Crawford gathered his things and departed.
Owen poured himself a glass of brandy and sank into the chair behind his desk. The numbers swam before him. Even with the mine sale, the duchy’s finances remained precarious. His father had done more than drink away a fortune. He’d mortgaged the future.
The letter sat atop a stack of invoices. The Duchess’s handwriting was clear and feminine. She had spelled out his name with careful precision.
This was her fourth letter in as many months. He’d answered none of them.
He reached for it, then stopped.
What could she possibly have to say that required four letters? Updates on the weather? The state of the gardens? Polite inquiries about his health?
Or perhaps accusations. Questions.
Why did you leave? When are you coming back?
The very things he couldn’t answer without revealing too much.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. Peters entered with a silver tray. “Your dinner, Your Grace. Cook prepared roast lamb.”
“I’m not hungry. Take it away.”
“You didn’t eat lunch either, Your Grace.”
Owen looked up sharply.
Peters maintained his professional facade, but Owen caught the concern beneath it.
“Since when do you monitor my meals?”
“Since you started looking like your father did at thirty-five, if I may be so bold.”
The comparison hit like ice water.
Owen studied his reflection in the dark window. When had the shadows under his eyes appeared? When had his face taken on that gaunt quality?
“Bold, indeed, Peters. Leave the tray,” he said quietly.
Peters set it on the side table. “Will there be anything else?”
“No. Thank you.”
When the door closed, Owen stared at the meal without appetite.
His father had done this, too—lived on brandy and bitterness, letting the estate rot while he rotted with it.
He forced himself to eat but each bite was mechanical. The lamb was excellent. Cook had been with the family for decades. She’d fed him as a boy when his parents were too busy screaming at each other to remember they had a son.
The letter drew his gaze again. What harm could reading it do? He’d already made his position clear by not responding to the previous letters.
He reached for it, then stopped. No. Whatever household crisis required his attention could wait. He’d made his choice months ago when he’d left for London, and reading her words would only complicate matters unnecessarily.
This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? A business arrangement. A wife who understood her place and managed his estate without involving him in domestic trivialities.
Then why did the sight of her careful handwriting make his chest tight with something that felt uncomfortably like longing?
He crumpled the letter without breaking the seal and tossed it into the fire. The flames consumed it quickly, leaving only ash and the bitter taste of regret.
“You’re a fool,” he muttered.
