He hated those words in her voice, on her tongue. Hated that another man had known her as intimately as he had. Hated that she had loved him. He was bloody jealous of a dead man, and how foolish. How ridiculous. But there it was, a knife in his chest.
“Did you love him?” he asked, and he did not know why. The question had no bearing upon him. Her answer would not change anything. He had no right—no reason—to know. Except for the envy eating him alive.
Her expression shifted, shuttering. “Of course I loved Freddie.”
Fuck.Why had he asked? Why had he wished to know?
Those five words dug the blade so deep he could feel it in his skull. Yes, of course she loved goddamn Freddie, whose locks of hair she carried about on her person morning, day, and evening. Why, it was a mercy she did not have the bloody brooch pinned to her nightrail. Freddie the duke. Freddie the heir born on the right side of the blanket. Freddie who had likely never had a modicum of hardship in his life until the day he’d been stabbed to death by a Fenian assassin.
And yet, while she wore her mourning weeds and sported her brooch and proclaimed she loved her husband, she had allowed Clay to make love to her. Twice. Why?
Bile rose in his throat. “Was it him you thought of when I was inside you, Ara?”
He did not want to know, but at the same time, hehadto know. Perhaps this was the answer, the way he could finally free himself of the hold she had upon him. Perhaps this was how he could let her go, regardless of how much he wanted to hold on forever.
Her lush, pink lips parted, as if she struggled to form an answer. He could kiss her now, punish her with the bruising of his mouth and the claiming of his tongue. Or he could wait, listen to what she would say. His heart thundered in his chest.
“No.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if suffering an inner anguish she wished to keep hidden from him. When her long lashes swept upward, her frank, unwavering gaze took his breath. “It was you. It has always been you, Clay. Only ever you.”
What the bloody hell?
“Ara,” he rasped, not certain if he should kiss her or shake her. Or both. “Youmarried him, for Christ’s sake. You loved him.”
“Yes,” she said, pushing at his chest suddenly, and he released her, watching as she slipped from his arms. “I married Freddie. I loved him too, and he loved me. Most importantly, he loved Edward. He saved us when you were long gone. If it had not been for Freddie, I would have been forced to go abroad and give Edward away.”
Her voice trembled on the last few words.
He noticed.
But he was also absorbing the rest of what she had just said. Anger returned to him. “I would have saved you. I never would have bloody well left had you not gone to your father. Tell me something, Duchess, did you ever spare a morsel of sympathy for me? Did you know even a moment of guilt whilst you slept in your warm bed and your father’s henchman sliced open my face and left me for dead?”
Her lips parted. For a beat, she said nothing, simply stared at him, eyes wide and unblinking, traveling to the scar on his cheek before returning to his. “What did you say?”
“This,” he said, tapping his scar, “is the last gift you left me with. This and the book. As you can see, I still bear both.”
She shook her head slowly. “I do not understand, Clay.”
Was it possible she hadn’t known? That when she had experienced her change of heart and ran to her father to confess their plan of running away together, she had imagined her father would not retaliate against Clay? Could it be true she hadn’t realized the depth of her father’s hatred for his, and vicariously for Clay?
He ran a palm over his cheek, the scar feeling suddenly as if it scorched his flesh. “When you told your father about what we planned, did you not think he would take action? Did you truly imagine he would not make me pay for daring to try to take you from him?”
Chapter Nineteen
It was asif she had stepped into a dream.
A nightmare.
She must be sleeping, trapped helplessly inside the nonsensical meanderings of her mind. That was the only explanation for what was happening now. For what Clay was saying.
Your father’s henchman sliced open my face and left me for dead.
This is the last gift you left me with.
His words, bitter and dark with accusation, echoed in her mind as his gaze trapped hers. But how could it be possible that her father had…what? That her father had paid someone to attack Clay?
“No,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth in an attempt to hold back a sudden, violent sob.
His mother’s words at dinner returned to her as well.
