Seeking Persephone (9 page)

Chapter Fourteen

He never should have bought the bloody riding habit. Adam threw open the glass-inlaid doors of his book room, inviting the sting of cold night air. It had been a whim, he told himself. Persephone had needed a habit. He could just as well have left ordering one up to her. Why he’d taken it upon himself, Adam couldn’t say. And, of course, he’d made a mull of it.

That was what came of acting impulsively. He’d sent out the order that first day Persephone had attempted to ride. He hadn’t even waited to see if she stuck with the undertaking. And, as if anxious to add to his folly, he’d also sent out orders for boots, gloves, and a riding hat. Her measurements had been taken by a highly recommended seamstress in York, should she require anything be made. That circumstance had made making a fool of himself far too easy.

But, unbidden, came the image of Persephone brushing her fingers along the fabric of her new habit. He knew the wool was particularly fine, he’d seen it on his last trip to York. Its quality was, in fact, the reason he’d specifically requested the habit be made from that bolt of wool.

“A person ought to be comfortable when riding,” Adam told himself firmly. His choice had nothing to do with the fact that he’d known, almost instinctively, that she would be delighted by the softness of it. He never indulged in that sort of sentimentality.

A howl cut through the silence of the night. Adam glanced out over the forest, the home of England’s only remaining pack of wolves. If one insisted on complete accuracy, the pack in Falstone Forest were not technically wolves. Over the centuries since the forest was planted, the wolves who had lived there mingled with feral dogs that had found their way inside. But the resulting mongrels looked and acted like wolves, so the word stuck. Besides, if any man in England ought to have his own personal pack of wolves, the Duke of Kielder ought. So he never corrected the locals. Wolves he wanted, so wolves he had.

Another howl pierced the air. The pack was more vocal on winter nights than any other time of the year. The scarcity of food, no doubt, required they hunt more than in milder seasons. Being confined to such a small stretch of woodland significantly limited their sources of nourishment. The pack always ended the winter fewer in number than it had begun.

Other than the wind, which seemed never to cease from November on through the winter, and the occasional sounds of the pack echoing from the forest, winters were quiet at Falstone. The nights, Adam had found long ago, could be completely silent otherwise.

“I wonder what Persephone will think of that.” The moment he spoke the thought, Adam clamped his mouth shut. Had he lost his mind entirely? At what point had he begun to care what other people thought of his home?

He spun around, slamming the doors shut behind him. He would not turn into a sentimental fool. He didn’t care what others thought. Of him. Of his home. Nothing anyone said impacted him in the least—hadn’t for years, in fact. That, he told himself as he stepped inside his bedchamber, was not going to change.

Except that he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind the memory of Persephone stroking that wool. She really had appreciated it, noticed its softness.

Adam flung his jacket on to a chair, followed by his waistcoat.

Persephone had seemed sincere when she’d thanked him for it. Not that he’d wanted her gratitude. Gratitude could be as painful as pity.

Where had that ridiculous thought come from?

Somewhere in Falstone Forest another wolf howled into the night.

“Precisely,” Adam grunted and dropped onto his bed, having dismissed his valet, something he’d been doing more often lately. He hadn’t altered his routine in ten years or more. Now he was buying his wife clothes on a whim, cutting his ride short to watch Persephone’s riding lessons, lying awake on his bed, not bothering to change into his nightshirt, listening to the wolves break the silence of the night.

“I’m losing my bloody mind.” It was not a comforting thought.

Adam closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath. He seldom needed to calm himself. Adam prided himself on never being truly riled or out of control. Few people would believe as much, most being convinced he was apt to snap in a fit of rage or anger. But he never actually lost control of his emotions.

Frustration threatened to overwhelm him: frustration with himself, with the sham of a marriage he’d brought on himself, with his own stupidity in allowing another person’s judgment to take the place of his in a matter as important as choosing his wife.

