And he’d run.
“Mother,” he said, pulling from the warmth of Diana’s presence and toward the coldness of hers.
She flinched at that one word. Turned her face away a moment before she refocused on him. “Back to do your worst, are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
He stopped moving. “To do my duty,” he answered, for that was not untrue. It just wasn’t the one she would think of when that word was said.
“Duty,” she hissed. “What would you know about duty? You’ll drag this title and all it stands for to the ground before you’re finished.”
Lucas did not respond, for what she accused was often exactly what he’d wanted to do over the years. Burn it all down. Leave nothing behind of the name or the title or the prestige that was part of it.
Now it was different. Somehow it had changed. He might not want to be Willowby, but he had no desire to destroy what Willowby represented.
“I assure you—”
“You’re bringing your whore to the ducal estate.”
Behind him, Diana gasped, and he glared at his mother. “You might want to be very careful whoyoucall a whore,madam.”
She swung on him. He could have dodged it, but he didn’t. He let her hand crack against his cheek, felt the heat of it, the sting, and did not move or turn away.
“Lucas!” Diana cried out.
He lifted a hand so she would not come to him or interfere. If this was what his mother needed, he would not deny her.
“Why couldn’t you just stay away?” the duchess whispered, her tone harsh though there were tears in her eyes.
He held that teary gaze and saw everything she’d been through in her life. Everything she’d put him through, as well. He inclined his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, softly but firmly.
Her lips parted, almost in surprise. Her expression relaxed just a fraction and she whispered, “I suppose we all are. Now I’m going to the dower house. Goodbye.”
She strode past him then. Past Diana, without even looking at her. Out the front door to the carriage that had just been emptied. She shouted an order in a trembling tone and it took off.
For a moment, all was silent. The only sound was the ticking of the large clock in the foyer, counting out the unending seconds since his mother struck him.
Finally, Diana stepped forward. “Oh, Lucas,” she whispered as she gently took his hand.
He looked down at her. There was no pity on her face, not like many would have shown, or the gossipy interest that the aristocrats of his acquaintance would have expressed. There was only understanding, much deeper than before they came here.
There was only empathy.
Part of him wanted to lean into that. To let her wrap herself around him, bleed out the anguish like so many less talented healers had tried to bleed out his injury and pain. He wanted her to fill up the holes in his heart and his soul.
But he couldn’t. He extracted his hand from hers and said, “I have some letters to write. Jones!” The butler appeared before Diana could reply. “Take Miss Oakford to the chamber I requested in my letter. Thank you.”
Then he turned and left before either of them could comment or see how deeply he had been affected. And how much he had to regret.
Diana paced the room she had been given, but it did not help her burn off any of the nervous energy she felt. There were too many things going on in her mind to feel calm or rational.
First off, the chamber was a palace. It was almost the same size as her entire cottage. She felt as though she had shrunk down and now there would be no escape. It was also too fine, even for the mistress she was pretending to be. Everything was sterling silver and gold flake and fine muslin and silk. She was so accustomed to plain and serviceable that anything more felt almost foreign to her.
What was also foreign to her was the fact that Lucas’s room was connected to hers through an antechamber. She’d discovered that fact the moment she’d been left alone in this museum of a house. When she’d opened the door, she’d found two maids putting away his things. The way they’d stopped talking the moment she entered the room made it clear what they’d been gossiping about.
She sank into the closest chair and covered her eyes. She’d told him she could handle all this, but now she questioned that statement made with all the bravado of a woman who didn’t know what she was getting into.
But could she tell him that? No, of course not. Firstly, because she would have to admit he’d been right. Secondly, because he had much larger issues to deal with.
She shuddered as she thought of the scene with his mother in the foyer. She had few memories of her own mother, but they were all warm and soft and gentle. Watching as the Duchess of Willowby swung at full force at her son, that Lucas had let her do so, had hurt her heart in a deep and powerful way. The woman hadn’t even asked about his limp, as if she didn’t care that her only son was injured, had almost died.
