Until Boadicea stood before him, dragging him from the depths of his mind with her calming touch on his shoulders. With her sweet scent drifting over him and a concerned frown turning down her lips.
“Spencer,” she whispered, drawing him into her embrace. “I am here.”
She was, and even though it had been a long time since he had suffered an episode like this before anyone else, he was somehow unashamed to have lost control before her. He clutched her to him, drawing a sense of peace and comfort from her, the tension seeping from him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into the silken cloud of her hair. It was all he could say, and he wished he could elaborate, tell her he was sorry that he could not ever again be whole, that he could not be the man she undoubtedly deserved. That he could neither love her nor give her children as he ought. That she was left with the shell of a man, that part of him had died that day with Millicent, and he could never get it back.
But he said none of those things. Instead, he inhaled the fresh scents of jasmine and lily of the valley and tuberose, held it deep in his lungs as though it were a panacea. He held her to him as if she could resurrect him, as if he were yet capable of being salvaged.
Even if he was not. Even if nothing would ever again return him to the man he had once been. Not even the woman in his arms.
“I am here now, Spencer,” she repeated. “And I am yours. Whatever came before me, I cannot change. What comes next is up to you.”
She was wrong about that, but he didn’t bother to correct her.
ou are an accomplished rider, princess.”
Bo cast her husband a sidelong glance, suppressing a smile. “Do not sound so surprised, Duke. I know I almost killed myself on Damask Rose, but there is nothing I love more than galloping across the land, feeling the wind in my face.”
They trotted side by side on Arabian mounts, early afternoon sun gilding the lush Warwickshire landscape and lending it an almost ethereal air. Since breakfast, they had not strayed from each other’s sides except to change for riding. While Bo knew there was much her husband had yet to reveal to her, she was willing to wait, to allow him to his own time, and she could not help but feel closer to him after seeing him seize up that morning.
She had witnessed him vulnerable and shaken, lost somewhere in the depths of his past, and he had allowed her to pull him through it. That he had accepted her embrace rather than pushing her away suggested there was hope yet for their marriage. If he did not wish for children, she would not force the matter. Not today. Not yet.
“You were reckless with Damask Rose,” he agreed, studying her in a way that made her feel as if he saw inside her. “Promise me that you will not ride with such disregard for your own safety ever again.”
“What is this? Concern for my wellbeing?” she teased. “Have a care or I may begin to suspect you actually like me, Your Grace.”
He grinned back at her, his emerald eyes rivaling the lush flora surrounding them. “I do like you.”
For some reason, his simple statement sent a warm rush of pleasure straight through her. She looked away lest her expression gave away more than she wished for him to see. “I may like you as well.”
“You may?” He laughed, and it was a beautiful laugh, masculine and rich. It did odd things to her insides. She wondered then how often he found amusement in anything. His life had not seemingly been filled with levity, and she longed to see more lightness in him, especially if she was the source. “I daresay I shall have to try harder to persuade you if you remain uncertain.”
Her lips twitched. “I can think of ways you might try.”
Another bark of laughter left him, and she turned toward it, unable to resist his magnetic pull. He was gloriously beautiful, laughing in the sunlight, strong and lean atop his mount. The man seated a horse with such effortless grace it made her sigh.
“Did you open your second gift?” he asked her then, surprising her with the change of subject.
She thought of the wrapped gift she had left in her chamber that morning. “No. I thought perhaps you would like to be there when I opened it.”
He nodded, his gaze dipping to her mouth. “Capital idea, princess. I would like nothing better.”
She wondered what the other gift could possibly be, though its shape was rather familiar. Some sort of book, she would guess, but she could not imagine what manner of book the Duke of Bainbridge would have purchased for her as a gift. An etiquette guide perhaps?
“I only got you one gift,” she said then. “It is not fair that you had two for me.”
“My gift was more than enough.” He reached into his waistcoat and extracted it. “I have consulted the time on no less than three occasions already today, and each time I was reminded of my favorite horse thief.”
She laughed, grateful for the abatement of the tension that had been growing between them. The sides of him that she had witnessed today—vulnerable and lighthearted—appealed to her. There was far more to the icy Duke of Disdain than she had once believed.
“Your taste in horseflesh is impeccable.” This was yet another part of him that intrigued her. Her mount today, Majestic Iris, was sleek and beautiful, though a great deal better behaved than Damask Rose had been.
“Thank you.” His tone was butter soft, setting off an answering flutter low in her belly. “Horses were not always a passion of mine, but in the last few years, I have found much solace in them. They are such noble creatures, so intelligent, capable of doing great harm and yet also incredibly gentle. The contradiction appeals to me, I suppose.”
She noted his careful phrasing. Breeding horses had been his way of healing, she would imagine, thinking again of the trauma he had experienced. Her mind could not grapple with the horror he must have endured, watching his wife take her life before his eyes, the shock and pain of it. Her heart gave a pang in her breast as she recalled again how he had looked earlier at breakfast.
He had gone pale, his eyes glazed, and he had seemed like a man lost, adrift somewhere inside himself in a hell that only he could see. She had seen him suffer a similar fit before his mother, and she had to imagine it was not an uncommon occurrence. Bo wondered how much he had suffered on his own. His mother did not seem to possess a warm or maternal nature, and he and Lord Harry were not close. Who else did he have?
