Page 102 of Duke of Rath

Her desk had papers scattered on top of it. Potted plants brought a personal charm to the orderly chaos of the room.

He felt her absence like a giant, sucking hole in his soul.

He’d had her, the wondrous being that was Patience. And she’d fled from him. A monster, she’d called him. And she was right.

He could still see the incredible heartbreak in her eyes, the moment it all fell into place in her mind.

The moment she knew what he had done.

“What a fool I am,” he said to the room where his wife couldn’t sleep alone.

His stomach burned, and he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. He felt like every muscle in his body was as hard as wood. The need to smash something, to destroy, was coursing through him like poison.

He didn’t dare to step inside this room as helpless tears of rage filled his eyes. He should have come to her every night that she had chosen to be with him. He should have come to her and made sure she could sleep, that she slept as deeply as she possibly could. He should have made her feel safe and loved.

Because he loved her more than life itself. And he’d never even told her.

Tension in his chest built to the point where he thought his rib cage would burst.

Unable to look at the empty room any longer, he marched back down the hallway into his bedchamber.

His sister was staying with his aunt in London. Save for servants, he was truly alone.

He picked up the prettiest vase he could lay his eyes on and smashed it against the floor. Shards spilled onto his shoes, onto his breeches. He felt one fly by his face. That didn’t make him feel any better at all.

Pryde was right. This was always going to end in disaster.

He didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve to be loved. Didn’t deserve to be happy.

He was a murderer.

A lying monster.

He deserved to be punished this way. To touch the divine for a few miraculous weeks, only to have it be snatched out of his hands so cruelly.

He hooked his hands around the edge of the night table and threw it across the room. The crash exploded in his ears, the sound of wood breaking both satisfying and yet not enough to ease the pain.

More… demanded the beast inside him.

More.

He took two large steps towards the chair by his desk and lifted it, throwing it through the window.

Glass and wooden panes shattered. Pain stung him as shards cut his face and ears, stuck in his hair and the creases of his cravat, his shirt, his tailored coat.

The sound of a crashing wood from outside, somewhere below, was much too satisfying.

Good God, came a terrifying thought through the haze of fury, what if someone had walked by? He rushed to the window, but thankfully there was no one below, just the splinters and the ruined chair. He wanted his entire world to be in splinters.

He wanted to burn this house to the ground.

Because that what his life would be without Patience.

Pure hell.

One week later, Rath Hall looked like the aftermath of a war.

He’d broken every vase, every cup, and torn apart every painting apart. He’d smashed the mirrors, the sofas, the tables. He was covered in bandages, but only for the worst of his cuts. His knuckles were encrusted in caked blood. He’d destroyed every single thing in the house except for those that Patience had touched, slept on, commented on, or admired.