Page 59 of Duke of Myste
As her maid helped her into her dress, Jane caught herself wondering what Richard was doing at that moment.
Was he in his study, buried in correspondence that provided an escape from thoughts he preferred not to examine? Was he breaking his fast while carefullynotthinking about the meals they had once shared?
The questions bounced around in her mind like trapped birds, beating against the cage of her pride.
“There now, Your Grace,” Annabelle declared, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “You look lovely as always.”
Jane managed a smile. “Thank you, Annabelle. I believe I shall take my breakfast with Lady Harriet and Miss Brandon this morning.”
At least in their company, she could pretend that the hollowness in her chest was simply the result of the changing weather rather than the growing certainty that she had made a terrible mistake demanding distance from the one person whose proximity had begun to feel like home.
The night air carried the gentle coolness of spring evenings in the Derbyshire countryside. Jane pulled her light shawl more tightly around her shoulders as she made her way through the moonlit gardens of Myste Hall, her soft slippers silent against the gravel path.
Sleep had proven as elusive as happiness over the past week, leaving her restless and aching for something she could not quite name.
She had not intended to walk so far from the house, but her feet seemed to carry her of their own accord toward the ornamentallake where everything had gone so wrong. Perhaps, she thought with bitter humor, she was drawn to the scene of her greatest folly like a criminal returning to examine the evidence of their crime.
The lake lay still in the distance, silver in the moonlight, its surface broken only by the occasional ripple as some nightly creature moved beneath the water.
Jane eased herself onto a stone bench that offered a view of the water, drawing her cloak around her like armor against both the cold and her turbulent thoughts.
“I had not expected company during my midnight contemplations.”
Her heart leaped into her throat at the familiar voice, rich and warm despite the careful neutrality of its tone. She turned to see Richard emerge from the shadows of the ornamental folly, his cloak making him nearly invisible in the dark until he stepped into the moon’s pale light.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other across the small distance that separated them, seven days of careful avoidance making this accidental encounter fraught with dangerous possibility.
“I could not sleep,” Jane said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Nor I.” Richard remained standing where he was, as though unsure whether her demand for distance extended to chance meetings by moonlit lakes. “I often walk the grounds when sleep proves… difficult.”
“How often?” The question slipped out before Jane could consider its implications.
Something flickered in Richard’s expression. “Every night since our… disagreement.”
The admission hung in the air like a bridge between them, fragile but present. Jane felt her composure begin to crack at the edges, revealing the loneliness she had been fighting to conceal.
“Richard—” she began, then stopped, unsure how to continue.
“May I?” Richard gestured toward the bench, as though requesting permission to sit beside his own wife in his own estate. Jane almost smiled.
She nodded, scooting slightly to make room for him while maintaining enough distance to avoid accidental contact.
He settled beside her, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, both gazing out at the moonlit water, where Pippin had led them into such trouble a week ago.
Finally, Richard spoke, his voice low and careful. “I owe you an apology.”
Jane turned to look at him, surprised by the admission. In the moonlight, his profile looked like it was carved from marble, beautiful and distant, until she noticed the tension in his jaw and the clenched fists on his thighs.
“For what, precisely?”
“For treating you as anything other than my wife. For allowing my fear to override my judgment. For…” He paused, struggling with words that clearly did not come easily. “For making you feel that your independence is something to be managed, rather than celebrated.”
The sincerity in his voice made her chest ache with something that might have been hope.
“Why were you so frightened?” she asked softly. “We were never in any real danger.”
Richard was quiet for so long that she began to think he would never answer. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weight of old pain that made her heart clench with sympathy.
