Page 58 of Wedded to the Forbidden Duke
After another inebriated, near-sleepless night, Ian could barely focus on anything at all.
It was no use trying to distract himself with papers, or books, or any of his usual past times. It was impossible to stop his over exhausted mind from wandering—either to Cecilia’s look of betrayal, or Mr. Ainsworth’s look of disappointment.
Both memories were unbearable, and yet there was nowhere else he could go but back and forth between them.
He was trapped.
Even if he were to apologize to Cecilia, he doubted she would forgive him so easily. And, besides that, there was still some pride left in him. She had run away—why chase after her? If she wanted to go, let her go.
She will be better off, he thought morosely.Even Ainsworth would have to agree. I am a stubborn mule. Therefore, I am unfit to be a good husband. Therefore, I would be an unfit father. She doesn’t know what she is thinking, wanting a family with me.
It just went to show, as always: love could only ever lead to loss.
Somehow, it was a more difficult sentiment for him to swallow than when he had told himself the same thing in years past.
“Your Grace?” came an urgent voice.
Ian startled to semi-consciousness to see Barnaby standing beside him, as suddenly as though he had appeared there by magic. He rubbed his eyes. “Good morning, Barnaby. What is it?”
“You have received a missive from London, my lord,” the butler said briskly.
Ian’s heart immediately thumped in his chest as he took the flat card. The words on it swam before him. The letters were scribbled, as though written with incredible haste. “From the duchess?” he asked.
Even as the words left his mouth, his heart sank as he realized it couldn’t be. The handwriting, messy as it was, was most certainly recognizable as not belonging to his wife.
“From your mother-in-law, Your Grace,” Barnaby said. “The duchess is…”
“What?” Ian looked up from the note. “She is what?” he repeated impatiently.
Barnaby’s brows were knitted in the middle. “She is unwell.”
“Unwell?” Ian’s eyes went wide. His head, already overtired and hungover, began to swim further. Out of instinct, he leapt to his feet. “What happened to her?” he demanded.
“Apparently, she had a bad fall from her horse. She is at home now, being seen by a doctor, but she is unconscious. Your mother-in-law thought you might want to know.”
Scarcely had Ian finished hearing this than he had taken off for the stables.
He rode for hours.
He barely noticed the pain in his thighs, or the chafing of the reins against his hands. His drove his horse onward, unaware of any exhaustion from either of them, though he knew he would soon have to let the poor beast rest. If and when his horse finally demanded a stop, he would simply have to find another one immediately at whatever stable they passed. He would begor barter, whatever he needed to do, so long as no more time passed before he reached London.
Before he reached Cecilia.
Cecilia.
Cecilia was injured. Cecilia was unconscious. He had told her he did not love her, and she had left because of that, and now she was injured and unconscious far away from home.Theirhome.
Every second he waited to be by her side could be a second closer to losing her for good.
He could barely allow himself the thought, but his traitorous mind would scarcely let him focus on anything else.
It is all my fault.
He had pushed her away. She had reached out for him, and he had pushed her away, in spite of how much he wanted to draw her close to him and never let her go again.
She could die.
He tightened his sore hands around the reins and spurred the horse on faster still. His breathing was quick, his heartbeat even quicker. The sun moved across the sky as they continued theirride, Ian barely even aware of the surroundings they passed. All he knew was that he was going in the right direction.
