“Sir?” Graham was waiting at a respectful distance outside of the study. “I do not wish to interrupt, but your sister is asking to see you.”
It was quite possibly the worst timing, but Helena always seemed to pick her moments carefully. Or perhaps with carefully crafted intentions.
“Allow her in,” Argyll said, closing the letter and sliding it into the desk.
Helena was wearing a black dress, her face suitably solemn. Her hands were curled together in front of her stomach, and though she seemed contrite, Argyll was given pause. “You have my condolences,” she said.
“About?” Argyll feigned ignorance. “Has something occurred?”
Raising a carefully sculpted eyebrow, Helena took a few more steps into the room. “I had heard that your wife was to return to Scotland.”
Argyll folded his arms across his chest. “Odd that you should hear about this before I.”
“Am I mistaken?” Helena asked. Argyll felt as if he was seeing his sister for the first time. “Was that not the case?”
The tension in the room was obvious, but only to Argyll. Helena seemed impassive to his mood, her lips curving at one side as if she derived amusement from his situation.
“Sister,” he said, using the title mockingly. “How could you possibly know about this before I did?”
Helena’s lips thinned, and she looked away. “Letitia and Frederick are quite close. She mentioned in passing that she was making a decision that would suit every party.”
“But not me.” Argyll met her eyes slowly, letting his anger show on his face. “Her Grace and I talk openly and often,"—a lie, perhaps, but not one his sister needed to know about—“and she has informed me about the tension between herself and Frederick. I cannot believe that she would tell him such a thing.”
Helena’s eyes narrowed, and she muttered something under her breath. “It is best for everyone this way, Benedict, you must see that. She is not of this world.”
“That is not for you to decide,” Argyll snapped. As if a veil had been lifted, he could see everything as Letitia must have. Frederick and Helena had been dismissive and cruel to Letitia. “Did you drive her to make this decision?”
“Your cook has loose lips,” Helena said, waving a hand. “It is not my fault that she is keen to tell me what goes on in your household.”
Making a mental note to talk to his cook later, Argyll gestured at her angrily. “I do not care to know what else you have learned. Who I choose to make my wife is nobody’s business but my own. If I wish to annul this marriage, it will be my decision, not yours.”
Helena’s expression was severe. “You will remain married to her? Despite her wishes?”
“What concern is it of yours?” Argyll drew himself up to his full height, hands curling into fists. His sister had helped drive Letitia away, and though his feelings about her were in turmoil, he could not abide thinking that he had allowed it to happen. “Whatever my decision, I do not need any input from you. I will see to it, Sister, that neither you nor your son ever inherits the Inveraray title nor the castle.”
Outraged, Helena took a step toward him, stopped by Graham’s form coming into the room. She glanced at him then back to Argyll. “You cannot do this to me!”
“I did not,” Argyll told her seriously, eyes narrowed. “You have created this moment yourself. Get out of my house.”
For a moment, it looked as if Helena would refuse, but eventually, she cursed him once and strode out of the room, furious.
“Thank you, Graham,” Argyll said, relieved.
Graham nodded once. “May I inquire as to what you will do next?”
“I don’t know,” Argyll said honestly.
Chapter 9
A Return Attack
Letitia was devastated.
Leaving Argyll hadn’t been her first choice, but it was the only solution she could think of that would work for them both. She wasn’t happy in London, and despite how much she loved Argyll and wanted their marriage to work out, he spent so much time away from the house that she had nothing to build on.
Her father was waiting for her in the doorway of the vicarage, arms open, and she fell into them, allowing herself to cry for the first time since leaving London. It hadn’t been an easy choice, and while part of her hoped that Argyll would fight for her, she wasn’t sure he would want to try.
“Come,” her father said.
“I apologise, Father,” Letitia said, leaning into her father’s embrace. “I thought I could make it work. I want to be happy.”
“I know.” Her father pressed a kiss to her temple. “There are other options.”
Letitia doubted that was the case, but she appreciated her father trying to give her hope. She hadn’t felt at home anywhere in the past few months, and when she passed by Rebecca, who stood in the hall with arms folded, her heart sank. Eyes narrowed and a nasty curl to her mouth, Rebecca did not look pleased to see her.
Thankfully, Greta shook off whatever distress Letitia felt at her stepmother’s reaction to her return. She knew better than to run in the house, but Greta’s fast walk and the tightness of her grip when she wrapped her arms around Letitia’s waist let her know just how much she had been missed.
