Page 52 of An Arranged Betrothal with a Contrite Duke
Chapter Twenty-six
In the stillness of his study, Michael held the crisp piece of cream paper in his hands. His heart pounded against his chest, the echo of every beat a resounding gong in the silence that enveloped him. His fingers, usually so sure and steady, trembled slightly as he unfolded the missive. The scent of Lydia's favorite perfume clung to the parchment, a cruel reminder of the woman he had wronged.
He squinted against the light, taking in her elegant penmanship. He always admired her handwriting, a beautiful blend of strength and grace, much like the woman herself. A lump formed in his throat as he read on, the words a physical blow. Lydia had discovered his deception. Her words were not bitter, not angry. Instead, they were filled with a sorrow that cut him deeper than any venomous tirade could.
Michael winced as he continued reading her words. He had married Lydia for her dowry, yes, but that was before he knew her, before he fell in love with her. He had been a fool, blinded by his greed and ambition, and now, he was paying the price. A sense of regret washed over Michael. He had seen the vase only as a means to satiate his own greed and pride. He hadn't considered the sentimental value it held for Lydia and her family. Worst of all, he hadn’t considered how she as a person might feel about such a thing.
I considered it, all right, he thought bitterly, recalling his precise notions on the idea at first. I considered it, and I didn’t care how she might feel. I decided she could fend for herself and stay out of my way. All that mattered to me was the vase.
He barely fought off a wave of nausea as he thought about the man he was when he had such thoughts. He was a changed man since, changed by his love for his wife. But the changes, it seemed, would mean nothing. Now, Lydia knew what he had done. And she was very wounded.
Tears stung his eyes as he read Lydia's parting words. He had hoped to confess his transgressions, to beg for her forgiveness. But he was too late. Lydia had discovered his deceit on her own, and the damage had been done. Her very last words told him that she had no intention of coming back to him. She was, for all intents and purposes, no longer his wife. He wiped furiously at his eyes, trying to summon anger and indignation. But all that came was wave after wave of sorrow for what he had done.
He set the letter down, his mind a whirl of regret and remorse. He had deceived the woman he loved, and in doing so, he had lost her trust, perhaps forever. Michael knew when he planned to show Lydia his love that he had a lot to make amends for, and he would have done whatever it took to win back Lydia's trust and love. She would not return to him now, however. And worst of all, Michael knew he couldn’t blame her.
Filled with anguish, Michael paced the hallways of Strawbridge Manor, the flickering candlelight and the late afternoon sunlight casting eerie shadows on the walls. He stopped, his gaze fixed on the exquisite vase displayed prominently on the mantelpiece. The delicate clay, adorned with its intricate patterns, now served as a constant reminder of his folly.
His heart clenched at the images of Lydia's face when she discovered his deceit. He hadn’t seen it himself. But it had haunted him in his dreams the night before. If only he had been honest with her from the beginning! He cursed himself a thousand times over for allowing the allure of the vase to take precedence over his true feelings.
He would have never guessed that a letter from Lydia would come to haunt him like this. But then, he had always expected her to confront him face to face. Now, she was so disgusted with him that she wouldn’t look at him. And he knew that he couldn’t blame her for that, either. He only had himself to blame. He had many opportunities to speak with her about the situation, especially once he discovered that he was falling in love with her. But he had just tried to push the problem away and pretend it didn’t exist. And by the time he had decided to do the right thing, she had found out from someone else.
Michael found that he couldn’t even be angry with whoever did tell her. He knew it must have been her father, as no one else was fully aware of their arrangement. The countess, he suspected, might have known there was some kind of arrangement. But he thought that if she had known, she might have told Lydia before their wedding. Although, it did seem as though the countess was just as eager for her to marry Michael as the earl had been. So, he couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. They had had the courage to do what he had not. Now, he would suffer the consequences of those actions.
Approaching footsteps made Michael stop mid step. He groaned, fearing that his mother had risen after her early retirement that evening. But it was the butler who approached him, looking at him with solemn concern.
“Forgive me, milord,” he said. “But there is a matter that needs your attention.
Michael sighed.
“Can it wait?” he snarled.
Patterson nodded slowly.
“If you like, I can tell Lord St. Dunstan that you are unavailable,” he said.
Michael froze.
“Marcus?” he asked, surprised that his cousin would come by so late.
The butler nodded again.
“The same,” he said.
Michael thought it over for a moment before shaking his head.
“No,” he said. “Have him meet me in the drawing room in about ten minutes.”
Patterson bowed and nodded once more.
“Very well, milord,” he said.
When the butler had gone, Michael raced to the drawing room. He couldn’t have expected unannounced company at such a time. But nor could he bring himself to send Marcus away. However, before his cousin entered his room, he needed to calm his nerves. He quickly poured half a glass of brandy and drank it, wincing at the burn. He drank another two fingers full more, then collapsed into the chair.
He sat down just in time. The door to the drawing room creaked open an instant later, and Michael's closest friend and cousin, Marcus, entered. His eyes instantly noticed the distress etched upon Michael's face.
“Michael, what has happened?” he asked, concern lacing his voice.
Michael shook his head, not at his cousin, but in a vain effort to clear the fresh tears that were trying to fill his eyes.