His father wouldn’t have done anything so brainless. The Old Duke, as most of the Falstone staff still called Adam’s father, had been decisive and strong and unyielding, never vacillating over a decision or being cowed by another person’s disapproval.

Dukes, Adam had learned early on, were authoritative and strong. They didn’t worry about being liked. They didn’t hide from the world, no matter how much they wished to. Dukes knew their responsibilities and carried out their duties to the letter. They commanded attention. And they were never weak.

So why, over the past week, had Adam, seeing Persephone’s visible pain at the loss of a brother so young and so obviously dear, found himself wishing he knew what to say, what to do when tears crept into her eyes or when she seemed to suddenly retreat into herself?

Tears are weakness. He’d been told as much many times. Weak and vulnerable. Dukes are neither. Duchesses, neither, he would guess. Adam had never seen his mother cry. She looked pityingly at him, but she never shed a tear. He’d assumed Persephone would be the same. Now he didn’t know what to do.

His door scraped open. Had Hewitt come to murder him in his sleep? The thought brought a laughing grin to Adam’s face. The man really was an idiot. Obviously he didn’t realize Adam kept a gun in his room.

“Adam?”

No. That was Persephone. What the deuce was she doing in his bedchamber? Adam kept himself still, not opening his eyes or indicating he was awake. Maybe she would go away.

A howl echoed outside. On its heels came the sound of Persephone taking a shaky breath. “Adam?” she asked again.

He didn’t answer. A second howl filled the silence. Adam heard Persephone’s footfall, soft and quiet. He opened one eye just a sliver. Was she leaving? No. She had merely crossed to his window, pulled back one of the heavy velvet curtains, and peered outside.

What was she looking for? A third wolf call answered Adam’s unspoken question. Persephone let the curtain drop on the instant and took another haggard breath.

“Why won’t they stop?” she whispered to herself. She sounded genuinely worried.

She was afraid of the wolves? That was hardly sensible. The pack was out in the forest, while she was within the walls of the castle. What harm could they possibly do?

“You are fine,” he heard Persephone say to herself.

Adam managed to stop the smile that wanted to spread across his face. She had some steel to her, he had to admit.

“They’re far away,” she continued softly, moving slowly back toward the door connecting his bedchamber to hers. She looked more like a little girl than a duchess, wrapped as she was in a thick blanket, her bare feet peeking out beneath the edge. “They can’t possibly—”

Another howl.

Something like a whimper escaped from the retreating blanket, and before Adam had a chance to even contemplate what she was doing, Persephone climbed onto the opposite side of his bed, curled into what looked like a ball of blanket.

Yet another poorly thought-out plan of his had backfired. If he’d simply answered her when she’d come in and sent her back to her room with a flea in her ear, he wouldn’t be in such a predicament. She was in his room, one of his sanctuaries, one of the places no one ever came. And she was acting like a coward.

She had tried, he told himself, then just as quickly dismissed the obvious justification.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” she suddenly whispered. For a moment he thought she realized he’d only pretended to sleep. To be found out shamming his wife was rather humiliating, a feeling he was not accustomed to. But she continued on, much to Adam’s relief. It seemed she believed she was apologizing to her sleeping husband. “I am trying to be brave.”

She, apparently, never gained any courage. Persephone remained wrapped in her cocoon on his bed all that night. Adam knew she hadn’t left—he’d hardly slept. He was unaccustomed to the sound of another person breathing in his room—not to mention the little noises she made while she slept, and the fact that she moved several times an hour.

Sometime before dawn, Persephone awoke. Adam did as well, and watched, though he feigned sleep, as she walked slowly and quietly from the room, still wrapped in her blanket. It seemed as if she didn’t want him to know she’d been there.

The wolves, he noticed, were silent. Adam wondered if Persephone would have remained if they’d still been howling. Was she more afraid of them or of him? He was used to being feared, but, inexplicably, he almost hoped she found the wolves the more fearsome possibility.