“I missed you,” Greta told her, mouth muffled by Letitia’s dress. When Letitia tilted her chin up and saw the tears on Greta’s face, she crouched down, pulling Greta back in for a hug.
“I am home now,” she said, burying her face in Greta’s hair.
Greta pulled away, her eyes red-rimmed. “For how long?”
“For as long as I am able,” Letitia said. She had no wish to lie to her sister, but she could not be sure what would happen to her. She wouldn’t be welcome in the home for long, and she had no doubt that the town would not have changed their opinion of her. “I promise.”
“Good,” Greta said, with a decisive nod. It was apparently enough for her. “Come, I have changed my room since you were here last.”
Letitia allowed herself to be dragged towards the stairs, glad of the reprieve from thinking about Argyll and the life she had left behind. She was still not sure she had made the right decision though a few hours in Greta’s company and Letitia had laughed more than she could remember doing in the last few months.
Dinner was an awkward affair, and though her father tried to draw her into several conversations, Rebecca was doing her best to shut her out, and even Greta was preoccupied with her mother’s stories. Letitia hadn’t believed all of her problems would disappear if she returned home, but she could see that life in the vicarage had adjusted to an existence without her, and she felt like an interloper.
Retiring to her room that night, Letitia curled up under the sheets and clutched her hands to her chest, rubbing at the ring on her left hand. She had hoped for so much from her marriage to Argyll, and she was aware that for him it had been about saving her, something she still could not believe. There had been a part of her, however small, that hoped they could forge a life for themselves out of his obligation. Instead, he had taken her to London, where it was clear nobody respected his decision to marry her.
Now it seemed she was right back where she had started.
The next morning, Letitia made a plan. She would spend her mornings with Greta while she was being schooled, staying out of her stepmother’s way as much as possible, and after lunch, she would take a late afternoon stroll through the town.
The first few days, the townsfolk went out of their way to avoid her. It hurt, though Letitia was no stranger to it, so she affected as much disinterest in their attitude as she could muster. The townsfolk eventually let her be. There was the occasional look, but most went back to their business, settling for talking about her behind her back.
The afternoon walks extended to the less populated areas of town in a desperate need to have some privacy from people’s opinions. It was a little riskier, but Letitia never went out of the house after dark, and she made sure to inform her stepmother and Greta wh
en she would be home.
On her walks, Letitia would find herself thinking about Argyll. He had not made any attempt to contact her or her family, not even to discuss the annulment. Letitia did not know whether to be angry at his silence or worry that he was attempting to drag out the process. She could think of no reason why he would want to keep the marriage in place given how she felt—and how he must have been feeling for the months they had been married.
Often, Letitia would be ripped from her reverie by someone in the streets, begging for money or food, or tugging their cart of wares down the alley. It was often the same beggar, his face dirty and clothes unkempt, torn, and muddied. Letitia would give him money if she had some, but that wasn’t often. There had been a fight between Rebecca and her father over how much financial help they were willing to give. During those days, Letitia would leave the house earlier.
A couple of times, Letitia had been able to leave with food. Today she had some cake wrapped in cloth, grabbed hastily from the table after a row with her stepmother. Letitia picked at it as she walked, intending for most of it to go to the beggar if he was there, but still hungry after her abrupt departure. As she walked, she ducked out of the way of people on the path and ignored the yells from merchants for her patronage. It was ironic, she thought, that though they shunned her when she was out and about, they would be more than willing to take her money for their services.
Letitia had been walking the same route every day, twisting her way through the streets and the alleys in a large circle, until she made it back to the vicarage, where Greta would usually be seated outside on the doorstep waiting for her. Today, Greta was away with Rebecca’s parents, and Letitia was taking her time, grateful for the sunshine. It was rare, and Letitia couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to enjoy the sun for such a long time.
As she stepped off the main street and into one of the many side streets, she wrapped the cloth back around the cake. She was coming upon the place she usually met the beggar, but he was nowhere to be seen. Letitia made a face but held the cake close, anyway. If he had moved somewhere different, it was likely that she would come upon him. If he was absent completely, she would eat the rest of the cake on the walk back to the vicarage.
It was as she rounded the corner into one of the back alleys for the bakery that she was brought up short. The beggar was standing against the wall, face hidden in shadow and dirt smudged over his nose and cheek. As she approached, he stepped away from the wall, hands curled into fists at his side.
“Hello,” Letitia said, swallowing thickly. She unwrapped the top of the cloth, exposing the cake inside. “I brought you some food.”
