Page 34 of The Wayward Duke
Caroline Hastings
Gone. Their baby was gone before he could even meet it. Before he could cradle the small body in his palms and marvel at tiny fingers and toes. Only a handful of letters shaped a name for a life extinguished too soon.
Tristan.
His name was Tristan.
Hot moisture burned Julian’s eyes, obscuring the page. He pressed a fist against his mouth to hold back the howl clawing up from his throat.Duke, she’d called him.Caroline Hastings, a cold, impersonal signature – a damning verdict of his failure.
Christ, what had he done?
He could scarcely draw breath for the rest of the bleak journey. Wind and rain lashed the carriage as it rolled up the winding drive. At last, Ravenhill loomed ahead, pale and imposing. Julian burst from the coach before it stopped, taking the front steps two at a time.
“Your Grace,” the butler said when he stormed into the house. “We weren’t expecting you—”
Julian barrelled past. Up the grand staircase, down the shadowed corridor to the duchess’s chambers. Towards her. He had to see her, had to beg her forgiveness—
Julian paused outside the carved oak door, breath sawing in his lungs. Then he turned the knob and stepped inside. The heavy velvet curtains blocked most of the watery daylight. Shadows cloaked the bed at the far end of the room, where a figure lay motionless beneath the coverlet.
Caroline.
His heart clenched. Julian moved slowly nearer, afraid to startle her. She showed no sign of noticing his presence until he stood over her.
“Linnie.” The name dragged like broken glass from his throat.
Caroline’s eyes found his. Then, her face crumpled as a fresh wave of tears streamed down her hollow cheeks. A low, keening cry tore from her.
“Shhh. It’s all right,” Julian murmured, reaching for her. But Caroline shoved him back with shocking force for one so frail. She recoiled against the headboard, body wracked by heaving sobs.
“Don’t touch me,” she choked out.
Shame and regret crushed the air from his lungs. “I never received your letters until today. I sent a letter when I reached New York that Viscount Harcourt had gone. The correspondence must have been lost.”
Another wrenching sob escaped her. She wept with the devastation of one whose heart had been shattered beyond repair.
He had done this. Made her grieve Grace. Grieve Tristan.
Grievehim.
“Linnie, if I had any idea—”
“Get out.” Her entire body shook with the force of her voice. “Get out!”
Each wretched shout felt like a physical blow. Julian retreated across the carpet on wooden legs. At the door, he paused, casting one last anguished look at his wife’s crumpled form swallowed by the shadows.
He had broken her. Abandoned her when she needed him most. An unforgivable transgression. So he slipped out, drawing the door closed behind him. As he strode down the corridor, his wife’s ragged sobs echoed through the darkened manor.
*
Julian returned again. Day after day. Week after week.
Each time, the mansion was silent. This house did not welcome him. It loomed like a mausoleum, all dark wood and velvet drapes blotting out the sun. Shadows clung to the corners.
Julian paused outside the bedchamber door and held his breath. She’d stopped rejecting him weeks ago. Now, she wouldn’t speak. But he kept coming. Held her cold body in his. Waiting. Hoping.
Praying that one day, she’d turn in his arms and hold him back.
The hinges uttered no protest as he swung the door open. Weak light cast the room in shades of gloom. The air hung stale and untouched, a sickroom sealed shut from the world. Julian’s heart clenched at the sight of the figure curled on the expansive mattress. The same place she’d been since he’d returned to England two months ago.
