“Cancel it? Why?”
Must he spell it out for her? “Because it isn’t a good idea.”
“So you won’t be attending?”
“Good God, woman! I ask you to cancel it, and you ask me if I plan to attend?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, searching for the resolve to continue this conversation. If she would not listen to reason, then why did he have to strain himself for her benefit? “I’ve said all I intend to on the matter. What you do is entirely up to you. I wash my hands of it.” He turned to leave.
She hurried after him. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving.” He glanced back at her. “But I’ll be sure to send a formal notice next time.”
“To go where?”
“The lighthouse,” he replied curtly. “Do not follow.”
“But—” She chewed on her lip, “…Tell me who the murderer is.”
Murderer.
Sebastian felt the blood drain from his face, and instead of answering, he strode for the door with the same measured footsteps as before. It took everything in him not to break into a run.
So the people of the village had spoken to her, after all.
And they had called him a murderer. To her face.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, that was how the world saw him. A murderer. Not a man. Not a duke. Just a stain that lingered by the shores of this seaside village, never to be washed clean.
It was why he’d chosen a wife with no name, no standing—to keep the rot from spreading any further.
Even so, his stomach twisted so violently, he felt as though he might purge his contents on the gravel of the courtyard. He strode past it, ignoring Aurelia’s shouts behind him until he drowned them out entirely.
He would never be free of this chain around his neck. This guilt that ran so deep inside him, it had melded with his very flesh, his very bones. This was to be the remainder of his life. And even a new wife, even his duty, could not erase his past.
No matter how much he ran.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Everything was perfect for the dinner.
Aurelia had proudly overseen every minute detail herself—from the menu to the placement of the silver. Hothouse blooms filled the vases. Wildflowers from the garden brightened the table. It wasn’t grand, but it was thoughtful. It washers.
Every place was set. The food was hot. And if it waited much longer, it would spoil.
Yet there were no guests.
Aurelia had checked with Jane several times to ensure the invitations had been properly delivered. But she had a sinking suspicion that the duke had been right; hosting the dinner was a veritable mistake. Not because he had any issues with her having a life of her own here, but because no one wanted anything to do with them.
He had known. And once again, he had failed to warn her of the fact before the marriage.
Her anger coiled inside her, but mostly, all she could feel was a bitter disappointment. Shame. How embarrassing that she had prepared this dinner, and now she would have to ask for it to be delivered down to the servants’ quarters. They would enjoy it, but still.
Servants gossiped.
They were not hers—Mrs. Hodge, particularly, was downright hostile. Knowing that she had attempted to do her duty as duchess andfailedwould not endear her to them. They would believe, and perhaps rightly so, that she was unfit for her position as mistress of Ravenhall after all.
Dear God, what am I doing? I couldn’t have made a worse start to this marriage if I’d tried. Perhaps Lady Fenwick was right, perhaps I…
Heat rushed to her cheeks as a few of the servants dared a glance in her direction. She hovered, mortified, hand inches from the bellpull—about to ring it in full, humiliating defeat—when the dining room doors suddenly burst open.
