Page 81 of Wedded to the Beastly Duke
“I do not understand,” he groaned, massaging his forehead. “If she wanted to stay, why did she notsayso?”
“I would say she said it often enough with her eyes.”
“I prefer words,” Adam said, gritting his teeth. “Ideally in writing, so there is no chance for misinterpretation. How should I know what she wants unless she tells me? And that ridiculous story about Nicholas?—”
Except it might not have been ridiculous. It might have been true, and he had dismissed it.
If that was the case, he was an idiot.
And he missed her with every cell in his body.
“What do I do now?” he asked no one in particular. “What on earth am I supposed to do now?”
Rickard eyed him as though he were an idiot. “Is it not obvious? You go to her and bring her back. And, while you are there, beg for her forgiveness.”
* * *
By the time Adam arrived in Cheshire, he had driven through the night, barely stopping longer than necessary to change horses along the way. An odd kind of clarity had settled over him, and as he clattered down the gravel drive at noon, he felt as though for the first time he truly understood the error of his ways.
And he was not certain how he would be received.
There was no denying that he had hurt and offended her. Nor that she had no obligation to forgive him. Yes, they were husband and wife, bound under law and God, but he had been the one to send her to her parents. Now he wanted her back, but she had every right to refuse.
He could not be certain that she would not.
When at last he leaped from his horse, tired and aching, his legs stiff and his behind acutely sore, he knew he did not look like the Duke the world had come to expect. His hair was mussed, he was travel-worn and weary, and his cravat was an abomination.
As he rang the little copper bell by the door, he did his best to adjust his coat and affect the appearance of a man coming to collect his wife.
A butler, surprisingly young and spry for a house of this age—he could not have been more than forty—opened the door and shot Adam a faint sneer.
So. He truly did not look like the Duke he was.
“Good day,” Adam said. “I’m here to see the Duchess of Kant.”
The butler’s expression did not change. “And you are?”
“Her husband, the Duke of Kant.”
“I see.” Still, the butler eyed him. “I regret to inform you that she is not here.”
“There must be a mistake.”
“Her Grace,” the butler said, emphasizing the words perhaps to cover for his slip, “does not wish to see you, Your Grace. I can only apologize.”
The man did not sound apologetic.
Adam clenched his teeth. “Please convey my apologies to Her Grace for coming all this way without due warning, and tell her once more that I need to see her.”
“Very well.” The butler looked him up and down once more. “There is a pump around the side of the house, Your Grace, should you need to freshen up somewhat.”
No doubt in the country, this was seen as a kindness. It was on the tip of Adam’s tongue to demand something more than a mere pump, but he bit his tongue. If he was to win Emmeline back, it was not by behaving like the autocratic, arrogant aristocrat she no doubt believed him to be.
He had been in the Navy; he had endured worse than a pump.
“Thank you,” he said instead and was rewarded by a flicker of surprise across the butler’s face as he closed the door.
As promised, there was a pump around the side of the house, which was extensive, and Adam let his palm fill with the icy water before splashing it across his face. Thus cooled, he then offered his horse a drink and returned to the front door to await the butler’s return.
