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Simon couldn’t help but stare at her in confusion as questions sored through his mind. “You should just go rest, there’s no use staying here. I’d rather be alone for now.”
“So you can drink yourself to death? I’m not leaving you by yourself,” she said stubbornly. She got up and seated herself on the bed, its frame creaking from the weight.
“I don’t think you heard me,” he insisted, “I want to be alone.”
She folded her arms across her chest at his words in her now usual stubborn stance. He sighed. It felt like dealing with a child, though deep down, he did savor her presence and company. His mind couldn’t stop sending him mixed signals. One moment, he wanted to beg her to stay with him, then the next, he wanted her to leave.
“I won’t drink anymore if that makes you feel any better,” he said.
Yet, his words failed to convince her, and there was no wonder why. He looked over to the lined-up bottles of port by the bedside and let out a grunt. “Fine.” Walking over to them, he grabbed as many as he could, and then made his way to the casement window, shoving it open with his shoulders and tossing them out one by one. The chilly wind soared in, cooling his skin, and brushing against Ellie’s hair, turning it into a wind-tousled mess.
Upon shutting the casement window, he turned back to her, noticing the wind swept tresses falling over her face as she scowled at him. Somehow, the mixture of her expression and its messiness had made her appear even more pretty. “You can go now,” he insisted.
“Fine. Goodnight,” she replied. She stood up elegantly, like usual, and strode to the door without missing a beat.
His insides burned hot and not from the alcohol, rather from his want for her. Then, in a hesitant stride, he rushed to her side and wrapped his hand around her wrist, holding her in place. “I’m…sorry.”
She didn’t utter a word at his reaction. Her eyes traveled from his hand to her arm, as if she was trying to make sense of his irrational actions.
The silence drifted on a little while longer, before he continued, “…I didn’t mean to be discourteous—” he ran his other hand through his hair, “I would like it if you stayed. Here. With me.”
She blinked a few times, tilting her head slightly to the side and looking at him as if he had grown two heads. “Of course I’ll stay, Simon,” she finally said reassuringly. She turned her eyes to his shaky hand once more. “You’re not okay. Please, just sit with me.”
She pulled away his hand from her wrist, instead placing her hand securely in his own and leading him toward a sheet-covered sofa. They sat together, her hand still intertwined with his, her face screaming worry the longer she remained in the room. He saw it as pity.
“I don’t want you to pity me,” he said.
“I don’t pity you.”
There was a small silence. He breathed. She breathed. He shifted. She shifted.
“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about anything. I simply want to be sure you’re all right,” Ellie said. Her voice was a mere whisper tickling his ear.
“Would it help if I shared something about myself?” she asked.
He didn’t react. It might. He wouldn’t feel as if he was burdening her with unnecessary troubles and worries, and it would certainly help mitigate any feelings of being pitied--or what he assumed to be ‘pity’, at least.
After a few more moments of silence and what seemed like deep reflection, she began. “I was mocked during my debut.”
He felt her wince a little from her own words, as she forced herself to continue, “Sir George was his name. He pretended to be interested in me, declared to the ton he was in love with me. My aunt was somewhat excited since my debut was failing, and papa—um, my uncle Marcus, was ecstatic. And well…” she dropped her head a little, “It was a lie. He was a rake, making wagers with his friends about how many women he could seduce, and apparently, I was on the list of candidates. Last to be seduced, to be precise. Funnily enough, I think that hurt even more—but it doesn’t matter, really.”
“So that’s why you hated me so much?” he asked.
“Partly.”
“I might be a rake,” he said. A part of him wanted to say ‘was’. He didn’t believe he could engage in rakish behaviors after this was over, not with what he had experienced over the last week… “but I have a rule. I never spend—”
“Spend more than a night with a woman,” she finished. “It’s always in the papers.”
“Yes. And also, I never lay in bed with a Lady.”
She raised her head a little, biting her lip as she shifted her whole body to face him now. “Why are you a rake?”
He gazed deeper into her hazel eyes, his reflection staring back at him. He didn’t know if he should reveal it to her, he didn’t know if she would pity him after like most others, or worse, believe he truly was the cursed Duke. But as he slowly moved his hand over to her cold cheek, he saw the concern residing there. And he trusted her.
“My betrothed died eight years ago,” he confessed abruptly, taking her aback. Her hands and face twitched back in shock and surprise at his reveal. “She died in a carriage accident after we had a fight. I saw her fall and I carried her bloody body back to the Castle.”
He didn’t utter a word for a few moments, the events in front of him replaying in his head. It was as if he was no longer next to Eloise, but back at the unfolding scene, the one that ruined him and traumatized him so terribly.
He was at Richmond Castle the day it happened, inside Maddie’s room—this room. Although not officially married, they took liberties with each other, and they were called an unorthodox couple by many and envied by many others.