* * *

“Of course you must see to your mother,” Persephone said to Hewitt that afternoon as one of the Kielder coaches was being loaded with the man’s mountains of traveling trunks. Other than an extra dose of awkwardness when Adam had first encountered her earlier in the morning, Persephone gave no indication that anything out of the ordinary had occurred the night before. So she didn’t plan to admit to her fear or her unexpected remedy? Adam didn’t know what he thought about that.

He listened to the exchange as he stood beside Persephone, deliberately placing himself where Hewitt was certain to notice his close proximity to his wife. Let Hewitt leave with the picture of marital bliss, feigned though it was—fresh in his mind to make him uneasy all the way back to York.

“I hope she is not terribly ill,” Persephone said.

Hewitt shook his head. “My mother fancies herself ill when I have been gone longer than expected.”

Rather tied to the apron strings, wasn’t he?

“That must impact your ability to travel freely.” Persephone seemed quite empathetic to Hewitt’s cause, as if he hadn’t brought most of the inconvenience on himself by putting up with his parent’s nonsense as he had.

Hewitt nodded.

Adam shook his head. “Haven’t you any brothers capable of tending her?” Hewitt had obviously never thought the problem through very well.

A nervous cough preceded Hewitt’s reply. If only the man would grow a spine and learn to speak up for himself. Thinking of that slug of a man as the next Duke of Kielder positively nauseated Adam.

“My brothers are quite capable,” Hewitt said, still that faint hint of apology in his tone. “But as the eldest son, I feel, morally, ethically, it really is my responsibility. My duty.”

So Hewitt did have an ounce of conviction in him, after all. Adam hated to make the begrudging concession, but he was never one to deny giving credit where it was due. Hewitt was still an idiot—reference the rather pathetic conversation they’d had over port the night before.

“The woods in this part of the country are quite impressive,” Hewitt had said. “To think the Druids, themselves, may well have walked beneath those very trees.”

“Provided the Druids had the ability to travel across time,” Adam had answered dryly. “Falstone Forest has only been in existence for four hundred years.”

How could a man so ignorant of the traditions surrounding Falstone and the Kielder holdings possibly be in line to inherit them? Idiot.

“Do come visit again,” Adam heard Persephone say to Hewitt. Before he had a chance to contradict her invitation, Hewitt was passing beneath the inner arch and on his way from Falstone.

Persephone looked up at Adam, her expression unreadable. “He can no longer see you.”

Adam raised an eyebrow in inquiry. What had that comment signified?

“You need not keep pretending that you enjoy standing beside me.” She turned and slowly, with almost tangible dignity, made her way through the enormous front doors of Falstone Castle.

Gone, it seemed, was the quaking figure who had hidden from wolves during the night. Adam appreciated her courage—he always applauded shows of spirit—but the stinging rebuke she’d served him along with it struck home with more force than he cared for.

“Should have tossed her off the bed with the first noise she made.” But he heard in his voice something he hadn’t heard in years: a threat that came across as completely hollow.

Chapter Fifteen

“Adam?” Dinner had been completely silent through the first three courses, and, with dessert all but finished, Persephone felt the tension acutely.

“Another complaint, Persephone?” Adam replied with deceptive calm. Persephone could hear the anger just below the surface. “I have refrained from standing anywhere near you all day.”

How had she allowed her tongue to get away with her? They’d reached something of an accord in the garden the day before, over his unexpected gift. Now he was on his guard again, borderline hostile and cynical.

“I am sorry for what I said.” Persephone hoped he heard the sincerity in her voice. “I really haven’t been myself these last few days.”

In the little more than a week since news of Evander had arrived, Persephone had been completely at loose ends. One moment, she felt calm and quite in control; the next, she was either weeping with unbearable sadness or angry or exhausted beyond all reason. It was unnerving. And, worst of all, she felt completely alone in her suffering.

