Page 22 of The Wayward Duke
Squeezing the viscountess’s hand, she hurried after her husband into the empty room down the hall. She found Julian leaning against the mantelpiece, staring at the cold grate. Before he could mask it, Caroline glimpsed the stark devastation hollowing his eyes. The raw agony he hid from all save her.
It cracked something wide open in her chest.
“Julian.” He shuddered against her when she wrapped both arms tight around his waist. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.” She heard him swallow. “We can’t leave Gracie’s mother alone right now. And I can’t… I have to get away, duchess. Just for a little while.”
A memory took root in her mind – Julian staring at Grace with open affection as he tucked daisies into her hair. If it wasn’t for that night in the garden, he’d be proposing to Grace by now. Planning their wedding. Not waiting for her to die.
Caroline shook off the thought, leashing it ruthlessly and choking it into submission. That thought had no place in this room with them. “I’ll write to you,” she said.
“Tell me every detail,” he said. “Promise to spare nothing.”
“I promise,” she said.
He turned, his gaze tracing over her. “Come here.”
Caroline let him tug her down to the wing chair beside the hearth, settling her on his lap. The heat of him seeped into her skin through their layers of clothing. Julian’s breath left him sharply as she shifted until her knees bracketed his thighs. The chair groaned faintly beneath their combined weight.
His hands came to rest on her waist – a silent query. In answer, Caroline draped both arms around his shoulders. Still, he withheld the embrace, studying her.
After a weighted moment, Julian spoke. “I want to hold you before I go.”
Emotion clogged her throat. Caroline pressed closer, fingertips trailing through Julian’s hair. “Hold me as often and as long as you like,” she whispered.
At her words, the last of his restraint crumbled. He dragged her against his chest and buried his face in her neck, hugged her so tightly that her ribs creaked. Clutched her as if he was drowning.
Caroline clung back as fiercely. With Grace slipping away, it would be just the two of them. Childhood bonds fraying down to their final delicate threads.
They held each other as the candle flames died one by one. Until only the barest flicker remained, leaving them twined together in the looming dark. The entire world distilled to Julian’s laboured breaths against her throat, his hands spread over every notch in her spine.
If you loved her, I’m sorry for what happened in the garden. I’m so sorry you had to marry me to save me. I love you, and I’m sorry.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
Caroline closed her eyes tight. “That I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll come home as soon as I can.”
She let him hold her. Cradle her close. Lips brushed her brow and printed a benediction there.
The next day, she watched Julian leave. He slipped out the door, the latch clicking behind him with resounding finality.
9
London, 1874
Nine years later
Caroline stared at the canvas on her easel, at the malformed creature taking shape there. She added another hopeless smudge of grey, as if she could capture life by slowly suffocating it.
“You’re utterly hopeless,” she muttered to the abomination.
A painting so abysmal it would bring the critics to her door like rabid dogs, ready to tear her apart with their teeth. No skill, they would sneer. No heart. A child could produce something better using their toes. Blindfolded.
“Talking to yourself?”
Caroline turned to find Julian leaning in the doorway, broad shoulders eclipsing the light from the hall. He looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, hair mussed, shirtsleeves to the elbows.
