Sarah frowned. She’d noticed how sparse the foyer and hallway were when she’d arrived, but hadn’t given it much thought since she’d actually liked the simplicity. It now became clear that the lack of decor had nothing to do with good taste, but reflected an emptiness that looked like a symptom of emotional distress. After all, Brunswick had lived here for years, only it seemed he’d not really moved in.
Leaving the parlor, Sarah approached the next door, eased it open, and peeked inside. Brunswick was there, his back toward her while he...painted. She stepped inside and quietly watched him move his brush across the wall. The light blue color dominating the room disappeared beneath a layer of creamy yellow.
“What are you doing?” This wasn’t normal behavior. In fact, now that she thought about it, very little about the duke was as it should be. At least not once one dove beneath the surface.
“The blue was starting to wear on me, so I’m changing it.”
“But you have guests. You can’t just walk away without excusing yourself.”
“I’m a duke, Miss Townsbridge, and this is my home, so I’ll do as I please.”
She stared at him in dismay. He hadn’t so much as glanced at her since she’d walked in. And he was wrong. This wasn’t a home, but that was something she’d try to address later.
First, she had to give him a kick in the arse. Proverbially speaking of course. “If you truly want to woo me into marriage, you might consider making more of an effort.”
Rounding on her, paint splattering onto the carpet, he gave a glare so fierce she took a step back. “Effort? So far I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.”
He wasn’t wrong. Maybe she was being unfair. The truth was, she could sense there was something broken about him and instinct compelled her to try and help. It wouldn’t be easy unless she understood him and right now she didn’t, which bothered her more than it probably should.
“You could ask something of me in return.”
His eyes pierced hers. “Marry me, Miss Townsbridge.”
“Something besides that.”
“I don’t want anything else.”
He turned away and resumed painting while Sarah tamped down the fierce regret his words caused. He didn’t want to get to know her and she had no clue why. All he wanted was her agreement to be his wife. It made no sense. And it left her with little else to say except, “Thank you for showing me the folly, Your Grace, and for the refreshments. My brothers and I should probably go now. We’ll show ourselves out.”
When he failed to respond and just kept on painting, she left the room and closed the door softly behind her. He’d lost his family over a decade ago. She’d sensed he’d not yet recovered, but it was becoming very clear to Sarah that she was dealing with much deeper wounds than she’d ever have thought possible. It was the only conclusion she could draw from the lifeless rooms, his decision to take on a massive construction project alone, along with his peculiar decision to leave his guests in favor of painting his study because she’d mentioned honeysuckle. The word must have triggered something. Sarah was certain of it. And she had every intention of figuring out what, so she could help him past his suffering.
#
DAMN, DAMN, DAMN.
Matthew tossed his paintbrush aside, not caring about the mess he’d created. Cleaning it up would give him something to do later tonight when the nightmares woke him.
He stormed out of the room, fully aware he’d just undone whatever progress he’d made with Miss Townsbridge. All because she’d mentioned honeysuckle.
Christ.
What were the bloody chances?
“I need a change of clothes,” he informed Albertson, his valet.
“Going out, Your Grace?” Albertson asked.
“To my aunt’s,” Matthew clarified.
“Ah.”
His best buckskin breeches were promptly selected along with a newly starched shirt, a waistcoat cut from creamy silk brocade, and a superfine jacket very few Englishmen could afford. To finish off the ensemble, Albertson presented Matthew with a freshly buffed pair of gleaming black boots.
“Excellent choice,” Matthew said. He allowed Albertson to help him dress, solely to make the man feel necessary, and departed.
One hour later he sat in his aunt’s drawing room, well into his second cup of coffee. The cream puff she’d set on a plate before him remained untouched.
“Frankly, I don’t see how I can help,” said Aunt Lydia, more formally known as Mrs. Perkins. “According to what you’ve told me, you’re well on your way to making an utter fool of yourself and all for a woman you hardly know. If I were you, which I thank God I’m not, I’d walk away from this mess before it gets worse.”
