“Mrs. Partridge reminded her that it’s her duty as duchess to visit the poor.” Amelia looked down at her page again, a frown crossing her face. “I offered to attend, but she said it wasn’t necessary.”
A sliver of ice slid down Hugh’s spine.
His tenants respected him, but the occupants of the village did not—after he had dismissed almost his entire household in a fit of rage shortly after the accident, rumors had spread about his fearsome temper. If Christiana went there alone… He didn’tthink anyone would harm her, but he hated the thought of his shame infecting her, too.
It was one thing for people to believe the worst of him. He was the Beast of Somerset—he had failed to save his parents; he was monstrous to look at. But Christiana was his wife, and it was his duty to protect her.
Turning on his heel, he strode from the room, calling for his horse to be brought around. Riding was never pleasant at the best of times, but he would suffer this and far more to protect the things that were his.
In marrying him, Christiana had cast herself on his mercy and entitled herself to his protection. He would stop at nothing to offer her that, if nothing else.
After checking his mask was in place, he shrugged into his greatcoat—all the better to conceal whatever ruin his flesh had suffered—and swung onto his horse. He didn’t hesitate a moment before setting off for Grancott.
Once, his parents had been patrons of the village, engaged in local practices and festivals, making frequent appearances together and separately. But he had closed himself off. This was, in fact, the first time he had ventured into Grancott in years. Familiarity barreled into him, and he exhaled a long, slow breath at the stone houses huddled together. Some thatch, some tile. Chickens clucked in nearby gardens, and the tiny windows of the shop fronts refracted sunlight against the cobbled ground.
He had played here as a boy. Run from Somerset Hall to the oak tree in the village green and accepted treats from the greengrocers. Swung from a rope that still hung limply from the oak’s lowest branch.
The memories felt alien to him now.
A small boy played with a ragged chicken by the well in the village square, and Hugh dismounted, leading Julius with one hand. At the sight of him, the boy’s eyes widened and he paled.
Hugh withdrew a shilling from his pocket, holding it up so it caught the light. “Can you look after my horse for a few minutes?” he asked. “I’ll give you the shilling when I’m done.”
The poor child looked terrified. A mother came running out of the house, coming to stand before the boy, her bony chin jutting out defiantly. “If you please, Your Grace, don’t involve Jeremy in your business dealings.”
He sighed and led Julius away to a nearby post, wrapping the reins around it. Hopefully, no one would attempt to steal his horse. Then again, the rumors of his nature were widespread enough that they would fear his rage too much for that.
Small mercies.
Hostile eyes watched as he strode along the single road that made up the main street. Doors slammed at his approach, and he felt the weight of his failure press down heavier than ever.
When he finally saw Christiana, a basket on one arm, he felt near weak with relief. She was whole, no rotten eggs or tomatoes on her dress or face.
The basket, he noted, was still full of food.
Her stiff shoulders spoke of hurt.
More impotent rage filled him. One mistake, and the world had turned its back on him—and now it turned its back on her. The people had refused hisfood, as though it might be tainted in some way.
She caught sight of him, and a smile spread across her face. Relief and genuine joy at seeing him.
That someone could feel relief at the sight of his face hardly felt real.
“Hugh,” she called, hurrying to join him. “If I’d known you’d intended to come to the village, I would have joined you.”
He tucked her hand possessively in the crook of her arm, squeezing her fingers. The gesture seemed to soothe hersomewhat. “I hadn’t intended to come until I’d known you had. Are you all right?”
“Perfectly,” she assured him.
“No one has been rude?”
Her gaze dropped, providing all the answer he needed. “Not as such.”
“Forgive me. My reputation among my tenants is good, but the wider village is less accepting. I should have warned you.”
“I shouldn’t have come alone,” she said lightly, offering him a smile. “Why do they dislike you? Because of your scars?”
Hugh glanced at the end of the road, where the greengrocer’s stood. Beside it, the butcher. A cluster of village women gathered around their baskets and gossip, no doubt spreading how he had approached little Jeremy with the intention of doing something terrible.