Page 4 of Down Bad with the Iron Duke

Perry was a cheeky one. One would never know it from his buttoned-up exterior. He was all shades of black and grey, from his hair to his footwear, but mischief glinted behind his wire-rimmed spectacles.

She blew out her lips. What was she to do now? What did that display even mean? “Quite the affable fellow.”

Perry hummed in agreement. “I’ve never been more charmed in my life.”

Theo dropped into her chair. “I suppose I’m not sacked?”

The amusement in Perry’s eyes dwindled. “Not as of yet.”

This day had been looming since the moment Theo had received the Duke’s letter. The one where he’d shockingly agreed to journey to Ironcrest Castle to review the damages the fires had caused. She’d known she needed to make the suggestion. The fires’ damages were too extensive. She’d never imagined the Duke would actually agree. If rumors were true, it’d been over a decade since the Duke had set foot in Ironcrest.

She’d both wanted time to slow down and speed up. She couldn’t stand not knowing what her fate held.

Well, the Duke had arrived.

And she still didn’t know her fate.

3

Rafe

Rafe’s boots pounded against the earth in rhythm with his heart. Once he made it there, everything would be fine. He tore at his cravat, the stiff fabric threatening to choke off his air supply. He’d lost his greatcoat somewhere along the way. He couldn’t care less. He needed out of these bloody clothes. He cursed. His cravat was as good as a garrote right now. He finally managed to undo the knot. He yanked it from his throat and let it fall somewhere behind him.

He finally sucked in a full breath. Thank the bloody gods.

He picked up his pace, the underbrush crunching as he wove his way deeper into the woods. He’d needed to escape before he revealed himself. Revealed the panic cloying its way up his insides. He could not—would not—appear weak.

His sweat-soaked lawn shirt clung to his back like moist whispers of his past. He growled and tore at it. Buttons went flying. It joined the ground with his waistcoat and cravat. He was sure to alarm his servants with his scattered wardrobe. Fortunately, being a Duke had its advantages. Rafe could do whatever the bloody fuck he wanted, no questions asked.

Splashing water reached Rafe’s ears. Almost there. The faint whoosh of spray grew into a steady roar, a roar that drowned out all his demons. He burst into the clearing. And just like that, Rafe was ten years old again.

Water cascaded down the dark-grey stone, crashing into the pool below. White spray hissed as it broke across the surface. And there—behind the fall—the cave.

It was exactly as he remembered it. And nothing like it.

The slick stones that had once seemed larger than life were suddenly small, almost insignificant. He made his way around the edge of the pool, studying them: jagged protrusions of rock, precariously spaced. As a boy, he had scaled them without thought. Now he wasn’t so certain a man of his size could manage them.

But the cave beckoned. Worst case, he ended up taking an ice-cold bath. Not a bad worst case. Rafe’s gaze drifted across the water to where the river gathered itself again, slipping away through the trees. Distant memories flitted just below the surface of his mind, but just like the opaque foam coating the pool, he couldn’t make them out.

He tore off his gloves. Boots and stockings followed.

He carefully hopped onto the first stone, fingers and toes finding purchase on the cold, slick rock. He climbed slowly, chest pressed close to the stone, inching toward the curtain of water. A chill seeped into his skin, and he welcomed it. Let it numb him.

The roar was deafening as he neared the fall, and the spray spat at his face. He blinked it away, turned his shoulder into the rock, and slipped behind the cascade.

The sharp roar disappeared. And with it, his demons. Just a dull thrumming off the cave’s walls.

He slicked the wetness from his face and stepped fully into the cave. The shadows slowly cleared as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He approached the back. The space was about the size of a large storeroom. His head scraped the top, and he winced, ducking. Definitely hadn’t needed to duck the last time he’d been here. It had seemed so vast when he’d been half the size he was now. He’d been unusually small as a boy—something his father had detested. Ironic how once he was no longer starved, he actually grew.

His attention locked on the stone—dry and chalky this far back from the falls. It was still here. He lifted an arm and settled his trembling fingers on the wall. Right over the spot.

His eyes fluttered shut.

And for the first time since he’d set out in his carriage toward Ironcrest, calm washed over him.

Run

Tears streamed down his face, arms pumping, lungs straining. He tore through the woods, branches biting at his skin, cutting into his flesh. But he didn’t care. It was nothing compared to the screams. To the sharp slaps still ringing through his ears. To the dull thud.