She paused, rereading her words. Anger flared in her chest, hot and fierce. Alexander had been living carefree for years, while they’d been trapped here. The thought only fueled her frustration, and she dipped the quill into the inkpot again, more forcefully this time, splattering droplets across the bottom of the page. She crossed out her name and continued, not wishing to write a postscript when there was so much more to say.
You must come for us. We are adults now, and we cannot be forced to return to Hayward Manor if we leave. He does not want us here any more than he wanted you.
Our situation has only worsened with time. We are prisoners in our own home, suffocated by Father’s temper and the dark cloud of his reputation. You cannot leave us here to suffer. It is your duty to save us now.
Please, Alexander. We need you.
Arabella.
She scattered sand over the ink to dry it, then folded the letter and sealed it. In her desperation, she dashed downstairs and handed the letter to a footman, instructing him to take it to the post first thing in the morning.
As she stepped back into the hallway, the tension that had gripped her began to ease. Her eyes landed on the music room, and she headed toward it, seeking solace. There, in a glass-fronted cabinet, sat her mother’s violin. The sight of it stirred a bittersweet longing in her heart. She pressed her hand against the glass, remembering the joy she’d once felt when secretly playing it, the way it had made her feel closer to her mother.
But those memories were tainted by the day her father had discovered her with the instrument. His fury had been swift and brutal, and the violin had disappeared for years, only reappearing recently. She traced the outline of the violin withher finger, her heart aching for the lost connection to her mother.
A creak in the floorboards behind her snapped her out of her reverie. She turned, and for a fleeting moment, her eyes locked on Harry’s. He stood in the doorway, hat in hand, his coat draped over his arm, as if he were on the verge of leaving. He nodded to her, and she returned the gesture, her expression guarded. He hesitated, his gaze lingering on her, but then he turned and walked away.
A moment later, the front door clicked shut behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts, the echoes of the day’s turmoil still reverberating in her heart.
CHAPTER 8
Afortnight had passed, and Harry found himself once more alone in his chamber. Clad in his finest suit, with his top hat poised to be placed upon his head, he was prepared for what should have been the happiest day of his life—his wedding day. Yet, all that lay before him seemed shrouded in misery, for the truth was that Arabella had scarcely spoken a word to him these past two weeks. She had spent time with him only when forced by her father, and even then, she sat mostly in silence as they planned the wedding.
Even when they’d promenaded, she’d been distant, smiling only when receiving a greeting or congratulations.
A knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts, and Brandon, his valet, entered.
“Your Grace, you cut a most distinguished figure,” Brandon remarked with a smile. “Though I must say, you appear rather melancholy for a man about to make a lady his wife.”
Harry sighed. “I wish the lady desires to be my wife, but it is clear she does not. She has shown no interest in the wedding, that is why we are to have it at her family chapel, with only her close relatives and my uncle in attendance.”
“Only Sir Richard is coming?” Brandon inquired, though the unspoken question lingered between them.
“Indeed, he is to be my best man. A bitter irony, is it not?”
Harry shook his head at the thought that the man he disliked so profoundly would stand beside him at the altar. What did it say about him that he had no friends to stand for him? Nor any family? His mother’s relations lived in the north, and he’d never been close to them, nor had he seen much of them during his childhood.
“Only Sir Richard. I had wished to invite another guest, but upon reflection, I realized it would not be wise.”
“Sir Richard did not approve, I gather?” Brandon asked.
Having been Harry’s valet since he first required one, Brandon knew his master almost as well as Harry knew himself.
“He did not. Is he here yet?”
Brandon shook his head. “He sent word that he has been delayed.”
“Very well, I’d rather he’d gone directly to Hayward, but it cannot be helped.” Harry turned to him, eager to change the topic. “Are the chambers prepared for the Duchess?” he asked, the title feeling foreign on his tongue. Yet, in a matter of hours, Arabella would indeed be the Duchess.
“Yes, Your Grace. Your mother’s rooms have been readied,” Brandon replied.
“Good,” Harry said. “See to it that Mabel knows the Duchess is to have her every wish fulfilled. Whatever she requires, whatever she desires—Mabel is to discover her preferences, be it food, wardrobe, or anything else.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“And ensure that Mabel informs Her Grace that she has accounts at Miller’s and Madame Labelle’s. All she needs to do is call on them, and her wishes shall be granted.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Brandon affirmed. “Do you happen to know what the Duchess prefers for dinner? I could have Cook begin preparations.”
