Family. Belonging. Three months ago, he had hardly thought it something he could have. But now…
Christiana glanced up, and when her eye caught his, she smiled, the expression so instinctual and honest that it made him feel weightless.
Now he wanted everything, and the terrifying thing was, he wasn’t certain he could be content without them.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Hugh stood inthe small parlor Christiana had claimed for her own. The book of accounts was open on her desk, and she had notes and half-written letters scattered chaotically about.
The library was where she most enjoyed spending her time, but she had slowly, over the period of weeks, made this room feel undeniably hers. The air even smelled like her; strange that now he knew that scent as well as he knew his own.
Part of him thrilled at the thought. That was the part so in love with her, he felt as though he had been living a half-life until she’d come into it. The part that wanted to memorize every single book she gave her attention to, just so he could better understand her quick mind.
That man was not the same man who stared out at him from the portrait before him.
The subject was unmistakably him. No one else had a face so fantastically twisted, rendered in such sick clarity. His melted, warped skin, committed to the canvas.
This portrait was of a monster.
He sat, heavily, in the chair that she so often occupied. The only reason he had entered this space had been to find her andspeak about the possibility of hosting a dinner of their own, to capitalize on the success of Mrs. Barnaby’s dinner.
For that, he needed Christiana.
Or at least, hehadneeded Christiana.
This portrait made him question everything.
How had she commissioned it? Had she painted it herself? The questions circled round and round his head, vicious like sharks. If she had kept it here, did that mean she saw him in this light?
This was the one rule he had insisted upon: no portraits.
If she had come to him with a request—but she had not. She had gone behind his back and produced the most repulsive rendition of him she could muster.
His hand shook as he reached for it. Every instinct inside him urged him to rip it apart. Perhaps if he did, if there was no more proof of her betrayal, he could pretend he hadn’t seen it and go on with his life. They had come so far, and he had believed she cared for him.
No, he still believed that. But she had been working so hard to convince him to reveal his face to the world, all while concealingthis. Proof that she thought him horrifying. There could be no other explanation.
Somewhere distantly, there was a crash. He raised his head, but all he could hear was Amelia’s voice, loud and shrill in panic.
Of course. Another disaster. Something else for him to fix; he couldn’t have just one moment to grieve his loss of faith in his wife. Or even to come up with an explanation for this.
For Amelia’s sake, he would swallow the lump of coal in his throat; he would repress the hurt and the anger until he barely felt it. That was the way he had lived his life for the past seven years. How arrogant of him to think that might change merely because he’d married Christiana.
Another crash.
Exhaling slowly, he rose, leaving the painting where it was as he moved back through the house, seeking the source of the commotion. The drawing room. He paused in the open doorway, taking in the scene before him. Amelia stood in the center of the room, standing protectively over Christiana and facing down Miss Byrd. The normally timid woman’s face was red, and she looked on the verge of an apoplexy.
Resignation felt cold and tired in his chest. Of all the moments for Amelia to act on the brewing tension between her and Mis Byrd, it would have to be now.
He stepped into the room. “What’s going on?”
“Your Grace.” Miss Byrd immediately turned to him. “Your sister thought it prudent to inform me she would be going to the residence of a rake, and I informed her that she would do no such thing. And then, when she refused to listen to my guidance, I attempted to explain to Her Grace that her father, the viscount, was regrettably an unsavory person unsuited to delicate ladies such as Lady Amelia. That was when Lady Amelia made that frightful noise and attempted to send me from the room. But I will not stir from my duty here!” She raised her chin, looking as though she expected to be blasted from the face of the earth.
Hugh very much wished he were capable of such a thing.
“Oh, you bird-witted wigeon!” Amelia burst out. Christiana raised her head, and for the first time, Hugh noticed her red eyes. The coldness in his chest cracked, and he almost went to her. But before he could, he recalled the painting. Besides, he could not ignore this mess before him solely to tend to her needs. He was the duke.
Just once, he wished the duke were someone else.