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“You must tell me,” she teased.
Her duke arched an imperious brow. “Are you asking me why society calls me mad?”
“Hmmm…”
He dipped his head so close, their lips brushed
.
There were several shocked gasps.
“They are outrageous.”
“Because I did not fit their mould, Duchess. I never took a mistress, I loved my wife…and when I lost her, I traveled to London. For months I took to the rings at Gentleman Jackson and pounded out my rage and pain on any willing participant. I became undefeated and no one save Westfall after a period would enter the ring with me. They would leave with too many bruises, both to their body and pride. I insisted all my matches be bare knuckles, so I could feel every lick of pain, for it would distract me from my inner torment. It was not long before everyone started whispering of my obvious guilt and my supposed madness.”
“Oh, Edmond, I am so very sorry.”
“It’s the past.”
“Is it?”
His eyes darkened, and he grounded them to a halt in the middle of the ballroom. He cupped her cheeks, his eyes glowing with intensity. “I am trying, Duchess, I find I hunger to let it all go…”
“What are they doing?”
“Upon my word, I do believe he is about to kiss her.”
“Here?”
Laughter bubbled inside Adel at the voices rising in the room. “I fear we will be in the scandal sheets tomorrow.”
Amusement glittered in his eyes. “I agree.”
Then he kissed her.
Chapter Twenty
A nightmare he had not had in months released its insidious clasp slowly as Edmond woke. The memories were as intolerable as ever, and with icy talons meant to rip and sunder, they seethed within like a devouring monster, stealing his peace.
In a week’s time it will be the anniversary of Maryann’s death…
Edmond, please save me…save us.
This is entirely your fault… The pained accusation had gutted him.
I wanted to give you an heir…not my life!
Maryann had been ravaged with pain and fear and had hurled the harsh words like a scythe, cleaving him in two. She’d had the presence of mind to even try to soothe him, apologizing, and saying she had not meant it. But he knew the truth, honesty was always more bald and forthright in moments of desperation.
They had both been desperate—and she had been right with every skin flaying accusation. He had failed her by not realizing something had been wrong. Sarah’s birth had been difficult and it had taken Maryann weeks to recover. Why had he not been more careful, more assessing, more concerned whenever she paled when he mentioned an heir. There were days he had touched her and she had been stiff, more unresponsive than sensual. She had pleaded melancholy, and he had kept himself from going to her bed for more than a year. It mattered not that Maryann had not gotten pregnant again, until two years after Sarah’s birth, he should have noticed the change in her spirits whenever he or his mother discussed an heir.
The blood on the mattress.
The bitter scent as they burned it and all the soaked linens and washrags.
If Maryann had told him the doctor’s concern he would never have pressed for an heir.
There was a soft sigh behind him, and he shifted to look at his new duchess. He had taken her several times last night, careful to never release inside of her.
