It wasn't the townhouse. It wasn't propriety. It wasn't Emmeline.
It was Jasper.
He had thought of everything. Anticipated every excuse. But he couldn't anticipate the fear still lodged in her bones. The cold buried pain that lingered, no matter how many gentle words he wrote or nursery rhymes he read.
She pressed a hand to her temple and closed her eyes.
Some weeks ago, he had brought a box of childhood belongings to the estate—books, a spinning top, a wooden horse carved long ago. Emmeline had delighted in them. Abigail had watched herdaughter giggle as Jasper spun the top on the nursery floor, her laughter bubbling like champagne.
Abigail had smiled, too.
Secretly. Softly.
She wanted this for Emmeline. A father who cherished her. Who protected her. Who would never let her feel unloved or forgotten. Her own father had given her that. She wanted no less for her daughter.
But she couldn't give Jasper her heart again. She couldn't even bear to let him near it.
He was not good for her.
Not for her heart, her mind, or her peace.
The pain he had caused—calculated and cruel—still lived inside her, festering. She had spent months wasting away in a decaying manor, confused, pregnant, frightened, alone. Some mornings, she still woke gripped by the dread that she had dreamt her way out of that place—that she had never truly escaped.
He had known what he was doing when he left her there. He had wanted to punish her for her brother's supposed sins. To break her heart. To crush her soul.
And he had.
That was why she would resist. Why, though she would walk through the doors of his
London townhouse, smile and curtsy, and play the proper wife and duchess in public,
her heart would remain locked in ice.
She would protect Emmeline's respectability at all costs. Abigail couldn't risk her daughter's future for the sake of her own pride. There could be no speculation of scandal—not when Jasper had been present last Season while she had not. People might speculate. They might try to put the pieces together.They might think she had been cast out. Or worse—they might question Emmeline's very place in the family.
She would uphold appearances. She would survive the Season.
The world would see a united Duke and Duchess of Winterset. A well-loved child. Nothing more. They would not see the fracture beneath the surface or guess at the frozen heart beating beneath silks and smiles.
And when Jasper tired of her silence—when he realized that her forgiveness would not be easily won, that the damage he had wrought was not something he could mend with letters or nursery preparations or even gentle smiles—then he would leave again.
She told herself it would be better that way.
Let him grow weary. Let him reveal his true face once more. At least this time, she would be ready.
At least this time, she would not break.
Abigail folded the letter neatly and slid it back into its envelope. Her fingers lingered for a moment at the edge, hesitant.
Then she turned from the window, her expression smooth and composed, and left the letter on the sill—as if it, too, meant nothing to her.
One week.
Just one week until London.
And the next chapter of her performance would begin.
Chapter 37