Seeing Mr. Hewitt, who had been her one source of empathy throughout the horrific ordeal, depart had pushed her past her limit, and she’d spoken a thought she’d never intended to voice. She’d noticed Adam’s tendency to hover nearby when Mr. Hewitt was in the room. At first she’d allowed herself the flattering thought that Adam had developed a preference for her company, followed by the equally heady sensation that he might be a touch jealous. She’d soon noticed, however, that Adam’s attentions dwindled back to nonexistence when Mr. Hewitt was not nearby.

It hadn’t taken a great deal of thought to understand what actually lay behind the odd behavior. Adam intended to convince Mr. Hewitt that theirs was a happy marriage—one that would, no doubt, destroy his claim to the Kielder title. She’d been nothing but a puppet in Adam’s ongoing efforts to upset and belittle his cousin.

“Harry wrote today.” Adam spoke quite as if Persephone’s apology had never been uttered.

She lowered her eyes to her trifle. “I hope he is well.” She managed to squeeze past the sudden lump in her throat.

There she went again, emotions swinging like a pendulum. Adam had certainly been indifferent before. Why this particular moment of apathy should so undo her, Persephone could not say.

“He is remaining in Scotland for a week longer than anticipated,” Adam said.

“Harry must be enjoying his visit with his aunt and uncle.” Her voice dropped to little more than a whisper. Trying to muster another bit of volume would surely reduce her to tears.

She had apologized, blast him! Couldn’t he have had the civility to acknowledge that?

Adam continued eating with as little discomfort as one could possibly have. He didn’t care at all. This was the man she’d been so certain only the day before was kind and shy underneath his harsh exterior? How had she been so blind, so gullible?

Oh, why had she ever left Shropshire? She could have been at home at that very moment with her family, with a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, surrounded by people who cared deeply for each other.

Persephone rose hastily to her feet, fighting back a flood of bitter, lonely tears. “Excuse me,” she said, her voice shaking. She ran in an unladylike manner from the room.

One of the first things she’d learned about the castle was how to get outside. While outside, she could orient herself far easier than when indoors. But orientation was the last thing on her mind as she fled the drain of Falstone Castle for the sanctuary of her garden. It was the only piece of Falstone she, albeit secretly, claimed for herself. That alcove of greenery had shared her deepest sorrows in the month she’d been the Duchess of Kielder. No human being could lay claim to such an involvement in her life during the short weeks she’d been at the castle.

She dropped onto the patch of earth directly in front of her bench, laid her arms across the stone seat, and dropped her head onto her arms.

“I just want to go home,” she cried. “I need my family.”

Quite as if she hadn’t wept more times than she cared to remember over the past week, Persephone sobbed as she sat there on the cold, damp ground.

Evander was far too young to be gone. He’d not even reached his fifteenth birthday. Someone ought to have been looking out for him. Someone ought to have been keeping him safe. He should have been at school with nothing more threatening than exams and teachers.

Persephone had married to secure his fortune. What good was that fortune now?

Her throat burned, her lungs shuddering with each breath. She could not regain control of her sobs.

Something dropped onto the stone bench near her face, rustling and whooshing as it did. She raised her head from her arms just long enough to look. She could make out only a pile of brown fabric. Persephone laid her head back on her arms, just looking at the material through the tears that continued to fall.

“You didn’t bring a coat.” Adam’s clipped tone was easily recognizable.

The lump of wool, apparently, was her brown coat.

Her breaths continued to shudder. Words were not possible.

“That’s all.” And his footsteps began sounding a retreat.

It was such cold civility. Any one of her family members would have urged her to return to the house, offered words of solitude, or simply sat beside her in empathetic silence. Persephone turned her head away from the lump that was Adam’s sole offer of comfort: a coat he’d dumped on the seat beside her.

“I want to go home,” Persephone whispered in agony to herself.

* * *

Adam watched as Persephone continued to sit on the cold earth, head turned away from the coat he’d brought her, as if she had no intention of putting it on. “It won’t do you any good on the bench,” he muttered under his breath. He stood not more than twenty paces from where she sat, close enough to see her shudder.

