He paced the confines of the converted bathhouse in the northern wood of his estate, far removed from the children he loved and the staff he employed. He’d hoped his black mood would stay away a little longer, but it had come swiftly and unexpectedly. What must she think of him?
It didn’t matter what she thought. They were married for life, even if one day he was thrown into Bedlam, where he belonged. She would take care of his children and, eventually, Peter would get word that he’d died, probably by his own hand, like his uncle.
Dropping onto the settee near the fire, he untied his cravat and threw it onto the floor. He didn’t want to die in Bedlam. He wanted to die at Hawthorne Park. How he would die was still a debate in his own mind. There were plenty of ways to kill oneself. His uncle had chosen drowning. Darius shivered at the thought. Poison, laudanum, or even a pistol were much better options. He just had to be smarter than his uncle.
He sat up to pull his boots off. They felt stifling, like his responsibilities. He cupped the back of his head in his hands as he leaned over his knees. He was supposed to take over his dukedom and all the responsibilities that entailed when his father passed away. But that would never come to pass.
He just had to hold on long enough for his parents to pass first. That and seeing his children settled were what kept him holding on. But he didn’t know if he was strong enough. Dinah was supposed to have taken over for him, but she’d gone and died on him.
He pulled on his neck, beyond irritated. Everything he tried to do failed. What if his new wife discovered where he was and why?
He lifted his head. “Hell and damnation.” He should have consummated the marriage on their wedding night. She was too clever and too curious not to become suspicious. Once she found out, she’d request an annulment, and then everything he’d been fighting for and fighting against would have been for naught.
Frustrated, he rose, running his hand through his hair as every worst possible future filled his mind. He returned to pacing, his stocking feet making little sound as he moved from one end of the building to the other, each step taking him deeper and deeper into his despair.
Images of being bound and brought to Bedlam filled his head, followed by his children crying, his parents arguing with some unknown adversary, and the new Lady Ferncroft pointing forward, demanding he be taken away. In his mind, he didn’t resist, knowing he should have been gone years ago. He was a coward, hiding away. He was useless to his family and duties. He didn’t deserve to be content, despite it being his fervent wish.
Whycouldn’the be content? He didn’t ask for happiness, just contentment. Was that so large a request that he must be plagued by—
The side door of the building opened, and he spun around, ready to fight.
“Saw the light in here. Back at it again, are you?”
“Archer.” He scowled. “Go away.”
The gray-haired gamekeeper closed the door before shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Not sure what I would think if you didn’t greet me the same way every time.”
“Damn it, old man.”
“A drink? That’s very kind of you.” Archer moved to the sideboard and poured himself a scotch. He raised the glass. “Felicitations on your recent nuptials.”
Darius snorted. “There’s nothing to celebrate. You should have stopped me. Talked some sense into me.”
Thomas Archer took a seat in the wingback chair by the fireplace. “Now, why would I do that? You have a second chance at happiness.” He saluted with the glass. “If anyone deserves it, it’s you.”
The words infuriated Darius, and he swung his arm, knocking a candlestick from its holder on the wall. The force was so strong, the flame went out before it hit the floor—not that it mattered. “If I deserved damned happiness, I wouldn’t be hiding out here right now, you fool.”
“Actually, it’sbecauseyou hide out here that you deserve happiness. You’re not like your uncle was. You come out here to protect others. He came here to hurt them.”
Darius ignored his glint of curiosity. “Maybe no one deserves to be happy.” He found the thought comforting.
Archer took a sip as if contemplating his words. “That’s an interesting theory. Perhaps we should dissect it.”
Darius shouldn’t give in, but the temptation was too much. Contemplating the idea that no one deserved to be happy was far too enticing. “Yes, let’s.”
Archer raised his gray brows before throwing back the rest of his drink. “Then I need more.” He rose and poured himself another. When he had returned to his seat and made himself comfortable, he gestured with his glass. “Go ahead. Why is it that no one deserves to be happy?”
Darius moved closer and set his hand upon the fireplace mantel, the warmth of the fire heating his body even if it couldn’t reach his heart. “Adam and Eve.”
Archer waved his comment aside. “Surely you can do better than religion and original sin. That’s a belief. You can’t argue a belief. What else?”
“Man is imperfect, and happiness demands perfection.”
This time Archer spat out some whisky as he laughed, his weathered face crinkling like well-worn leather. “What does perfection have to do with happiness?”
Confused, Darius frowned. “Everything. If one conducts themselves perfectly then everything a man touches would be correct and therefore bring him happiness.”
“So, you’re saying that if your accounts all add up perfectly, that brings you happiness?”
