Page 76 of His Duchess to Remember

“If he thinks that reckless behavior will provoke me into speaking to him, he could not be more wrong,” Octavia muttered to herself as she watched from the window with her heart in her throat.

At least twenty times now, she had forced herself to resist the urge to open the window and scream at her husband for his idiocy. What was he thinking, riding with Simon in such a dangerous fashion? Did Malcolm wish to make her even angrier? He was certainly going the right way about it, even if she would not give him the satisfaction of talking to him.

“I couldn’t do anything to stop it,” Millicent said, standing awkwardly in the bedchamber.

The nursemaid had come directly from the stables to inform Octavia of what Malcolm and Simon were doing. But, by then, it was already too late, and the pair of them were already out there on the lawns, racing back and forth.

“The gall of him!” Octavia seethed as she pressed the heel of her palm to her chest, rubbing slow circles to try and loosen up her tight lungs.

She had not slept a wink last night; she had not even tried. Instead, she had settled herself into the armchair by the fire and had not moved until dawn. Frozen in disbelief at the betrayal her husband had enacted. She would have preferred to find out that he had lovers or that he had lost the entirety of their fortune over being lied to, regardless of whether it was by omission or not.

All night, she had gone over the conversations she had had with Malcolm since he came back from London. Annoyingly, she could not think of a single instance where he had actively lied. The same was true of the doctor, who must have known; he, too, had not directly been untruthful, just clever with his words.

Still, that did not lessen the betrayal. If anything, it made it sting all the more, for Malcolm must have known that what he was doing was wrong. Yet, he continued the ruse, made her fall in love with him, and dared to kiss her, all while pretending to be someone he was not. Well, someone he was not anymore.

“Millicent?” she said, chewing her lip.

The nursemaid cleared her throat. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“If someone you cared about kept something rather important from you, what would you do?”

Millicent was quiet for a while before replying, “I suppose it would depend on why they kept it from me, Your Grace. Was it to protect me, or was it to protect themselves?”

That was the very question that Octavia had been asking herself, for though Malcolm had said he withheld the truth for her benefit, she could not quite believe it. The trouble was, she could not figure out why he would have kept it to himself if it was for selfish reasons.

Did he think I would ask him to leave? Could it be that he, the real him, wanted to stay?

Frowning, she watched as her husband, her son, and the mighty stallion charged out of view.

For the next few days, Malcolm went down to the breakfast room every morning, hoping it might be the day that Octavia decided to speak to him again. And every morning, he found only Simon there with his nursemaid, the woman having another excuse as to why Octavia was not joining them.

It was the same at luncheon and dinner, and on Malcolm’s daily wanders through the manor, trying to find her ‘by accident.’ The duchess of the house did not want to be found. She either kept to her bedchamber or asked to see Simon in the nursery or the sun room, without Malcolm present.

Of course, he knew he could just go to her bedchamber or the nursery and demand an audience with her, but he did not want to make matters worse. Giving her time seemed to be the wisest thing to do, even if he was becoming impatient, like a prisoner waiting to be given his sentence.

Why hasn’t she told me to leave yet? It puzzled him that he was still at Huntfield, and if he had not known any better, he might have thought that she was punishing him with the not-knowing. The waiting. The uncertainty.

Still, there was one small blessing to be found, and it came in the form of Simon.

“Ready with yer stick?” Malcolm asked, standing on a bridge in the estate woodland with Simon next to him.

The boy waved the stick he had chosen. “Aye, Papa.”

“After three, throw it into the water.” Malcolm paused. “One… Two… Three!”

Both of them threw their sticks and ran to the opposite side of the bridge, their eyes fixed on the quick-moving water below, where small fish darted hither and thither.

Just then, the smaller of the two twigs emerged from beneath the bridge.

“That’s mine!” Simon cried triumphantly. “I win!”

Malcolm laughed and glanced at his son, a moment before his own stick sailed past. “Aye, ye won. Ye must have some winning magic in ye, laddie. I was sure it would be my stick this time.”

Over the past few days, he had spent more time with his son than he ever thought he would. Mostly, they had ridden horses or walked in the gardens or picked fruit for the kitchen or wandered in the forest for mushrooms. Simple activities, filled with Simon’s lively, never-ending chatter and curiosity.

The longer Malcolm had spent in the boy’s company, the more he had realized, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he loved his son. The last thing he wanted to do was leave the boy and be denied the privilege of watching him grow up.

But I can’t stay.