Still, far better to deflect attention upon Wylde Park than upon himself. And even better still than to tell her he was hopelessly, helplessly, in love with her.
That he had always been. That he always would be. That this evening had wrecked him in the fashion of a ship upon the rocky shoals of a harbor in the midst of a storm. He did not know if he would ever be the same again.
“What do you dislike?”
They were nearly through to the other side. The picture gallery was a diabolically long and narrow room, through which all guests were forced to pass on the way to their chambers, regardless of the wing.
“It is an ode to conceit,” he said, attempting to keep his tone light.
“The portraits?”
“The dukes. Society. All of it.” He shrugged, feeling…quite out of sorts this evening.
The woman at his side was his wife. He had longed for her all these years apart, even when he had done his damnedest to forget her. And yet, he did not dare to make more of their frenzied lovemaking than a mere release of tension for the both of them.
“But you are the Duke of Northwich,” she pointed out.
Quite correctly.
“It is a heavy mantle. Most days, I find myself wishing I were not.” Most days, that was, until now. For the first time, his title and the wealth that accompanied it had meant something when he had been able to leverage it for her benefit. Of course, he had tried that tactic once before, only for it to end in misery.
But if being the Duke of Northwich and managing Wylde Park meant he could also keep Pippa and Charlotte safe, everything he had endured as a lad—each insult, taunt, sneer, and whisper—had been worth it.
“Why?”
They finished passing through the gallery and made their way down the corridor which led to their respective apartments.
“I was never accepted,” he answered honestly, the admission torn from him.
This was not a subject he readily discussed, for he was fiercely protective of his mother and her heritage. However, Pippa was his wife now. If he wanted their marriage to progress beyond the mere physical, he had to trust her, and he knew it.
Difficult things must be said.
“By whom?” Her hand was on his sleeve, nestled in the crook of his elbow.
They had reached her door. He steered them on, going to his chamber instead and leading her inside.
“By everyone,” he said, closing the door behind them. “My peers when I was younger, my father. My mother’s father was one half Oneida Iroquois. Have you never heard the whispers?”
“I had.” The compassion in her countenance was undeniable.
Thank Christ.He could not have born her pity. Or worse, intolerance.
“The last Duke of Northwich was more than content to accept my mother’s American fortune. But he was not magnanimous enough to accept her heritage,” he said, unable to keep the sharp edge of anger from his voice. “She, however, loved him with all her heart until her death. Pity he was not worthy of it.”
“I am sorry, Roland. I understand all too well the cost of loving someone who proves unworthy.”
She was speaking of Shaw.
She had loved him. The knowledge ought not to cut so deep. What had he expected? She had been married to the bastard. They had a daughter together. She had chosen him over Roland.
And yet, somehow, the reminder was akin to a fist to the gut. He did not want to think about George Shaw. Not tonight, not after what they had just shared.
“I appreciate your kindness,” he said. What else was there to say? The magic of the night seemed to have suddenly been marred. “The hour is late. We should both get our rest.”
She withdrew her hand from his sleeve, her expression reflecting her surprise. “Of course.”
The mood between them had shifted, becoming stilted. He wished he could rephrase his words, make them seem less like a dismissal, and yet they had already been spoken.
