She spread her fingers, looking at the slight web between each one, the skin thin and pale. Her fingers were still smudged with ink from the letters she had written before leaving on her wild goose chase to Yorkshire, and she scrubbed at them. Duchesses ought not to have ink-stained fingers.
She paused, mid-thought. If Hugh had somehow found out about her heritage—if indeed it was correct—then was that what he had wanted to discuss with her after? It was all very well for a nobleman husband to lie with his wife when she was genteel, but another thing entirely if she was of lowly birth.
If he believed it, whether or not it was true, then would that be reason enough for him to send her away before Amelia’s Season?
Dropping her head into her hands, she groaned. What did it did it matter, anyway? They had agreed to live separately; what did it matter if it happened before or after Amelia’s Season? At no point had they discussed it or agreed anything else. If she had gotten her hopes up, that was entirely her fault.
The door opened, and Baxter slipped back into the room, her face pale. “Your Grace,” she whispered. “His Grace is here.”
Christiana looked up, shock firing through her body like heat. “The duke?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She had the dizzying feeling of having her legs swept out from under her. “What is he doing here?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. The moment I saw him, I came back here to inform you.” She wrung her hands. Christiana had not confided everything in her, but she knew enough. “Are you going to tell him?”
“I must.” Although she had hoped for more time. “Go downstairs and send him to me.”
“There’s something else,” Baxter said hesitantly. “I only got a glimpse of her, but it looked as though he had a lady with him.”
“A lady?” Christiana’s stomach dropped. Could he have found a lover? Replaced her already? Surely not, but dread crept across her skin regardless, bringing a hot surge of pain and tears to her throat.
“I can’t be sure, but I think it was Lady Amelia.”
“Lady Amelia?” What on earth could she be doing here? If Amelia had come of her own volition despite Hugh’s command, he would be furious. Not the best frame of mind in which to speak with Christiana, but what choice did she have? If he had come here, it was no doubt because he had already gone to Barnsley Hall and found her missing. “Well, I suppose you ought to send them both in, then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She turned, but before she could so much as reach the door, it opened with a bang. The paintings on the wall quivered. And there stood Hugh, his mask in one hand and his other outstretched. Immediately, his dark eyes latched on Christiana, and a thrill ran through her. Part fear, part anticipation.
He was here without his mask.
Amelia followed him into the room, a hooded traveling cloak over her head. But although Christiana felt a great deal of affection toward the young woman, she had eyes only for her husband.
Something terribly sharp snapped inside her, and the pain was so acute, she pressed a hand to her chest as though she couldhold herself together. If she lost someone else now, she would survive, of course, but it would take everything she had to do so.
“Amelia,” Hugh said, his voice almost eerily calm. “Go with Baxter to the room the innkeeper shows you and remain there until I fetch you.”
Amelia glanced between them, but she must have read danger in Hugh’s tone too, because she merely nodded and smiled at Baxter. “It seems we have been relegated.”
“This way, Lady Amelia.” With her kind efficiency, Baxter ushered Amelia from the room, and then Christiana and Hugh were alone. She looked at him, waiting for him to speak, not wanting to hear anything he had to say. There was a rushing in her ears.
Heavens, how she loved him. Every inch of that beautiful, scarred body. Losing him now would near kill her.
“Chris, you’re pale.” He moved purposefully forward, tossing the mask to one side, where it landed with a clatter. He didn’t so much as glance at it. “What did he say, my darling? Was it awful? I should never have let you come alone.”
‘My darling’?She blinked at the tenderness in his voice, her eyes cold and wet. It seemed she was crying. How odd. She so rarely cried.
“My father was as much my father as he has ever been,” she said, and she heard the tremulous note in her voice even as she wondered at it. “Which is to say I hardly know how much he is my father at all.”
Hugh cursed, taking her elbows and easing her into the warmth of his body. One hand cupped the back of her head; her nose pressed against the warm skin of his neck—the unburnt side. He smelled of horses and leather and sweat. “So he did tell you.”
“Wait.” She pushed back, and after some resistance, he let her go. “He told you?”
“As a passing shot, no doubt intended to do far more harm than it did.”
“I can’t confirm or deny it, Hugh.”
“And I’m not asking you to,” he said gently, his gaze searching hers. “Where you come from doesn’t matter, Chris. Not to me.”