, each border trimmed, offering him no excuse to lose himself in labor.

Only Ambrosia’s hothouse called to him still, needing a few final touches—and the table he’d sent crashing to the ground in a fit of temper required mending.

He would not knock on her door. He would not make himself known.

At least there he could put his hands to something tangible.

He’d given it his all. If she chose to throw true love away for something fleeting with Ashbourne Covington, then that was her choice.

But it wasn’t really about Grimm. It was about the past.

Dash could not force her to trust him.

Hell, he’d lied to her, if only by omission, from the moment they’d met.

But everything else had been real. He’d been more himself than he’d ever been with any woman. He had been real.

They had been real.

Dash closed the iron gate behind him and made his way to the back of the house. Already the place felt hollow, stripped of sound and presence.

The rhythm of work was all that kept him steady. The rasp of the file against wood, the beat of the hammer pounding steel, a steady counterpoint to the storm inside him.

The toppled table taking shape again beneath his hands—an object that could be mended, unlike the rest of his world.

He had stripped off his shirt more than an hour ago; sweat slicked his skin, his hair stood in unruly tufts, and mud stained the knees of his breeches.

“Dasborough?”

The call broke through his focus. Dash straightened, breath dragging, and saw his old schoolmate limping toward him—Ambrosia’s dog clutched awkwardly under one arm.

“Grimm.”

Dash strode forward and plucked Ambrosia’s beloved pet from the earl’s arm, tucking the dog protectively against his chest. “Why are you here?”

“I could ask the same, Dasborough, but then, everyone already knows, don’t they?” He leaned slightly on his cane, his devilish profile sharp in the afternoon light. “You never were one to play by the rules.”

“I’ll not ask again.”

Grimm dusted one hand down his trousers with exaggerated care, rolling his eyes. “Very well. I thought it prudent to let old Sir Lancelot outside, keep him from making a mess in my carriage.”

Dash’s eyes narrowed. “Why would he do that?”

Grimm’s expression turned even more smug, as though he was relishing the moment. “Ambrosia is inside packing. She’s agreed to holiday with me in Bath. Afterward, we’ll travel to Castle Grimm. The lovely widow must inspect her future home, after all.”

“Liar.”

Grimm merely shrugged. “Tomorrow is the third day, is it not? I daresay she’s made her decision.”

A chill cut through Dash’s chest. She had shared that with Grimm?

“What decision?”

Grimm’s laugh deepened, even as he leaned more heavily on his cane. “To cut you loose. Did you think she wouldn’t tell me? Perhaps it’s better this way—that you learn it from me. Save her the of trouble letting you down easily.”

It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.

“Why are you even doing this? I know you don’t love her. You aren’t the right man for her.” Dash’s voice came out low. Dangerous.

Grimm tilted his head, his gaze traveling leisurely over Dash’s disheveled form. “And you are? Look at yourself. I’ve been here, when you were not. It’s time, my old friend, that you accept your defeat.”

“You know why I was gone. We all discussed it and agreed,” Dash snapped. “I never wanted to be away from her for so long.”

“But you had no choice, did you?” Grimm simpered.

“The great Duke of Dasborough, far too noble to leave poor Lady Hannah to her fate, right? That’s what you’d have everyone believe, isn’t it?

” But then his eyes narrowed into slits, something darker than the usual taunts flaring in them.

“We know better, though. It was your own guilt that compelled you, wasn’t it? ”

Dash froze, feeling cold even in this hellish heat. His hands went numb where they clutched around Lancelot’s slender body, his mouth dry.

“I was well into my cups that night, but I remember enough to know that you were the only one who could have pushed him,” Grimm continued mercilessly. “You were the one sparring with him on the cliffs, and you were angry with him about something stupid and petty like always, weren’t you?”

It had been a disaster waiting to happen, and now, even years later, the hazy memories of that night were enough to haunt them all.

It must have been him. He’d long ago come to that conclusion, had told Ambrosia as much in his confession to her.

But Grimm wasn’t finished. “You married Beresford’s daughter as an act of penance, and you think you deserve a second chance. But no. Ambrosia was able to move on without you once before, and she’s perfectly capable of managing it again—this time, with me by her side.”

Dash’s grip on the dog tightened until Lancelot whined. He loosened his hold and stroked the animal’s fur in apology before lowering him onto the ground.

Grimm pulled a piece of cheese out of his pocket, and Lancelot, traitorous little fiend, returned to where the earl stood, holding it just out of reach.

“You see? He forgets you easily enough. Just as Ambrosia desires to forget you.” His tone was almost gentle, pitying, but his eyes glittered with triumph.

He adjusted his cane and turned toward the house. “Safe travels, my friend.”

Dash stood rooted long after Grimm disappeared, the echo of his words leaving their poison. Grimm, of course, knew his greatest secret. Had known all along. And now Ambrosia was packing. Leaving. Without him.

He pressed a fist against his chest, the ache unbearable. He had allowed himself to hope. Believed love would prevail.

But love, it seemed, was the very thing breaking him.

He turned back to the hothouse, his steps leaden, to finish what little remained—ending his work, ending his time here.

Ending everything.