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He knocked, the hollow sound echoing the emptiness in his heart.

The door creaked open, and Patience stood before him, her golden hair framing a face etched with worry and sorrow. Even so, she was a divine, feminine vision that pierced his blackened soul.

Seeing her was like gulping down pure water after years of drought. He drank in her features, searching for any signs of distress. She was paler, thinner, with dark circles under her eyes, and he didn’t like that at all. She was dressed in one of the gowns that had been made for her while she was in Rath Hall. It was the color of lilacs, with delicate embroidery of purple leaves and white roses, which suited her clear complexion and highlighted her natural blush.

“Your Grace,” she murmured.

“I know you told me not to look for you,” he said, unable to tear his gaze away from her. “I will not take much of your time. I promise you, I didn’t come to take you back.” He gestured at his leather folder. “I must discuss this with you…my will…and then I’m off to London.”

Her eyebrows drew together, and her eyes widened in worry. “Your will?”

“Yes. If you allow me to come in and take a few moments of your and your family’s time, I will explain everything.”

She nodded. “Please, come in.”

He followed her inside, noting the simple furnishings with scratches, tears, and signs of wear. The walls had cracks in the plaster, and the embroidery hangings were yellowed and had moth holes. Yellow stains marred the ceiling, the result of a leaking roof. Everything was in stark contrast to the opulent grandeur of Rath Hall.

She led him into the sitting room, which looked more like a workroom where clothes were sewn, laundry was hung, and preserves were made. It smelled faintly of vinegar.

As Patience turned to face him, Dorian felt the weight of his sins pressing upon his shoulders.

Somewhere down the hall, perhaps in the actual kitchen, several female voices chattered, and occasionally laughed. And he guessed that Mrs. Rose and her daughters were in there, preparing supper or cooking something judging by the clanking of cutlery and dishes.

But Patience didn’t belong here anymore, he thought, and was even more satisfied with the contents of the folder he had brought.

“Is your papa at home?” he asked. “Your mama and your sisters?”

She stood so far away from him, like a stranger, and he fought an impulse to stretch his arm out to her and beckon her to come closer.

“They are,” she said.

So distant. When she’d left him, darkness had engulfed him. But he couldn’t rely on her to always bring him light. He must find it on his own.

And this was the start.

“By the cheerful sounds, am I correct in assuming you have not told them about John?”

She shook her head. “I have not.”

He nodded. He thought she wouldn’t. He hoped deep down she still had some loyalty to him. But he knew he had never earned that loyalty. “Might they join us here?”

She searched his face, then nodded and left the room. When she returned with her whole family, the Roses gasped and called out cheerful greetings he didn’t deserve. The small sitting room was soon crowded.

“What brings you here, Duke?” asked Mr. Rose with a smile from ear to ear. “Have you come to take our Patience back home?”

Dorian fiddled with the folder in his hands. It was quite a freeing sensation to realize the wrathful anger had no more power over him. Surrender and acceptance were both the hardest and easiest things he’d ever had to do. “I’m afraid not, sir. I have come to make a full confession, Patience, both to you and your esteemed family. The burden of my past weighs heavily, and I can no longer allow it to cast a shadow upon our…connection.”

His voice caught on the final word. He had no right to hope. And still, he did.

Never mind. There wouldn’t be any hope left after he returned to London.

“Whatever could this be?” asked Mrs. Rose as she and the girls took their places on the sofa and the free chairs. Patience remained standing. Was she nervous?

“Please, Your Grace, speak your truth,” she said.

Dorian’s burned hand ached under the glove. He clenched and unclenched his fist, massaged it with his healthy hand. He had finally gone to his physician, who had treated his skin with salves. Dorian had been removing the glove whenever he was alone and when he slept, and the pain and swelling were getting much better.

He had resolved to make this confession—he was ready—and yet, the words he was about to say burned his throat like acid. Slowly, he took a lungful of air, commanding the tremor in his body to calm. When the words finally came, he didn’t cower. Didn’t hide. He had to take this straight on, and he looked directly into each of the Roses’ eyes. He deserved to have to look into the eyes of these people, from whom he robbed a son and a brother, and receive the full strength of their wrath and pain.