Page 36 of Wedded to the Duke of Sin (Dukes of Passion #2)

CHAPTER 36

“ Y our Grace seems distracted this morning.” Mr. Woodward, who had managed Ashthorne Estate for twenty years, shifted uncomfortably in his chair across from Dorian’s desk. “Perhaps we should discuss the flood damage another time?”

Dorian forced himself to focus on the papers before him. “My apologies, Woodward. You were saying about the south bridge?”

“The spring floods have compromised the foundation. Without immediate attention, the entire structure could collapse before harvest, cutting off access to the lower fields.” Woodward cleared his throat. “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have traveled to London, but given the urgency?—”

“Yes, yes.” Dorian waved his hand impatiently. “How much?”

“Your Grace?”

“The repairs, man. How much?”

Surprise flashed across Woodward’s weathered face at his sharp tone. “I’ve prepared detailed estimates, but we’re looking at nearly four thousand pounds for proper stonework that will withstand future floods.”

“Fine. Whatever you need. Is that all?”

The estate manager’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “There’s also the matter of the tenant cottages nearby. Three families would need temporary lodging during construction, and?—”

“Handle it.” Dorian stood up abruptly and moved to the window. “You have full authority to make whatever arrangements are necessary.”

A long silence followed his curt dismissal.

Finally, Woodward spoke, his voice soft with the familiarity of long service. “If I may speak freely, Your Grace?”

“When have you ever waited for permission?”

But Dorian’s attempt at humor fell flat.

“I’ve served three Dukes of Ashthorne so far. I’ve never known you to be disinterested in estate matters. Or in the welfare of your tenants.”

Dorian’s shoulders tensed. “I trust your judgment, Woodward. That’s all.”

“Is it?” The older man gathered his papers slowly. “Because to my eye, you seem more like your father in this moment than I’ve ever seen you.”

That struck home.

Dorian turned, the cutting reply dying on his lips at Woodward’s concerned expression. “I… Forgive me. You’re right. I’m not myself today.”

“Clearly.” Woodward’s voice softened further. “Might I suggest actually reading the reports before dismissing them? There are matters that require your attention, not just your purse.”

“Of course.” Dorian rubbed a hand over his face. “Start from the beginning. The bridge foundation?”

But even as Woodward launched into a detailed explanation of water damage and stone reinforcement, Dorian’s thoughts kept straying to Alice. Was she comfortable at the Sutcliffes’? Had she slept at all? He hadn’t. The dark circles under his eyes and the tight knot between his shoulders attested to that.

“Your Grace?” Woodward’s voice drew him back to the present. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion tomorrow?”

“No.” Dorian forced himself to sit. “No, you’re right. These matters need my attention. The south bridge connects to Harrison’s farm, doesn’t it? He’ll need an alternative access for his sheep.”

They spent the next hour reviewing plans and estimates, Dorian making a conscious effort to focus on each detail. But when Woodward finally took his leave, the familiar work provided no comfort.

The townhouse felt empty without Alice’s presence. Even the servants moved more quietly, as though sensing the void she’d left behind. When Wilson appeared to announce dinner, Dorian waved him off.

“I’ll take a tray in my study.”

“But Your Grace—” The butler broke off at Dorian’s expression. “Very well, Your Grace. Shall I have Mrs. Wilson prepare your usual meal?”

“Whatever’s convenient.” Dorian was already turning back to his work, though the papers before him blurred into meaningless shapes. “And Wilson? I’m not accepting callers.”

“Even Lord Drakeley, Your Grace?”

“Especially Lord Drakeley.”

The study grew darker as evening fell, but Dorian made no move to light more candles. The shadows suited his mood. He’d managed to review exactly two lines of Mr. Woodward’s report before giving up.

A soft knock interrupted his brooding.

“Your dinner, Your Grace,” Wilson announced, entering with a covered tray.

“Just leave it.” Dorian didn’t look up from the papers he wasn’t reading.

“If I might suggest lighting the lamps, Your Grace? It’s hardly good for the eyes?—”

“That will be all, Wilson.”

The butler hesitated. “Her Grace always insisted on proper lighting for evening work.”

