John grabbed her hand. “You can’t leave him. He n-n-needs you.”
She freed her hand gently. “He’s made it clear that he doesn’t. And I won’t live like this.”
Chapter33
Benedict’s muscles ached as he hauled rock from the ruins of the firm’s primary building to the framework that had been built in the two months since the explosion.
It was dirty, sweaty work. His hands blistered, his arms ached, his back regularly seized up in protest. But he carried on because only exhaustion developed through tough physical labor granted him any sleep at night.
In those first few weeks after Amelia had left, he’d tried drowning his sorrow in brandy, whiskey, and ale. He hadn’t been particular. But no matter how much he drank, he couldn’t sleep without her next to him.
So he got back to work and worked until his body could no longer function.
Beside him, Oliver dropped his own stone into place, finishing off this line of wall. “Rain’s coming,” he said. “We’ll need to get the tarpaulins out.”
“Just ten more minutes.”
“Ten more minutes and we’ll be working in the rain. Go home, Ben. Have a bath. Spend some time with your sister.”
If Oliver had been angry about the contract with the Americans, it had only lasted until he’d arrived at the firm and seen Benedict cradling Jeremy’s body. His foreman had been his rock since then.
It was Oliver who’d stood by him as he informed Jeremy’s family of the boy’s death. It was Oliver who had brought the workers back to the firm. It was Oliver who had dragged him home night after night from the pub when he was too sloshed to stand.
“I mean it, lad. Take yourself home. We’ll start again in the morning if the weather clears up.”
Benedict nodded to the men and boys that were stretching canvas sheets across the foundations. They gave him a wary nod in return. It would take time to win back their trust, but devil take him, he was going to do it.
He trudged home. The heavens did open. Rain beat down hard. He didn’t turn up his collar or hasten his steps. He let the water trickle down the back of his neck. His boots became sodden, the hem of his coat heavy with mud.
He missed his wife. Every damn minute of every damn day. He’d been an ass. Worse than an ass, a downright bastard. Everything had gone wrong, and instead of accepting it and trying to move forward, he’d blamed the one person who’d supported him the most.
The truth was, he’d been afraid she’d leave. Afraid he couldn’t be the man she wanted, so she’d hie off to London without a backward glance. And he couldn’t be the one left behind again so he’d pushed her away.
But as much as he regretted losing her, he couldn’t say it was a mistake. It was the best thing for her, to be in town with people who understood her unfathomable obsession with jewel-tone colors, who could dance without crowding the floor, who could talk with airs and graces.
Better to be with people who weren’t clumsy behemoths who managed to get in more arguments than conversations with her ilk.
She was better off without him, even if he was miserable without her.
As usual, the door was open before he’d even made the top step. He took off his dripping coat and handed it to Greenhill. There was no point trying to go back to old ways with his butler. Amelia’s influence showed no signs of abating.
“You’ve a visitor, sir. He’s in the library.”
Who the devil would be visiting him? A knot formed in the pit of his stomach. The letters from his grandfather, all sitting unopened in his bottom desk drawer, had been arriving with increasing frequency. Maybe the old bastard had grown tired of waiting.
“Who the devil is it?”
Greenhill scowled. If anything, he had become even more of a stick-in-the-mud since Amelia had left. Cursing was no longer acceptable regardless of your role in the household.
“The Duke of Wildeforde, sir.”
An initial sense of relief turned quickly into unease.Wildeforde. What the hell does he want?
Wilde had left for London the day after the riot, without word to anyone. It wasn’t surprising. A fistfight. A riot. An explosion. It was more fodder for gossip than the duke would tolerate. At least, that’s what most people would assume. Only a handful of people had seen him with Fi that night. Only they would know he was running away.
“Why are you here?” Benedict asked from the doorway.
Wilde stood by the window, staring in the direction of the firm. He looked over as Benedict entered and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not doing much to counter your beastly reputation, are you? You look like garbage. When did you shave last?”
