He shook his head. “I did not know that, but now that you mention it, I believe you’re correct.” Either put off balance by her strange comment or as unsure as she was about how to interact, he shifted to his other foot. “It is unexpected to see you here. At a garden party. In the middle of the day.”
She pretended not to notice the flush that crept up his neck. “Lady Wharton kindly gave me extra work, since my days are now free.”
This time, he definitely winced. “Dare I hope that gives you more time to explore the city, or are you now tied to Lady Wharton at all times?”
She studied the ground at her feet. He probably thought it a superficial question, a standard piece of polite conversation. The answer, though, was deeply personal. “I don’t explore much these days, to be honest. It brings me no joy.”
The plate of sandwiches wobbled as his shoulders drooped. “I am sorry forthat, more than anything.” His tone matchedhis words. “I ventured outside my narrow life recently. It was fun while it lasted.”
She’d given little thought to the duke’s life outside of balls and business. It was strange to hear that he had one. Curiosity snagged her. “What put an end to your ventures, Your Grace?”
“I was venturing with a friend,” he murmured. “Sadly, that friendship ended.”
A pang of unexpected pity caught her. “I’m sorry to hear that. It hurts to lose a friend. I lost one recently, and I miss him deeply.”
Something strange flickered across his face. Regret? Guilt? “Surely, you have other friends to fill the void,” he said.
She managed only a half-smile. “Yes, but there was something special about him. Besides, Mabel and Lillian both work elsewhere now. I haven’t seen them in a week.” She was supposed to meet the two of them tomorrow, but both had canceled.
“Are you lonely?” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.
It was a wildly personal question, particularly given their shared history. Unwilling to answer, she pressed her lips together. Her gaze flicked to the circle of elderly stateswomen who now made up the bulk of her company. They watched her and the duke with interest. Perfect. She rubbed her temples, anticipating the questions she’d now have to answer.
“Is it too late to apologize?” he asked softly. “For all of it. For more than you could know.”
Her stomach flipped. Her heart skipped. She’d wanted that acknowledgment so badly. Still… “It’s never too late to apologize, Your Grace. But I fear it is too late to forgive. The damage is too deep.”
His bearing slackened. He shuffled his feet, staring at thebent blades of grass. “Of course. I understand. Some things are unforgivable. Still, if there is anything I can do…”
There was nothing. “I think you’ve done enough, Your Grace. I wish you all the best. Now I must go save Sir Melton from himself.”
She curtseyed again and hurried away, breath caught in her throat. Against her better judgment, she looked over her shoulder. The duke was staring at her, still holding the plate, his shoulders slumped as if burdened by some great weight. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the expression on his face was grief.
As he watched her leave, an all-encompassing sadness washed over him. She was not, in fact, all right. He had taken her career from her, that much he knew. But he’d also stolen her spirit. The first had been intentional—cruel, but necessary. The second was unintended, and it cut him more deeply than it perhaps should.
It wasn’t just his Linotype that had caused harm. It was the Captain’s sudden and unexplained absence. That had been badly done. He’d let his own fear and hurt injure her in turn.
Dear Eleanor,he thought, penning the letter in his mind since his hands were full.I have so many regrets. More than any other, I regret my actions that night and every night that came after when I chose not to tell you the truth.
It was too late now. She’d said so clearly. What was done was done, and it was time to move on.
He handed over the now warm lemonade and the sandwiches that had lost their freshness. The cucumber was likelythe only thing still cool. Then he brushed off his sisters’ concerned questions and asked their aunt to chaperone that night.
As he helped Jac with her dinner, she clearly sensed his mood for afterward she remained quiet, allowing him to read a chapter ofJo’s Boyswith next to no interruptions. Fittingly, it was the last chapter in the final book Eleanor had sent them. When he closed the cover, it was on so much more than a story.
In his study, as the clock chimed midnight, he pulled all the letters from his drawer—received and unsent, written and unopened—and added a final one, before sealing them in a large envelope and filing them away on a shelf in the farthest corner of his office, out of sight.
Dearest Eleanor,
Farewell.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dearest friend,
I have not heard from you in more than a week. Is everything well? You did receive my copy ofTess of the d’Urbervilles, did you not? If you did, then surely you agree that Angel is a right fool. If you did not, then I apologize if I spoiled it.
Yours,
