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I release you from our engagement. You owe me no debt or duty. There is nothing else to say.
A.
What the devil?
He turned it over, held it up to the light, waved it over a flame in case she had written in lemon juice. He felt like a fool, but surely, there had to be more.
Before his eyes, the note turned into a blur of black marks. No matter: Those words were already seared onto his eyeballs like a nightmare.
“She did not write this,” he said witlessly.
Lady Belinda came to his side, peered at it over his shoulder. He felt her taut anger soften into pity. “It is her hand.”
So he scoured those twenty words, those three empty, succinct sentences. He searched them for a way in. He found nothing. He could not argue with this. She had made no demands, placed no blame, sent him on no quests.
Here he was, one of the most powerful men in the land, willing to do anything for her, and she had asked him for nothing.
She did not even want to try.
The simple finality of it ruined him.
If only he had told her of his love. But he had held his tongue. He had not wanted her to feel pressured or trapped. He had not wanted to scare her away. She needed time and space to think, he had told himself, after which he had made love to her on the table, to prove to them both that he wanted her forever. But he had not uttered those words of love.
Maybe it would have made no difference, but he could not bear the thought of her, so proud and alone, going out to do battle with the world, without knowing someone loved her so much he would fight any battle by her side.
And maybe the day would come when she would turn to him and smile with the splendor of a thousand stars and find that, by some miracle, she loved him too.
Crouching, Guy fed the letter to the fire, let the flames engulf it, watched it crumble into ash.
“Hardbury? My lord?”
The smoke had stung Guy’s eyes. He blinked away the tears and stood to face Mr. Larke, holding his wife’s hand. Guy had not heard him come in.
“I fear…” Mr. Larke’s mouth worked. His parrot began to mutter and he crossed to stroke her neck. “This is my doing. We quarreled.”
“Why?”
“Over…the education of your sons and this estate. Because…” The man looked distraught. The parrot rubbed her head against his arm as if to comfort him. “I vow, I never imagined she’d leave. She’s so stubborn, so certain, so proud. I never thought…” Shooting a glance at the portrait on the wall, he took a few steps and sank into a chair, head in his hands. “She’s always been so damnably strong-willed, so difficult to control. Using this estate seemed the only way. I was so sure she’d never give this up.”
“Oh, Mr. Larke, you selfish, stubborn sod.” Guy pressed his fingers into his eyes, furious at the waste and the heartache and the loss. He dropped his hands and shook his head at the other man. “It was never the estate she wanted. It was a family. A family to love her. A home.”
“She had that.”
“Did she? Or were you scared to love her in case you lost her too?”
“Lord Hardbury,” Lady Belinda admonished softly. “Please.”
He turned away, mind racing, seeing only Arabella, that first time she smiled. He was the one who had done that. He was the one she needed, even if she was too bloody proud to admit it.
“We’ve sent word to our house in London, to see if she’s there,” Lady Belinda added. “And written to my family.”
Larke clenched the arms of his chair. “You’ll find her, Hardbury. You’ll not rest until you bring her home.”
“And if she doesn’t want me?”
“Find her anyway. It’s your duty.”
Duty. Her note had mentioned duty. And that day in the drawing room, when their marriage had seemed inevitable, she had spoken of his sense of duty then too.
