Page 73 of Duke of the Sun

The housekeeper pressed her lips together as she looked down at the package, running one hand over it as though there was something priceless beneath it. “It is not my place to tell you, your Grace. I can only hope that you’d take it, and understand the meaning that is so blatantly behind it.”

Michael eyed the package warily. Not that he was afraid of its contents, but rather concerned on what it might force him to feel. He breathed deeply before reaching, and taking the package within his hands.

“You will return, won’t you?” Mrs. Bellflower asked.

Michael hesitated, unsure of what to say.

The housekeeper pressed her lips together and nodded slowly. “Perhaps you might consider returning sometime soon, your Grace. You are leaving…” she breathed in deeply, pulling a sorrowful smile across her face. “You leave far too much behind.”

Something about Mrs. Bellflower’s words hit him harder than he imagined they would. Michael merely gave her a nod, unable to even force a smile across his face. With the package tucked neatly beneath his arm, Michael spun around on his heel, and passed over the threshold of his childhood home, refusing to look behind him.

Hunters stood beside the carriage, overseeing the final pieces of luggage being stowed inside. “Your carriage is about ready, your Grace.”

Michael sighed. “Collect my steed, won’t you? I wish to ride there.”

“As you wish, your Grace.”

Hunters began to walk around the estate, heading towards the stables.

“Shall I pack that with the others, your Grace?”

Michael blinked a few times, needing an extra second to register the footman’s wods. “What?”

“Your package, your Grace.” The footman gestured towards the wrapped thing he held.

Michael shook his head, though he wasn’t sure why. The footman bowed his head before turning away, closing up the carriage to send it on its way. Looking down at the package in his hands, Michael pulled at the twine, loosening the fabric till it fell away.

His eyes widened. As if he stared into a looking glass, Michael stared down at a portrait of himself. He could hardly remember the last time he posed for a painting. Perhaps it was after his mother’s passing, when they needed new paintings to hang above the mantel. He could remember it as if it happened the day before: sitting in an ornate chair while his father, the late Duke, posed behind him, one heavy hand resting over Michael’s narrow shoulder. Each of them had sour expressions on their faces, and the painting remained within Solshire to that very day.

The portrait he looked at now, however, had a different air about it. While he wasn’t entirely smiling in it, there was something gentle about his expression. His brow was not furrowed, his shoulders relaxed and calm. His lips spread into a straight line, the corner tugging into the slightest of smiles. In an even greater surprise, the portrait had bright white scars peering up from his collar, striking across the exposed skin around his neck. No other paintings done of him ever showed the scars. Perhaps the artist never noticed them, or was too frightened of his scowl to include them in the final piece.

Michael flipped the canvas over. There was a name done in incredibly neat handwriting at the bottom corner, marking who the canvas originally belonged to. The air caught on the back of Michael’s throat as he realized who the artist was.

Cordelia Celeston.

“Hold there,” Michael called out, stopping the carriage from leaving the steps. He took a few wide strides towards it before slipping the painting in alongside the rest of his belongings. It disappeared the moment he dropped it within. As the carriage rumbled away, he could not understand the origin of the ache within the center of his chest.

Hunters rounded the corner with a horse trotting along behind him. “Your horse, your Grace,” the butler said, handing the sleek black reins over.

“Thank you, Hunters,” Michael said as he ran his hands down the steed’s long neck. The horse shook his head beneath his touch, letting out a short sound. Breathing in deeply, Michael pulled himself over the side of the horse, his feet slipping into place on either side of the steed. With the saddle fitting in perfectly beneath him, Michael felt at ease knowing that he would be flying through the countryside, the wind flowing through his hair and leaving everything he regretted behind.

“Your Grace.”

Michael looked down at the butler. “What is it, Hunters?”

“I hope to see you soon.”

The ache grew within him as he pulled his stare away from Hunters. Without saying another word, he flicked the reins, pressing his heel into the horse’s side. The steed let out another neigh before beginning to trot away from Solshire’s front steps. The further the horse took him, the more the pain within his chest seized him entirely. It was as if there was a rope tied around his waist that stretched all throughout the estate’s halls, till the other end tightened along Cordelia’s narrow figure. Somehow, after only a few short weeks, he found himself bound to her in more ways than he realized. But, still, he pressed on, refusing to disappoint her more than he already had.

Michael wasn’t too far from the front of the estate when he paused and took a greedy glance over his shoulder. While Hunters was no longer at the front steps, his eyes naturally gravitated towards where Cordelia’s room windows were. Perhaps what he saw was nothing more than a trick of the eye, but he could not look away.

Cordelia stood at her window, one hand holding the curtains back, staring out to where he was. Her expression was unreadable from the distance, but perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. He shook his head, sure that he was imagining seeing her there, and turned away. She did not know it now, but Michael was sure that his absence would lead to her ultimate happiness. She believed she wanted him to remain with her, to give her a life shebelievedshe wanted. Michael, no matter how much it truly hurt him, knew that removing himself from her presence could bring her a peaceful existence.

Michael only wished he could say the same for himself.

CHAPTER22

Once, Cordelia thought herself to be quite fond of the outdoors. The sun, she believed, healed her in more ways than she could even imagine. While doctors might wave around their remedies as the cure for any sickness, Cordelia simply needed to spend some time outside, and found herself to be repaired beyond belief. It was not until she faced the greatest wound she might ever encounter that the sun failed to do what it was meant to.

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