“Partially,” he said. “But not exclusively. After the fire, I was angry and in pain. Rumors spread about my appearance and my temper.” He spared her a brief, rueful glance. “They were not exaggerated.”
Her mouth twisted. “You lost everything.”
“Not everything.” Not Amelia, and for a long time, she had been the only reason he’d gotten out of bed. “Nothing excuses my behavior in those early days, Chris. And, when things were particularly bad, I dismissed almost all the servants in a fit of rage.”
She made a tiny sound beside him, and her fingers gripped him more tightly again, flexing under his. “Worse things have happened.”
“Many people from the village lost their livelihoods. Some had to travel far farther afield to find other occupations. They have never forgiven me for it.”
She was silent for a long time. Finally, when she spoke, she said the last thing he had expected. “I don’t think you want their forgiveness.”
“Pardon me?”
“You haven’t forgiven yourself, and so you have no interest in the forgiveness of others.” She glanced up at him. “If you had wanted to repair your reputation with them, Hugh, you could have. You are no monster.”
He huffed a breath. “As my wife, you are under obligation to think so.”
“Then you have not met many wives,” she said wryly. “If I, your wife, living under the same roof as you, think you a kind and considerate man, then others can think so, too.”
Perhaps she was right—perhaps he had no interest in forgiveness—because the prospect of asking for these people to accept him again made him feel hot and itchy all over.
“Amelia said Mrs. Partridge told you to come here,” he said, changing the subject. “Rest assured I will handle it when we return.”
“No, Hugh.” She placed her other hand on his arm. “Let me handle it. If you fight all my battles, no one will think me capable of fighting my own.”
“Will you dismiss her?”
“Do you want me to?”
Nowas the honest answer. Without someone to step in as replacement, he could not countenance dismissing a servant as vital as Mrs. Partridge. Kitchen maids were a very different matter. No matter her offenses, he wanted to trust his housekeeper.
Or maybe he just wanted to maintain a little of his world from before the fire.
“I see,” she said. “I understand.”
“Do as you see fit,” he replied, with momentous effort. Yielding control did not come easily to him. “Did you bring a carriage?”
“I did. Was that wrong?”
“Not in the slightest. I’ll walk you there and ride back before some youth makes away with Julius.”
She laughed a little. “Steal a duke’s horse? They would never dare.”
His spirits lightened a little at the sound of her laugh. At least her experience here had not scarred her. “What was the nearest village to your father’s estate?”
“Wakefield. I visited infrequently, but whenever I did, they were all very pleasant. My father’s antics had not made them despiseme.” She grimaced. “I rather think they pitied me instead, which is not any better.”
“Worse, in fact.” As he knew from personal experience.
“I don’t pity you,” she said thoughtfully, and though it shouldn’t have, it made his heart pound with sudden awareness. When was the last time anyone had said that to him? Such a small thing. He strove to keep it from his face. “I think a terrible thing happened to you, and I’m sorry for it, but there’s no point in pity. My mother often told me she pitied me for being plain, but there’s no use in that, either. She couldn’t make me pretty, and I can’t make you whole. I expect you’ll always be scarred, but what matters is how you treat others.”
He stopped where he was, turning her to face him. A line appeared between her brows as she returned his curious gaze, her eyes traveling across his face just as his traveled over hers. Yes, she would never be considered a beauty, but he found himself drawn to her face. She was an education in contrast—the sharp, stubborn line of her jaw against her thin mouth, strong nose, and big eyes.
Those eyes. They were what saved her from plainness. Now, whenever he saw her, he noticed her eyes first. The emotions that pooled in them, the changeable colors—silver and gray and sometimes even hints of blue or brown, as though they reflected the moods of the sky or the tempestuous demands of a storm.
Pain had forged him, but she had grown up neglected and lonely, and that had sharpened her, too.
His voice was little more than a growl as he said, “Your mother called you plain?”