He dismounted in the stable yard and threw the reins at a groom without a word. His boots hit the gravel with a sharp crunch as he strode toward the house. He moved through the entrance hall, past Graves, who took one look at his face and pressed himself against the wall in silent retreat. He took thestairs two at a time, his pulse hammering and his hands shaking, running from a rejection he couldn’t escape because it lived inside him.
He reached his study and slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the paintings on the walls.
Silence pressed in from all sides, punctuated by the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the crackle of the fire in the grate. He stood in the middle of the room, breathing hard, his fists clenched at his sides and his whole body trembling with a volatile energy he couldn’t name.
She’d said no.
Because he was too young. Too reckless. Too impulsive. Because his feelings would fade. She spoke the way he were some boy with a passing fancy, some green youth who didn’t know his own heart.
The rage came then, hot and sudden. It roared up from somewhere deep in his gut like a wave crashing against jagged rocks. His arm swept across the desk before he could stop it. Papers flew into the air, and the crystal inkwell shattered against the floor in an explosion of black.
It was not enough.
He grabbed the edge of the mahogany bookshelf and pulled with all his might. His muscles screamed with the effort as books cascaded down around him in a waterfall of leather and parchment. They were first editions his father had collected, volumes that had been in his family for generations. He didn’t care. He snatched the crystal decanter from the sideboard—expensive and irreplaceable—and hurled it at the wall with every ounce of his strength. Glass exploded. Brandy dripped down the wallpaper like amber tears.
Still, it was not enough.
His fist connected with the wall, the impact jarring his shoulder. Once. The plaster cracked beneath his knuckles.Twice. Blood bloomed across his skin, staining the white wall. Three times. Four. He kept hitting until his hand was a ruin of split skin and shattered bone, until pain screamed up his arm and he could no longer lift his limb.
He slid down the wall, his back scraping against the ruined plaster, and drew his knees up to his chest. Blood dripped from his hand onto the carpet, pooling in the cracks between the floorboards.
She’d said no. And he’d nothing left to give.
The study was destroyed. Books lay scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers, their spines cracked and their pages torn. Glass glittered in the firelight—the remnants of the decanter, the shattered inkwell, and a vase he didn’t remember breaking. Brandy soaked into the expensive wool of the carpet, filling the air with its sharp, sweet scent. The wall bore the imprint of his fists, plaster crumbling and blood smeared across the cream-coloured surface.
He didn’t care. He couldn’t feel anything except the hollow ache in his chest where his heart used to be.
The door opened. He didn’t look up.
Footsteps crossed the room, careful and measured. Someone was picking through the debris with the practiced ease of one who had seen far worse. He heard the rustle of silk as a visitor settled into the one chair that remained upright.
“Well.” Philippa’s voice was dry as autumn leaves, carrying no judgment and no surprise as she observed the carnage. “I see we are redecorating.”
Dominic kept his focus on his bloody knuckles, watching the slow drip of crimson onto the carpet. “Go away, Aunt.”
“No.” The chair creaked as she settled deeper into the velvet cushions, her skirts rustling around her ankles. “I don’t think I will.”
She let the quiet sit. She had always been good at waiting; and she was as patient as stone and as immovable as a mountain.
“She said no.” The words scraped out of him like shards of glass, tearing at his throat. He didn’t move a muscle.
Philippa’s hands folded in her lap, her tone remaining carefully neutral. “Who said no to what?”
He let out a laugh that was hollow and broken, echoing off the ruined walls. He tipped his head back against the plaster until it bruised. “Nell. I proposed. She refused.”
Philippa stayed quiet for a long moment. She took in the room. “You proposed marriage.” She spoke each word with care. Her silver brows rose. “To the baker.”
Dominic looked up at last. His jaw set. “Yes.”
“Today.” Her head tilted to the side as she studied his disheveled appearance.
“Yes.” He dropped his gaze back to his ruined hand, watching the blood well up from his split knuckles.
Philippa studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. “Did she give reasons, or did she simply refuse?”
“Reasons.” He laughed again, the sound as bitter as wormwood, and began listing them on his uninjured fingers. “She is a widow. She has children. She counts pennies while I have never wanted for anything. She is older. The ton will eat her alive. She cannot give me an heir. And my feelings —” He spat the next words like something foul. “My feelings will fade. As if I am some boy with a passing fancy who will forget her in a fortnight.”
Philippa listened without interrupting, her hands still folded in her lap, her face giving nothing away.
