Page 32 of The Wayward Duke
Yet when Julian made to pull away, some starved, wild thing inside Caroline stirred. Her hand darted out to capture his wrist in silent entreaty. “Come here. Next to me.”
A rough breath tore from his throat. For an endless moment, she thought Julian might refuse. Might turn his back on this fledgling tenderness. But then the mattress dipped beneath his weight as he slid beneath the sheets.
The empty gulf between their bodies echoed the years, yawning wide and fathomless. Caroline’s chest constricted with uncertainty. Then she could bear it no more – she turned onto her side to face Julian’s remote profile. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, body held apart from hers.
She dared to trail her fingers down the rigid line of Julian’s forearm, touch whisper-soft in silent entreaty. In unspoken apology for everything left unsaid between them.
Then she found the courage to whisper, “Will you hold me?”
With a low groan, he turned and hauled her into his arms. Caroline pressed her face to the warm skin of his throat, inhaling cedar and soap.
“Julian?” she whispered into the intimate darkness.
He tensed. “Hmm?”
“The answer to your question… When I look at you, I feeleverything,” she whispered. “And I’m so sorry for pushing you away. I didn’t know how to fix us.”
For an endless moment, Julian simply held her in punishing silence. Then, “Never apologise for me leaving you to bear losing Grace and our son alone. I didn’t know how to fix us either. After that.”
Their shared grief lodged like a spike in her throat. She stroked Julian’s back in silent apology, wishing she could erase the damage done.
Then she closed her eyes and let the rest of the world fall away.
13
London, 1866
Eight years ago
The rain drummed against the carriage’s roof as it rumbled down the muddy road. Julian stared out of the fogged window, though there was nothing to see but grey. Just endless, featureless grey.
The dismal weather matched his bleak mood. He had thought returning to London might lift his spirits after so many dreary months abroad, but the city’s familiar streets only echoed with absence. With loss.
Five months had passed since he last left England. It felt like a lifetime. An interminable torrent of storms had battered his journey to America, delaying his search for Viscount Harcourt and Grace’s sister Victoria. Not in New York or Boston. Not in Philadelphia nor any of the eastern cities. He had pressed onwards, chasing elusive whispers and rumours west across a vast continent. Enduring icy rains and towering snowdrifts as winter sank its teeth deep, until he reached San Francisco, where Harcourt had gone with his new son-in-law to establish business contacts in the maritime trade with China.
Precious time lost. Time stolen he could never regain.
Julian swallowed against the hollow ache building behind his ribs. He had missed Grace’s funeral. Missed holding Caroline in those first raw days of grief.
His hands curled into fists against his thighs. Grace’s death had splintered something vital inside him. Unleashed a feral, wounded thing driving him halfway across the world just to outrun the pain nipping at his heels. Finding what remained of Grace’s family had seemed noble, a way to wrest meaning from senseless tragedy.
But distance had made things worse. He wanted his wife.
Stafford House’s glowing windows beckoned through the gloom. As soon as the carriage halted beneath the portico, Julian pushed open the door, heedless of the rain gusting in freezing sheets. His boots sank into the mud, his greatcoat sodden by the time he mounted the steps.
The blessed warmth of the hall enveloped him, chasing away the pervasive chill. His butler approached, unruffled as ever. “Welcome home, Your Grace. Shall I have a bath drawn?”
Julian handed the man his gloves, hat, and cane. “In a moment. Is Her Grace in residence?”
The butler hesitated. “She’s been at Ravenhill for some months now, Your Grace.”
Julian dragged a hand over his rain-slicked face, regret and self-loathing threatening to choke him. Exhaustion pulled at his limbs, but he needed to see her. “Tell the staff not to unpack my things. I’ll travel on shortly.” As an afterthought, he added, “Any letters arrive in my absence?”
“Allow me to fetch them for you.”
The storm redoubled its efforts as Julian waited beneath the crystal chandelier, lashing the tall windows in wild fury. He thought of Caroline alone in England while he roamed a distant continent on a fool’s errand. God, how she must hate him.
At last, the butler returned with an armful of correspondence. “Your letters, Your Grace.”