“Her Grace isn’t here.” The words came out sharper than Dorian had intended.

“No, Your Grace. She isn’t.” Wilson’s pointed tone made Dorian finally look up. Thinly veiled disapproval was written all over the elderly butler’s face. “Cook wonders if she should continue planning menus for two?”

“That will be all.”

Once alone, Dorian pushed aside the covered dishes without looking at them. His eyes caught Alice’s modifications to the household accounts, her neat handwriting suggesting improvements to their organization. Even in this, she’d brought light and order to his life.

And how have you repaid her? The thought was as bitter as the untouched brandy at his elbow. By treating her like a china doll too delicate for the truth. By pushing away the one person who might actually understand.

But understanding meant danger. If Treyfield ever found out how much she meant to him…

A noise in the hallway made him tense, but it was only a maid delivering more coal for the fire. The house felt wrong without Alice in it—too quiet, too formal, too much like the mausoleum it had been before she filled it with her warmth.

He found himself remembering how she’d curl up in that very chair by the fire and pepper her observations about his business letters with surprisingly astute suggestions. The way she’d tease him about his notorious scowl when he was concentrating. How she’d sometimes bring him tea herself instead of ringing for it, using it as an excuse to perch on his desk and distract him with…

Dorian stood up abruptly, unable to sit still with the memories flashing through his mind. He paced the length of his study, his untouched dinner growing cold. Down the hall, the drawing room where they’d spent evenings reading together sat dark and empty. Upstairs, their connecting doors remained closed, mocking him with their silence.

You’re protecting her , he reminded himself. Better a broken heart than a broken neck.

But Gregory’s words haunted him.

“Trust her to be strong enough to stand beside you, not behind your protection.”

A sudden commotion at the front door drew his attention. His pulse quickened. Could it be Alice?

But then he heard Wilson’s voice. “His Grace is not receiving visitors, my lord.”

“Nonsense.” Gregory’s distinctive voice brooked no argument. “He’s merely sulking in his study. Don’t worry, Wilson, I’ll announce myself.”

Before Dorian could retreat, his friend burst in without ceremony. “By God, it’s like a tomb in here. Have you turned into a vampire during your self-imposed exile?”

“I’m not receiving visitors.”

“Clearly.” Gregory lit several lamps with efficient movements. “Which is why I didn’t bother to ask for permission. Someone has to stop you from becoming a Gothic horror novel.”

“I’m not in the mood for company.”

“No?” Gregory settled uninvited into a chair. “Tell me, how long do you plan to maintain this farce? Until your Duchess gives up and returns to her brother? Until Treyfield grows bored and finds new prey? Until you’ve successfully transformed into your father?”

“That’s enough.” Dorian’s voice could have frozen fire.

“Is it? Because from where I sit, you’re doing a masterful job of pushing away everyone who cares about you. Just like he did.”

“I am protecting her.”

“You’re protecting yourself.” Gregory’s voice softened. “From the terrifying possibility that she might love you enough to face this with you. That she might be strong enough to handle the truth.”

“She’s safer not knowing.”

“Is she? Or is she more vulnerable stumbling in the dark, not knowing what dangers lurk?” Gregory stood up and moved to pour himself a drink. “You know, Lady Joanna mentioned that Alice has barely slept since arriving at their house. Apparently, she paces the halls at night, trying to understand what she did wrong.”

The guilt was like a physical blow. “She did nothing wrong.”

“Then perhaps you should tell her that.” Gregory sipped his brandy. “Before your noble sacrifice costs you everything worth protecting.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is.” Gregory set down his glass. “But ask yourself this—what would Lawrence want? The man who died trying to protect his love against Society’s judgment? Would he want you to waste your chance at happiness?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with implications.

Finally, Gregory moved toward the door. “Think about it,” he said quietly. “And remember—Alice chose you, knowing that you were far from perfect. Perhaps it’s time you chose to trust her in return.” And then he left.

Dorian remained motionless in his darkened study long after, Gregory’s words echoing in his mind. On his desk, estate papers waited for his attention, but all he could see was Alice’s face when he’d told her that their time together wasn’t meant to be permanent.

What kind of protection leaves more scars than the danger it guards against?