“Oh, heaven knows. As I’m the sister of a duke, I can only imagine she thought me born with an excess of wickedness. And that it’s her job to beat it back out of me. Only she can’t use a stick, so she uses Fordyce’s Sermons.” She shuddered dramatically, and Christiana found herself smiling again. Amelia rolled onto her stomach and surveyed Christiana again. “By the by, what are you doing?”
“The household accounts,” Christiana said. “That’s my role as duchess, you know.”
“Well, I suppose Hugh would be delighted to hear it,” Amelia said in a disgruntled tone.
“Tell me something,” Christiana said, leaning forward. “I gather the fire is a sore subject with your brother?”
“Hugh? He never speaks of it.” Amelia waved a dismissive hand. “I used to try to broach the subject when I was younger, but he never lets me.”
“If you don’t mind telling me, what happened?”
“I was eleven, so I suppose I don’t recall the details precisely.” Amelia’s eyes went distant, and Christiana wondered if she had opened a fresh wound in this vivacious young girl.“Miss Byrd was the one who woke me and led me through the house. There was smoke everywhere. Everything was very hot. I remember I touched a doorknob and blistered myself. We got out and gathered by the fountain.” She hesitated, seeming to come back into her body as she glanced at Christiana. “Hugh got out before me. Did he ever tell you that? He was one of the first out. But when our parents didn’t emerge, he went back in to rescue them.”
Christiana’s breath stopped in her lungs. She had known that their parents hadn’t survived. But she had presumed Hugh’s injuries had come from the flames itself, from getting out. Not from returning inside to save his parents.
And failing.
“I remember what he was like before,” Amelia said softly, lost in the past again. “We have quite a gap in age, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and for most of my living memory, he spent his time in London. But he always brought back presents. Sometimes, he used to argue with Papa about his London habits. He enjoyedliving, as he used to say. But after he went back into the fire…” She hesitated. “He lost a part of himself. Half the house was destroyed, too, and the repairs have only just been completed. He seems all right now, but—”
“He lost almost everything,” Christiana murmured.
“I want to see him happy,” Amelia said. “He rebuilt—the house, everything—because that was what was expected of him. And he lives here because that’s his duty. He married you because he felt that was his duty. But I don’t think he likesanyof it.”
Not even her. The words were implicit, and although Christiana had no right to expect anything else, they still hit like a brick to her stomach.
“I will escape,” Amelia said seriously. “When I marry, I will have a new family and a new home. But Hugh never will.”
For the first time, the sadness of what Hugh had endured—and what he would continue to endure—impressed itself upon Christiana. Once, he had ‘enjoyed living,’ and now he shut himself away in this tomb of a house because he thought himself hideous.
Because theworldhad rejected him.
And yet, for all that, he could still smile. He may not have wanted to marry her, but he had done so with grace and goodwill.
For the first time, Christiana craved more than he was willing to show—she wanted to discard his polite artifice and discover what lay underneath.
Perhaps he would not fall in love with her, but if there was a way to make him happy, then she would do her best to achieve that goal.
Chapter Thirteen
Before he’d married,Hugh had been able to enter his library of an evening, drink a glass of brandy, and relax with a good book—perhaps with Sadie, the ancient gun dog, at his feet.
Now, however, when he entered the library, he found Chris there. And not just occupying the space—she dominated it.
Instead of setting up at the table, which was there for this very purpose, she had moved the furniture aside so she could sit on the floor, surrounded by a ring of lamps and books. A notebook sat beside her, and she was writing feverishly in it, her fingers ink-stained and her mouth screwed in concentration.
She had not yet noticed his arrival.
For a long moment, he stood and watched her. Oblivious to, and very clearly not vying for, his attention, she was dressed simply, her hair loose about her shoulders. Her glasses slid down her nose the way they always did, and her brows were furrowed as she worked.
The sight of her like this was oddly appealing. He looked at the curve of her neck, just visible from the way her hair fell forward in chaotic waves. She would be the first to claim there was no elegance about her, but he saw it here. The dip and jut of her collarbones. Creamy, soft skin.
All except for her fingers. Those hands had seen hard work, and he had the absurd urge to take them in his and soothe them somehow.
As though his hands were any better.
What a pair they made, his unconventional wife and him.
He cleared his throat, finally alerting her to his presence, and she jumped so high, she almost knocked a lamp over. With lightning reflexes, she caught and righted it.