Page 56 of Wedded to the Forbidden Duke
“I cannot give her what she wants,” Ian said. “I will not have children. She wants children.”
“Have you had any discussion of the matter, other than to state that outright?” Ian shook his head, and Mr. Ainsworth followed by shaking his head in disgust. “Go to her, my lord,” he said again, “and speak your heart truly.”
Ian shook his head, collapsing back into his chair. “She does not wish to speak to me. She does not wish to even see me. There is no point in chasing after her. What’s done is done.”
After a long pause, Mr. Ainsworth finally spoke again. “I think it is long past time you removed your head from your own backside,” he said sharply.
Ian looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
Mr. Ainsworth shook his head. “Beg though you might, you will not have it. You are acting the fool, Your Grace. For though you have been gifted with all good things in this world—good looks, a surplus of funds, a beautiful house, good friends, a wife who adores you and the prospect of a family—you seem most determined to waste them.”
“I am no such thing,” Ian said. He rose from his chair, shaking his head as he returned to pacing the room. “I am determinedto waste nothing,” he said. “If anything, I merely wish to use my knowledge of the cruelties of the world to spare my wife and future child the potential pain of losing a parent.”
“I understand you are still hurting from the loss of your parents,” Mr. Ainsworth said, more gently, though there was a firmness to his voice, as well. “But…”
“But what?” Ian demanded. “But it is time I got over it? Is that what you mean to say? It is time I left the pain behind for good?”
“I am not suggesting you leave the pain behind for good,” Mr. Ainsworth said. As he continued to speak, he did so slowly, as though being certain to choose his words very carefully. “Grief never fully goes away; but it grows smaller as we allow ourselves to build a life around it. To live in spite of your grief is another way of allowing it to control you.”
“I am not allowing it to control me. I am in control of my own life,” Ian insisted.
“I am not certain you are, Your Grace,” Mr. Ainsworth said.
Ian clenched his jaw. “Are you saying you are a fortune-teller, now?” he said rudely. “That you can tell me, with certainty, any other manner of preventing the pain of loss to my wife, and any potential children? I am making the best decision available to me. It only makes sense.”
Mr. Ainsworth let out a frustrated laugh. “Of course I cannot guarantee that you will not die and leave your child and spouse heartbroken, Your Grace,” he said. “No more than you can guarantee that you will. Everyone experiences loss. Everyone suffers in this world, and you are choosing to add additional suffering atop that for no other reason than to satisfy your own stubbornness.”
“Stubbornness? I am acting logically,” Ian argued.
“You are acting out of fear,” Mr. Ainsworth snapped. “Living cautiously is one thing. Being aware of the pain of loss is quite normal, given what you have been through. But living your life as though it is a foregone conclusion? That is a waste indeed.”
“I do not need an old man lecturing me about what I will and will not do with my life!” Ian thundered.
Immediately, he regretted it. But it was too late to take back. Mr. Ainsworth’s usually placid face filled with hurt, and then disappointment. The expression cut Ian worse than any knife.
“Mr. Ainsworth…” he began, before trailing off. He did not know what else to say.
Mr. Ainsworth shook his head. “You are a stubborn mule,” he said, and walked out of the room, leaving Ian alone once more.
Cecilia could not sleep a wink.
She tossed and turned all night, tormented by dreams that kept slipping just out of her grasp, dreams full of sharp words and cold, unfeeling blue eyes.
When at last she woke, there was a moment of peace. Light filtered in through the window, and birds chirped merrily in the early morning. Though she was tired, she reached out by instinct to touch her husband.
When her hand met only cold, unoccupied sheets, her eyes flipped open, and she remembered where she was. Not in her marital bed, but her childhood one. Alone. So very far away from the estate that had, without her realizing it, come to feel like her home. And, worse, far away from the husband she was falling in love with.
A husband who would not—could not—ever love her back.
She bit her lip, fighting back tears as she remembered Ian’s cruel words.
How could she have possibly allowed herself to think he would ever love her? The very idea was preposterous. From the very first moment she had met him, Cecilia had pegged the duke as acallous, shallow rake. The kind of men who would only ever play at being in love.
And yet, it was impossible to deny the feelings that had begun to grow in her heart for him.
Feeling which she had almost thought he had reciprocated.
It made no sense. She remembered how he looked at her, when they made love in his chambers. Surely even the worst of rakes could not fake such emotion?
