Page 90 of Wedded to the Cruel Duke
Shock coursed through her and she felt as if she might sway on her feet—if she had not placed a steadying hand upon an ornate table in the hallway at least.
“You are right,” she said quietly, tears beginning to sting at her eyes. “I do not know you as much as even our servants do. I was only trying to help you, Charles.”
She turned away from him and began to walk back to the ballroom, her steps becoming steadier the farther she got away from her husband. The music swelled into a crescendo as she neared the entrance. Tamping down her emotions and the tears that glistened in her eyes, she forcibly put on a pleasant smile as she made her way back inside.
She dared not look back at Charles.
Charles inwardly cursed himself as he watched Phoebe march away from him, the hurt visible in her eyes. She had only meant to help him, but how could she? He didn’t even know how to help himself.
In the time since he had returned to London, the nightmares that had plagued him for years had returned with a vengeance. In the daytime, he could hardly focus as his lack of sleep finally wore his patience thin. The only thing that brought him any kind of solace, that anchored him to reality, was that special draught that O’Malley had prepared for him, the one that he always kept on hand in his flask.
He reached for his flask and drank the remaining draught inside it, resisting the urge to hurl it at the wall when he found itincredibly insufficient. His hand curled into a fist at his side as he pressed the bridge of his nose with two fingers.
He and Phoebe should have never left Wentworth Park.
Coming back to London had been a mistake. Staying any longer would be a far greater one.
After I finish my work here, I shall take her back to Wentworth with me, he told himself.
Maybe there, with his mind calmer, he could begin to make amends to his beautiful wife. He sighed as he closed his eyes and ambled back to the ballroom.
He only hoped that Phoebe could find it in her heart to forgive him despite everything he was putting her through.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The next few days passed by in a blur, with the both of them hardly saying anything to each other.
London was a busy place and there was always something to do, but because they were still in mourning, it was hardly appropriate for Phoebe to attend social events or even entertain callers at their residence. The ball itself was a big mistake and had already drawn scathing remarks from the echelons of Society who were sticklers for etiquette. However, since they were now the Duke and Duchess of Cheshire, no one would dare speak out loud about it.
Phoebe sighed as she folded the missive her sister had just sent her. Sisters were such wondrous creatures. Otherwise, how would Daphne know how much Phoebe needed a reprieve from this suffocating manor?
A slight knock to her door drew her from her thoughts. When she turned her gaze away from the window, she saw Charles standing in the doorway with a remorseful look on his face. Thefaint shadow of growing stubble decorated his strong jaw and dark circles framed his eyes.
He had not been sleeping much, she realized. However, instead of coaxing him to rest a bit more, she simply slid her gaze away.
“Phoebe, I know that I have been horrible to you for the past few days,” he began, only to halt in his tracks when she shot him a reproachful glare.
He approached her with hesitant steps, his hand reaching out for her before he dropped it with a frustrated sigh.
“I know that it is the mourning period, but perhaps you can invite Daphne and Lady Townsend over for a visit,” he suggested. “You can have tea or something.”
“Callers are not allowed during this period,” she reminded him glumly. She set the missive aside and smoothed her skirts with a neutral expression. “But thank you for reminding me, Charles. I believe that I am in need of a few more mourning dresses, anyway.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
She stood up and looked at him defiantly. “It means that I am goingout, Charles.”
“Why would you need to do that? You can just summon the seamstress. They would be more than willing to accommodate you now that you are the—”
“The Duchess of Cheshire?” she flung back with a humorless smile. “I am also well aware of that, thank you very much.”
He let out a groan of frustration and she could tell that his patience was wearing thin. “Why are you being so difficult, Phoebe?”
She could only laugh harshly at him. “I could ask the same of you.”
“Damn it, I am trying my best!” he told her through gritted teeth.
“I know,” she replied softly. “I know that you are having a hard time and that you are doing your best. It is not easy to lose a parent—I understand that. But, Charles,” she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “I am having a hard time, too. Let me have this moment to just clear my mind, please.”