Page 81 of A Bargain with the Rakish Duke
Please understand,she silently pleaded. Please don’t ask me why.
Kenneth was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight with emotion. Finally, he nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his head.
“I understand,” he said, his voice cold. “Your art comes first. I respect that.”
Beatrice’s heart twisted, the lie bitter on her tongue.
He was already turning away, his broad shoulders tense with suppressed emotion.
“I should go,” he uttered. “I have a long journey ahead of me.”
She watched as he strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the suddenly too-quiet house. The sound of the front door closing behind him was like a physical blow, a final, terrible punctuation to the end of their conversation.
Beatrice sank onto the sofa, her head in her hands, tears streaming down her face.
What have I done?
Despair crashed over her in waves.
I’ve pushed him away, lied to him, hurt him. And for what? To protect a secret that could destroy us both?
She knew she should go after him and tell him the truth about Lord Eastfold and his visit. But the thought of his reaction, the anger and betrayal she knew she would see in his eyes, kept her rooted to the spot.
Kenneth strode out of the townhouse, his jaw clenched so tight that it ached. The cool London air did nothing to soothe the burning rage and hurt that threatened to consume him. He barked orders at his driver, not caring how harsh he sounded, and threw himself into the carriage.
As the wheels began to roll, taking him away from Beatrice, away from the life he thought they were building together, he felt something inside him shatter.
His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging painfully into his palms. He welcomed the pain, using it to anchor himself against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
“Damn her,” he muttered, his voice rough with suppressed emotion.
The memory of her face as she told him she was staying behind flashed through his mind. Had there been regret in her eyes? Pain? Or was it merely relief at finally being free of him, free to pursue her passion without his interference?
Kenneth laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that filled the carriage. How foolish he’d been to think that Beatrice truly cared for him, that their marriage could be more than just a convenient arrangement. He’d allowed himself to hope, to dream of a futurewith her by his side, and now, those dreams lay in ashes at his feet.
Never again. I won’t make the same mistake twice. From now on, Beatrice can have her art, her life in London. I’ll focus on what truly matters—Dunford, my legacy, my duty.
As the busy streets of London faded into the distance behind him, Kenneth felt a cold resolve settle over him. He would bury himself in his work, in the running of his estate. He would be the Duke his title demanded, nothing more and nothing less.
And if, in the quiet of the night, a small part of him ached for Beatrice’s warmth, her laughter… well, he would simply have to learn to ignore it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Another round, Your Grace?” a jovial voice broke through Kenneth’s haze.
The din of the crowded pub barely registered in Kenneth’s mind as he nursed his third tankard of ale. Or was it his fourth? He’d lost count, much like he’d lost track of the days.
He looked up to see a well-dressed gentleman with a neatly trimmed beard. “The Duke of Dunford, isn’t it? I’m Baron Whitcombe, passing through on business. We met at Lord Darby’s ball two years ago. Mind if I join you?”
Kenneth gestured vaguely to the empty chair. “Be my guest.”
As the Baron settled in, Kenneth signaled for two more ales.
“What brings a man of your standing to drown his sorrows in this establishment?” Whitcombe asked.
Kenneth snorted. “Women. They’re nothing but trouble.”
“Ah.” Whitcombe nodded sagely. “Wife troubles?”
