Page 92
“Is something amiss?”
A laugh bubbled up in her chest and spilled out. Was something amiss? What wasn’t bloody amiss?
The scratch of chair legs echoed through her office, then bootsteps thudded her way. She sighed, then glanced up at Perry’s concerned visage.
“Are you well?” he asked, kind eyes searching hers. He pointed toward her wastebasket. “You’ve nearly filled that up today. And that laugh was slightly alarming.”
She forced a smile. “I’m a mite distracted. That’s all.”
“It would seem this is not a happy distraction by the growls you’ve been emitting.”
“It’ll pass. Just having an off day.”
“You know I’m always here if you need me,” Perry said quietly. “And as much as I love to gossip, you know I would never betray your confidence.”
The question was obvious in his gaze, but she wouldn’t give him an answer. What was there to say, anyhow? You were correct, Perry. I should have been more careful.
What had she been thinking? A casual liaison wasn’t possible. She’d known it wasn’t going to last. It looked like their happy bubble had finally burst.
The faint pounding of footsteps filtered in from the hall, and her heart kicked against her sternum. Oh dear God. She wasn’t ready to face him. All of these—she wrinkled her nose—feelings were overwhelming her, and she wasn’t certain if she’d be able to hold herself back from screaming at him, shaking him, or collapsing into his arms and pleading with him to be the man she’d hoped for him to be.
That hurt the most. Realizing it was all a facade. He wasn’t a horrible man, not even close. But he was the same as the rest of the men of this world. He believed he was above her purely because he had some tallywags and an appendage dangling between his legs.
She hated it. She was a damn good steward. Just as competent as her father. She excelled. Why couldn’t she be viewed as equal? Why was the world determined to view women as less than? And to throw her past lovers in her face? Like he’d been chaste before her? The hypocrisy burned like molten fury through her veins.
The pounding grew louder, then a frantic man stormed into her office. A frantic man who was not the Duke.
She shot to her feet. “Bash, whatever is wrong?”
He stopped in front of her desk, eyes wide. He shoved a hand through his hair. “He’s gone,” he said hoarsely. “He fucking left.”
She frowned. “What are you on about?”
He slammed his palms on her desk, pain radiating from his green eyes. “He left, Theo. His coach and four just left the estate.”
Her pulse throbbed in her throat. What? “The Duke. The Duke has left…”
“Departed for London. All his things are gone. I just returned from my ride.” Bash’s features contorted. “He didn’t even say farewell.”
Oh, Bash. Her heart cracked. At the hurt roughening his words. At the dejection welling in his eyes.
She glanced at Perry and froze. His gaze was narrowed on her. “Did you know, Theodora?”
She shook her head. She’d assumed he’d be returning sooner rather than later after the words they’d shared. But she hadn’t expected him to depart immediately. “No. I didn’t know.”
A heavy weight sank over her, dragging her back down into her chair. That was that, then.
It was over.
They were over.
It might be for the best, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.
35
Rafe
Raphael stormed into Dunmore House before the footman could open the door. Then stopped in his tracks. Why was it so bloody dark in here? The grandiose wood front door to Dunmore House shut with a thump, the low sound reverberating through the dim entryway.
