Page 82 of His Duchess to Remember

Agitated by the mere mention of Huntfield, Malcolm stood sharply and walked to the drawing room window, where he gazed out at the pressing fog and wondered what might be out there in the mist.

“Ye were not at Huntfield with me,” he said tersely. “And if ye think I was in ‘happy’ spirits when I came to see ye in London, then I wonder at yer understanding of the word.”

Anthony shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was your manner, Malcolm. It was your demeanor. It was… different. And when I asked if your stay at Huntfield had been pleasant, you could not answer me, almost as if you did not dare to admit that it had been pleasant. All of your concerns were for Octavia and not wanting to take up more of her time, but I could see that you would have liked to take up all of her time if you thought it was a possibility.”

“Ye’re making assumptions without a jot of evidence,” Malcolm replied angrily, not least because his friend had, in fact, seen right through him.

“Can you tell me, right now, that you do not miss your wife and son?”

Something flinched in Malcolm’s chest. “I can tell ye that they will both be better off without me.”

It was the very notion that had stopped him, every morning, from saddling Rogue and riding right back to the south of England. All he had to do was think of the hurt upon Octavia’s face when she had realized he had omitted the truth, or the fear upon Simon’s face when Malcolm had shouted at him. Not to mention the faint red mark on the boy’s neck, where Malcolm had grabbed Simon’s collar too roughly, oblivious to his own strength.

I might nae be as cruel as my father, but I have the potential to hurt them all the same.

“I saw her, you know,” Anthony said, startling Malcolm.

“What?”

“The Duke and Duchess of Alderwick were having a summer dinner party,” Anthony explained. “I happened to be near Bath, and a friend of mine was attending, so I went. I saw her. Your wife.”

He did not elaborate, and Malcolm sensed it was deliberate. Anthony wanted him to ask for more information, a test to see just how much Malcolm truly cared.

Malcolm tried not to bite, fixing his gaze on the hazy shape of a statue that kept phasing in and out of the fog, but it was impossible. His head was abuzz with curiosity, jabbing at him like a swarm of wasps, until he would surely go mad if he did not hear more.

“How was she?” he asked, grimacing.

“Miserable,” Anthony said, no hint of triumph in his voice, just sadness. “I have not had the pleasure of dining with her before, but I could tell it was not usual. The Duchess of Alderwick was particularly concerned for her and, in the end, took her out into the gardens. When they came back, it was clear that your wife had been crying.”

What? Nay… Nay, that isn’t how this was supposed to be.

His absence was not meant to make Octavia more distressed. Surely, Anthony was mistaken. Maybe, Octavia had been upset about something else, and it was simply a coincidence.

“I have hurt her enough, Anthony,” Malcolm said, his tone cold. “Whatever ye witnessed, it can’t be because of me. She doesn’t want to see me, doesn’t want to speak to me. I betrayed her trust and, once gone, I believe it’s gone for good.”

“Is that what she said to you?”

Malcolm hesitated. “Nae directly, but anecdotally. She doesn’t trust men, and I let her believe she could trust me, only to prove that she should nae have done.”

“What happened?” Anthony urged. “Help me to understand.”

Closing his eyes and dropping his chin to his chest, Malcolm explained everything that had taken place at Evelyn and Hugo’s residence, and the unpleasantness that had followed.

“Sounds to me like you saved the boy, and I have no doubt that your wife would forgive you if you just—” Anthony’s unwelcome sentiments were interrupted by the housekeeper, barging in with a rattling tray of tea and cakes.

“Ye’ve another visitor, Yer Grace,” she said, as she all but slammed the tray down in front of Anthony, who jumped in alarm. A slight smirk lifted the old woman’s lips.

Malcolm, eager for a diversion, turned to the housekeeper. “Who is it?”

“That wee laddie ye rescued,” she replied. “He’s waitin’ at the kitchen door. Doesnae look too good, poor thing.”

He glanced at Anthony. “If ye’ll excuse me.”

Leaving before his friend could argue or say anything more about how Octavia would just ‘forgive and forget’ though he knew it was not true, Malcolm marched straight toward the kitchens.

There, seated on a milking stool just beyond the threshold, picking at a bread roll though his collarbones were showing and his face was gaunt, was the boy that had inadvertently caused all of Malcolm’s troubles.

“Quinn, isn’t it?” Malcolm said, approaching.