Seeing them there, knowing they were for him, it cut him almost to the bone. He cleared his throat so his voice wouldn’t be thick when he said, “That will be up to Stalwood. But I would say soon. A few days at most.”
A sob escaped her throat and she moved on him, catching him as she lifted her lips. He grabbed her arms, dragging her close as their mouths merged. He tasted her tears, he choked on his own and he held her far too tightly as he drove his tongue against hers in defiance.
He wanted to stay. He wanted to be with her. But he couldn’t. So he yanked out of her arms and backed up.
“Goodbye, Celia,” he whispered.
She shook her head. “I won’t say that to you.”
He shut his eyes, his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled for control. For calm. For anything to help him survive this pain.
“Goodbye,” he repeated. Then he flung open her door and left her without looking back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Two weeks later
Celia’s gown was black. Perhaps it was inappropriate considering she had only been courted by the supposed Duke of Clairemont, not married nor even engaged to him. But black fit her soul as she sat in the parlor, staring blankly at the fire across the room.
The door behind her opened, and without looking to see who had entered, she sighed. “Hello, Rosalinde.”
Her sister moved to sit in the chair beside her and touched her hand. “Half a dozen more cards of condolence arrived today.”
“Put them with the others,” Celia said. “I stopped reading them days ago.”
“It must be hard to read their words of sympathy over an accident that never actually happened,” Rosalinde said.
Celia turned her gaze to the ceiling. Three days after her last afternoon with John, the pretend Duke of Clairemont had suffered a tragic accident, falling down the stairs at his London estate. He had died instantly and been swiftly buried in a small, private service in the countryside that not even Celia and her family had been invited to.
And so it was over. Yet her part was still to be played. Everyone was watching to see her reaction. But grief wasn’t hard to portray. She felt it keenly enough, even if it wasn’t for the reason the world suspected.
“I know I should respond, but what do I say when I know the truth?” she asked.
Rosalinde nodded, offering sympathy when she could give no answers. “Tabitha and Honora also stopped by again this morning. They truly want to see you.”
“I won’t be able to lie to them,” Celia sighed. “I’m afraid they’ll see the truth in my eyes.”
“I doubt that,” Rosalinde reassured her. “They’ll see your pain, as I see your pain. They’ll put their arms around you and they’ll never know the source. It might make you feel better to be around other people, rather than locking yourself in your chamber day and night.”
Celia shot her sister a look. She could see Rosalinde was truly worried, but the idea that she could shake off the loss of John by simply seeing some friends was patently absurd.
“I appreciate your intention, but I can’t. Not yet. In truth, I think the best thing for me would be to return to the north. I’m sure Gray is more than ready to go back to his business now that Turner-Camden has been arrested and things are complicated.”
Rosalinde sighed. “He is. And I suppose that our return would not be seen as odd considering your ‘loss’.”
Celia nodded. “Excellent, is it decided then?”
“May I ask you something?” Rosalinde said, instead of answering Celia.
“Of course. Anything.”
“Why must you marry a man with a title?”
Celia ducked her head. She hadn’t confessed to Rosalinde about her visit with their grandfather, but now she felt compelled to do so. She’d seen the damage secrets and lies could do, even when done in the name of good.
“Grandfather,” she admitted, her voice cracking.
“But your bargain with him for information about our father died when you broke your engagement to Stenfax, why would—” Rosalinde cut herself off and her eyes grew wide. “Oh Celia, tell me you didn’t.”
