Page 66 of His Enemy Duchess

Once more, once again—even though she hated to admit it—he was right. He had asked her if she knew what she was asking of him, and, in truth, she did not.

Damn him. Damn him more than I have ever damned a Pratt.

This did end up making things complicated. Too complicated for her to bear right now, and she would not stick around to find out what that meant. She knew herself; she would not be able to go down for breakfast in the morning and pretend that all was well. After this, she would not be able to pretend at all that she didn’t hate him—and want him—with every fiber of her being.

CHAPTER 23

Thomas sat completely still on the edge of his bed, unable to even consider falling asleep. He still felt the taste of her on his lips, the scent of her on his skin, the fire of her skittering embers through his body, and even his hands were stuck as if embracing an invisible maiden.

He curled his hands into fists and stalked to the mirror. The man staring back at him was not who he had anticipated. His eyes were different. They weren’t his; they were soft. The mask he had spent years putting on had fallen and cracked.

I told her… I told her it would make things complicated. I told her.

He was angry. More than that, he was furious. He wanted to lift his arm and punch the mirror, punch the weak man hiding inside it. The weak man who had given up his values and had undoubtedly hurt his wife. The weak man who… was falling in love with his sworn enemy, despite the warnings he had given himself, and the warnings of a dreadful play.

He had betrayed himself, he had betrayed his wife, and as he kept staring into the softer eyes of his reflection, he didn’t have the slightest notion of how to fix it. Should he go downstairs and burn the note before she saw it, curl up next to her as if no great mistake had been made, or should he endure a restless night, take responsibility, and begin the next day as the duke his father would have wanted him to be?

He closed his eyes, wishing someone could decide for him.

Here I am again. Running away, armed with a valise and no idea how things will turn out.

Sophia and Violetta had reached Rosamund’s house with the dawn—the only place she had been able to think of. The only place that would not send too great a message to Society’s gossipmongers. She wasn’t leaving her marriage, just putting distance between herself and Thomas… and that crushing note.

A note of her own had been left with Penny, but that was all Thomas would receive. If he wanted her to elaborate, he could look at himself or come and find her.

The small country manor stood picturesque amidst a coppice of apple trees, the pretty sandstone wearing a patina of age in its walls. Birds sang their dawn chorus, and a rabbit darted into the undergrowth. The entire picture warmed the chill in Sophia’schest. It was quaint and quiet, and far enough away from Heathcote Manor—which was precisely what she needed.

The front door opened to her hesitant knock, and Rosamund appeared, steadying herself on a cane and smiling. And then, she let out a gasp.

“Heavens, you came with your own horse?”

Sophia nodded shyly, gesturing back to Violetta, who was content to snatch up tufts of dew-soaked grass. “Yes, Thomas has allowed me to use her for as long as she is with the immediate family.”

I can’t very well tell you that I didn’t pause to ask permission, now, can I?

“I hope you will forgive the intrusion. I meant to send a note, but I was just so excited to learn about embroidery,” she added, realizing just how rude her arrival might seem.

“Oh, that he would trust you so—he must really love you. He has a good heart, that one. And nonsense, I am delighted to have your company.” Rosamund clapped her hands together, so visibly overjoyed that Sophia didn’t have the heart to remark on any mention of love. “Bring her around to the coach house—she will be well looked after there. Afterward, you and I shall have breakfast, and we shall get you just as settled.”

“Ow!” Sophia yelped as the needle pricked her skin. “Ow, I did it again, Your Grace. I am so sorry. I am not so clumsy, usually.” She brought her thumb up to her mouth and sucked the blood away.

“Oh, you poor thing, you need to take it slower. Let me get you another bandage.” Rosamund leaned over and grabbed the bandage box from a nearby shelf as Sophia’s eyes wandered around the room.

Rosamund’s house looked like a witch’s hut from a fairytale if the witch was well put together and preferred order and cleanliness instead of baking children into pies. There were flowers and herbs everywhere—in collections of small pots on shelves and dried bundles hanging from the walls and the ceiling. And, of course, it smelled incredible.

Rosamund held Sophia’s hand and applied the small bandage while Sophia observed something odd—a lone, decorative vase that held no flora of any kind. But most importantly, it was cracked and looked like it had been pieced back together from shards.

“Something piqued your interest, my dear?” asked Rosamund with a smirk.

Sophia felt awkward, wondering if she should ask and risk offending her.

“Go ahead, ask.”

Sophia realized Rosamund was not one to take offense in any serious capacity, so she went ahead. “I just noticed… the vase up there. It looks… different from the others.”

Rosamund cackled with glee. “That one, dear, carries a very old story with it.” Sophia looked at her with interest. “One of my grandsons was visiting and got rowdy with one of his toys. Ended up throwing it up there and knocking the vase off the shelf. It shattered, of course.”

“Was it… William?”

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