He’d brought her the coat. What more did she want? He had no idea why she’d left—she’d
run.
Adam knew she was upset about something. He’d seen her out in the garden where she always went to cry, on the ground, at night, without a coat. He’d made an effort. And she couldn’t be bothered to put the bloody coat on!

“What more do you want?” Adam muttered. He knew exactly what she wanted. He heard her say as much only moments before. She wanted to go home.

No doubt to be with her family in her grief. Adam wondered for a brief moment if his mother would grieve so all-consumingly should he meet an untimely end. They’d never been close, so he couldn’t really say. It was an insight into himself with which he was not at all comfortable. Would anyone cry for him the way Persephone wept for her brother?

“Hewitt won’t,” Adam muttered. Every one of the Brothers “G” would rejoice should Adam be struck down by a bolt of punitive lightning.

Harry might miss him once in a while. Persephone certainly wouldn’t. Except during the occasional round of howls from the Falstone wolves. She might think of him then.

Adam’s eyes drifted back to Persephone. She had made no move to leave. She still didn’t have her coat on.

“Foolish woman,” Adam mumbled. But he was already retracing his steps to where she sat
.

Her sobs had relented somewhat. Adam actually felt relieved to hear some steadiness return to her breathing. Only because he disliked crying, he told himself.

“You’ll catch an inflammation of the lungs,” Adam told Persephone after he’d stood uncertainly over her for more than a few awkward moments. “Everyone in London will accuse me of poisoning you.”

A strangled sort of laugh broke Persephone’s silence. Adam couldn’t remember making anyone, other than Harry, laugh. But Harry laughed at everything. Persephone seemed more selective.

He had the sudden, impulsive desire to wrap that deuced coat around her, carry her back into the castle, and deposit her safely in front of the largest fire he could find, where she could thaw out. He shook his head to dislodge the thought, but it wouldn’t be dismissed.

Opting for a compromise, Adam lifted her coat—it looked serviceable enough, no doubt a leftover from her days of poverty—from the bench. “You’ll be warmer inside,” he told her, knowing what would have been a gentle invitation from a decent sort of husband had come across as an order from him.

But she seemed willing to comply. Persephone shifted from her position, sitting back from the bench but not looking up at him.

“With Hewitt and Harry gone, the castle will be quiet.” Adam tempered his tone in a way he hadn’t in some time, and didn’t plan to again soon. “You can find a . . . private spot and . . . do . . . whatever it is you do after you cry.”

“I usually sleep,” Persephone answered quietly. “And wake up with a headache.”

“Sounds awful.”

She nodded and slowly rose to her feet. Adam handed her the coat, which she did little more than drape over her shoulders.

“Then why cry?” It seemed a rather ridiculous thing to do, knowing ahead of time what the end result would be.

“Generally, I can’t help myself.” Persephone wiped her cheek with the palm of her hand.

She, then, hadn’t learned the art of securing a tourniquet around her emotions.

“Come on, then.” Adam felt ever more uncomfortable now that the dim light of the half-hidden moon and the light spilling from the castle windows made Persephone’s continued drip of tears visible. He led the way out of the garden, hearing her footsteps behind him.

He knew he probably ought to have said something, but he couldn’t think of a single thing worth verbalizing. Empty reassurances about her brother’s bravery or heroism wouldn’t ease her pain. Saying he knew how she felt would be a bald-faced lie. Professing any tender attachment or caring concern on his part would be no less untrue. Adam cared for no one. Just as no one cared for him.

Persephone’s little sister, the tiny one—Artemis was her name, he thought—had asked who would take care of Persephone, before Artemis had left for Shropshire.

Adam heard a shaky breath on the path behind him and thought he could picture the girl’s tiny face—one so much like her sister’s, her mouth twisted in a line of disapproval, brow furrowed with worry the way it had been during that brief conversation.

No one, it seemed, was watching out for Persephone.