Cyrus gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “I will partake in a duel if that is what you want, but I will not participate.”
“For goodness’ sake, man, you—” Vincent began to retort, when another voice came shivering across the carriage’s turning circle, high and tight with fear.
“What on earth are the two of you doing?” Teresa shouted. “Please, tell me that you are not about to duel. Please! I cannot bear it!”
Prudence had reappeared in the doorway of the manor, a look of mischief upon her face. Cyrus only had a moment to notice the sly expression before Teresa was right there, standing at her brother’s side, grasping him by the arm in an attempt to pull him away.
“There will be no duel!” she chided. “Heavens, thelastthing I need is for the two of you to duel one another! Have some sense, Brother. This is not the way to contend with this. Violence isnotthe remedy, though I—Vincent! What did you do to his face?”
“I punched him,” Vincent replied. “And mean to do far worse.”
Cyrus barely heard what they were saying, his gaze resting on the beautiful face of his wife. She was as extraordinary as she had always been, more beautiful than he deserved, yet he could not help but notice the slight hue of purple beneath her eyes. Evidently, and understandably, she had not been sleeping well.
I have caused that…
“Cyrus?” she said, glaring at him, her voice wavering slightly on his name. “Who is it you have come here to see? Me or my brother?”
“You,” he replied softly.
She glanced back at her brother. “Then, Vincent, this is not your concern. You willnotdo far worse. You will go inside, and you will grant me a moment with Cyrus, so that I may find out why he is here.” She exhaled a shaky breath. “Please.”
Whether it was the plea or the strength of her voice that persuaded Vincent, it was unclear. The man flashed one more glower at Cyrus, muttering, “I shall permit it, but only for a minute.”
“Thank you,” Cyrus replied, but that only seemed to rile Vincent further.
“I am not doing it for you,” he hissed, marching back to the manor with a black cloud hanging over his head.
Left alone on the driveway, Cyrus gazed at his wife, marveling at her beauty and her strength. Yet, he found he could not speak, his tongue tying into knots as he thought of the hurt he had caused her. It was there on her face, glimmering in her eyes, shaping the grim line of the mouth he longed to kiss.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
“We should talk elsewhere,” Teresa said curtly, turning. “I do not want anyone watching from the windows.”
She walked off with the obvious assumption that he would follow. He did, maintaining a courteous distance as they headed around the front of the manor, and down the side, passing through a whitewashed gate set into dense boxwood hedges. Beyond was a quaint garden, made square by the hedges on three sides and the manor behind.
A fountain with a reflection pool took pride of place in the small area of garden, and it was to the low wall around the pool that Teresa walked.
She sat down, her body angled away from Cyrus, gazing down into the silvery surface. “Why have you come, Cyrus?”
He approached cautiously. “I came to tell you that I made a grave mistake. I am not expecting you to forgive me, though my heartis foolishly hopeful, but I cannot leave these grounds until you know how I feel.”
“You feel nothing,” she shot back, a bite in her voice. “You made that perfectly clear in your own gardens.”
His heart twinged at the memory. “I know what I said, my love. I know how much I hurt you, but?—”
“You realized you need a legacy? You realized the importance of an heir? You realized that your business associates are none-too-fond of a gentleman who has an absent wife?” Teresa interrupted sharply, refusing to raise her gaze to him, staring down into the pool instead.
Her posture was stiff with barely concealed anger, her hand shaking a little as she trailed her fingertips through the water, disturbing its stillness. As if she did not like what it was reflecting back at her.
“I expect you have come here to beg me to return, because you have figured out that separate lives is not as useful as you thought,” she added, her voice cracking.
“Tess, I?—”
“Do not call me that,” she snapped. “Do not call me “my love” or any endearment, because it is false, and I do not like what is false. You do not have to pretend anymore, Cyrus. I know I amnot good enough for you, I know that the ‘transformation’ in you was just an act, so you can cease now.”
“What?” he croaked, shaking his head.
How could she think she was not good enough for him? He understood why she might think that his husbandly behavior had been an act, but for her to say she was not good enough—it beggared belief.
