Page 83 of His Wild Duchess
His eyes clung to her, though he didn’t bother to argue.
The dinner continued on in silence, the only sound within the room being their utensils scratching against the plates. Even the animals, fast asleep by the warm room, didn’t even snore. Penelope could only imagine what George was thinking, watching him with every chance she could, trying to memorize every curve in his face.
“I’ll need to get used to no longer having animals around me all the time,” George suddenly said, his voice heavy and wistful. His attention was focused on the pack, and for a moment, it felt as though he spoke without meaning to.
Penelope could only stare, her lips parted in astonishment. George hadn’t once made a pointed comment about her departure since he told her of the letter’s arrival. She had no inclining as to what he was feeling, till that very moment. Penelope wanted to shoot up from the table and race across the room to him. To hold onto him and refuse to let go. There had to be a piece of him, just one little bit, that ached for her to stayas much as she wished to. And yet, no matter how much she told herself that, George didn’t offer another word.
If he wanted her to stay, he kept it locked within.
Penelope swallowed back the rushing of emotion that threatened to make tears fall. Rising from the table, she gave George a bow. “Good evening,” she murmured before spinning around, leaping over a few dog legs to make it to the exit. The pack rose and followed her like a stampede. The moment she passed across the threshold, Penelope finally allowed herself to cry. She felt as though something struck her with every step she took.
At that point, Penelope knew that she wouldn’t dare stay until dawn. The longer she remained, the harder it became to sever herself from the life she had grown to treasure. She did not even try to sleep, for fear of her dreams being filled with nightmares of her future. A life without George grew darker by the minute, even when the sun made way to peek across the horizon. Even when the birds sang their song over the treetops, life seemed even dimmer.
Penelope wore a cloak over her dress, making her way like a ghost through the townhouse’s quiet halls. She slipped by the room where the Millers slept, and then George’s own room. She paused in front of it for a moment, her hand grazing over the door.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. “My love.”
And with that, Penelope flew down the staircase, slipping out the back door that led towards the stable. The dogs were already stored away in the carriage, leaving no room for her to sit beside him. Even if there was, she knew she would be riding on horseback to the cottage. Fresh air flying through her air felt like a possible antidote for her sorrow. Perhaps if she was aligned with nature once more, she’d remember what it was she was leaving it all behind for. Even then, as she pushed open the stable doors, Penelope had no idea.
Fiona came to her almost immediately, nuzzling her snout along Penelope’s neck. She reached, running a hand along her neck as she turned her attention towards Vaun. The stallion loomed over in the corner, his dark eyes holding onto her firmly. Crossing the room, Penelope saw a paper tacked to the front of Vaun’s stall. Neat and familiar handwriting was scrawled across it.
Take Vaun. For safekeeping.
Penelope’s heart threatened to topple her over. The one thing that could be designated as the key to George’s success within London was Vaun, and he so willingly handed him over to her for the time being, all out of safety. And yet, despite the emotion that seemed to lurk behind that note, it hasn't changed a single thing. George wasn’t there, saying those words to her face. He wasn’t there to wish her a goodbye, to admit his true feelings, to beg her to stay, to forget the dreams she had once had to build new ones with him.
Penelope pulled Vaun out of the stall and fixed the saddle on his back. She gave Fiona a goodbye as she walked by, reassuring themare they’d see each other very soon. Vaun followed her eagerly out into the early morning air. Hoisting herself onto his back, Penelope quietly led him towards the front of the townhouse, the driver of the carriage nodding off for a moment or two till she rumbled up in front of him.
And just like that, she was on her way towards the cottage, leaving behind everything she had once given half her heart to. The tears, this time, fell, and there was no point in stopping them.
CHAPTER 25
Before the carriage rolled away, there was the sound of clopping hooves against the cobblestone outside the townhouse. Vaun, sleek and ebony in the distant light, burst out from around the house, leaving behind the stables he had once been confined to. On his back, with red hair as fiery as the sun peering over the horizon, Penelope held onto the reins, a cloak flying out behind her. If she wished to turn around, take one final look at the home she left behind, she didn’t show it. Not once did she look back.
George could not move from the window, even after Penelope was long gone, the carriage carrying her things and the pack disappearing along with her. Every memory, every moment of joy he had alongside her, felt stripped from his hands, taken down the street till he could no longer see it.
While he wasn’t surprised Penelope hadn’t come to say goodbye, George felt the pain as though he had been struck across the face. After their dinner last night, he had considered going to her room long after they had parted, eager to take a look at her faceone last time, to hear her voice out of fear of quickly forgetting it. Even then, as he stood by the window, George tried to imagine her speaking to him and heard nothing. How soon till he forgot her face, forgot her words, forgot the very manner in which she held herself? Like a paranoid man, he felt his heartbeat rise, the panic settling deep beneath his skin.
Inside, he was tormented and afraid. Outside, George was as rigid as a statue, his expression unreadable.
Regret tainted him, and it was quickly followed by guilt. How could he dare feel the slightest bit of regret, when he had allowed her to leave without saying goodbye? If he was certain she wouldn’t have done it herself, why hadn’t he put his foot down? Respect and propriety be damned. George just lost the best thing about his life, and he didn’t even make an effort to try and stop it from happening.
Before the sun pulled itself over the horizon, George poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, a bottle Fred had gifted him upon his arrival. The ragged taste burnt against his throat, but he gladly took it. None of the brandy or wine he had in the townhouse was strong enough. He would take anything that could take away the sting that clung to him from Penelope’s departure.
Everywhere he turned, there was something left behind that reminded him of Penelope’s ever lasting touch upon his life. Every piece of clothing he had tucked away in drawers or the wardrobe were littered with cat hair, bunched up and crumpled into a cozy nest.The dog bed that had been in his study for theanimals remained there, still warm to the touch. Hair clung to every bit of it. The bed’s pillow had been pushed in a way that an animal had to have been poking and prodding at till it was entirely comfortable.
George had finished his glass before breakfast had been served, already beginning to pour himself another one. The image of Penelope was still so present in his mind, as if she had been standing in front of him the entire time. He swatted a hand through the air, insistent on having her out of his head but only wishing he could caress the side of her face once more.
A knock came from the study door. After pouring himself another glass, George went back to the window, staring down the street as if Penelope would come galloping back towards him. The door to the study opened when he didn’t respond to the second knock.
“Georgie,” Winnie said from the threshold, her hands impatiently pressed against her hips. “You promised to take Freddie and me to the stud farm.”
“Not today.”
Winnie sighed as she crept into the study. “You know very well why todayisthe best day. No more wallowin’ now.” She waded further into the room, pushing the chair into the desk and absentmindedly tidying up. “George Houston,” she suddenly snapped, snatching onto the half empty whiskey bottle. “Don’ tell me you’ve been drinkin’ this early!”
George could not pull himself from the window. “Have you ever seen a man as tormented as I?”
“I’ve seen drunker ones,” she murmured.
