Page 78 of From Unwanted to Duchess
CHAPTER 25
James
What had he done? What madness had possessed him?
He had kissed her. He had opened up to her. It was a grave error in judgment. The worst mistake he could have made.
What was it about Frances that drew him in, that made him so unlike himself? Or was it that he was being unlike himself?
Perhaps this was the person he would have been if it hadn’t been for his father’s harsh ways and the tragedy of Marcus’s death.
He sat up in his chair at the club and rubbed his face. “I cannot believe I just thought of Marcus’s death as simply a tragedy. For the past ten years, I have thought of it as my fault. I brought it on.”
He finished his whiskey and was about to order another when Gideon stumbled through the front door and joined him at the table. He snapped his fingers at a passing waiter and ordered a scotch.
“There you are,” he said. “I called at your townhouse, and they told me that you had gone to the club. Did you forget that we were going to go to Tattersall’s together?”
“Were we?” James had completely forgotten.
He had spent the entire morning pacing back and forth in his study like a caged beast. It wasn’t that he was avoiding Frances. In fact, she had left the house early in the morning to take breakfast with Aunt Eugenia. But he would admit that he had been glad she had been gone most of the day. It had saved him from having to face her.
He had tried to work. Truly, he had. There were papers from Morrison about the estate, letters from Somerset Trust, and bills to review. But every time he picked up his quill, his mind wandered.
To the feel of her lips on his. To the way she had looked up at him with those eyes. To the terror he had felt when that horse had come thundering toward them.
He had gotten up. Paced. Sat down again. Gotten up once more. At one point, Franklin had knocked and entered with tea. “Your Grace, are you quite well? You look rather?—”
“I am perfectly fine,” James had snapped. “Leave the tea and go.”
Franklin had set down the tray and departed quickly. And James had felt like a complete blackguard for speaking to him that way. Frances would have scolded him for it. She would have told him Franklin deserved better.
Frances. Always back to Frances.
He had noticed her glove then, lying on the chair by the fireplace. She must have left it there yesterday before she went out. He had picked it up, the soft leather still holding the shape of her hand. He had held it for longer than he should have, remembering how her hand had felt in his as they walked through the park.
Then he had thrown it down and poured himself a whiskey, even though it was barely past ten in the morning.
He had found himself standing in front of Marcus’s portrait. Not the one with their father—he had had that removed immediately after Frances had hung it—but this one that showed Marcus alone, painted when he was twenty.
“What would you say to me now?” he had asked the painting. “Would you tell me I’m being a fool? Or would you understand?”
Once they were older,
Once they were older, no longer in school together, James and Marcus had grown close and he’d realized his brother always understood him. Even when he didn’t show it.
They’d come to an understanding and grown close.
Until James had gotten him killed.
His hands had been shaking when he poured the second whiskey. That was when he knew he had to leave the house. Go to the club. Get away from all reminders ofher.
And now here was Gideon, looking at him with those knowing eyes.
For the truth was, James didn’t know what to say to his wife or how to behave. He had kissed her because in that moment, he had been afraid to lose her. But now? Now he didn’t know what to do or think. The fear was still there, sitting in his chest like a boulder.
“James,” Gideon called. “Are you present? You seem to be in an entirely different world.”
“No, no,” James said. “It is just…”