The beggar’s smile was nastier than it had been before, and he reached out for the cake, snatching it from her hands. He stared down at it and then tossed it to the side, taking another step towards her.
Letitia backed up, trying to hold herself as high as she could. It reminded her of the last time, backed up against the wall and terrified.
“Nice cake,” the beggar said, and the closer he came to her, the more overwhelming his smell.
“Please,” Letitia said, holding her hands out in front of her. “I don’t have anything else.”
The beggar gave her a once over, deliberately taking his time in looking her up and down. This time, as he boxed her in against the wall, he rested a hand against her waist, bunching the fabric in his fist and tugging hard enough that she stumbled a little. “I think you’re enough for me.”
Letitia’s heart was pounding in her ears, and she couldn’t breathe, chest heaving with the effort. She hardly dared close her eyes, lest the beggar use her momentary distraction to grab her harder than he was. She couldn’t make her mouth move, couldn’t even scream for help. How could this be happening for a second time?
The beggar pressed her hard against the wall, his face inches from her own. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
Eyes widening at the implication, Letitia cursed her own foolishness. Walking the same path every day, how could she have been so stupid?
“Please don’t,” she managed, her throat tight with fear.
“Please don’t,” the man mocked, affecting a higher tone. “Please do,” he continued. “I love it when you scream.”
“HEY!”
The beggar was abruptly pulled away from Letitia, but the hand wrapped in her dress caused her to tumble down with him, scraping her knees on the floor. As she hit the ground, pain exploded up her elbow and leg, and she shuffled away as quickly as she was able, huddled to the wall.
In the middle of the alleyway, the beggar was being held to the ground by a familiar figure. Argyll’s face was twisted in anger, his hands fisted in the beggar’s ratty shirt, and he was spitting out words that Letitia couldn’t make out. The beggar let out a roar of rage, surging up and tossing Argyll onto his back. He was lithe and gaunt, and the burst of strength was a surprise. Letitia couldn’t get her breathing under control, terrified as she was, and could only sit against the wall, eyes burning with tears.
Argyll’s head snapped to the left, cheek red from the beggar’s punch. Letitia’s heart hammered in her chest, her mind screaming for Argyll to get up, to do something, though it was obvious from his movements that the beggar was flagging. Argyll took advantage, punching the man square in the jaw, sending him sprawling. On his feet as quick as a shot, Argyll hauled the beggar up by his shirt, slamming him against the opposite wall.
Letitia clenched her eyes shut against the groans and grunts of the men as they fought. They were awful sounds: the smack of bone on bone, the gurgling of someone’s laboured breathing, the moaning of someone in pain. Hands curled protectively over her head, Letitia couldn’t help but scream, desperate for someone to come and break it up, to help her.
Footsteps thundered into the alley, and there was a cacophony of sound, so Letitia found it hard to parse any single voice.
“Letitia.” She recognised that voice and opened her eyes slowly. Argyll was crouched in front of her, his face bloody, the baker and the blacksmith behind his left shoulder.
“Are you all right, Madam?” the baker asked, looking down at her with concern.
Letitia had no idea what finally made her break. Whether it was the concern of someone who had shunned her not hours earlier, Argyll’s soft and caring look, or the situation she now found herself in, she burst into tears, clinging to Argyll’s hands.
Argyll swept her into his arms and as she buried her face in his shoulder in a desperate attempt to shut out the world, she let her eyes close, confused and panicked, and with fear still clutching at her breast.
Chapter 10
An Explanation of Love
Argyll had left a mess in his wake as he made his way back up to the castle.
Several of the townsfolk had made grumblings about murder and charges, but as Argyll had stood in the middle of the alley, Letitia curled in his arms, the baker and the blacksmith had both taken charge.
“Take her home,” the baker said, giving Argyll a tight nod, before starting to yell at some of the gathered townsfolk into helping him with the body.
The blacksmith had held his gaze for a good long while, expression stern. “I will inform her father. This is a messy situation.”
“I will pay and organise whatever needs to be done,” Argyll promised, “as soon as I have seen to Her Grace.”
Giving him an understanding look, the blacksmith tugged on the sleeve of a young lad standing off to the side, eyes wide with the horror. “Oi, Henry. Get up to the estate and warn them of what’s occurred.”
The lad gave Argyll a quick glance and then took off, feet kicking up dust in his haste to arrive before Argyll.
“Thank you,” Argyll said sincerely.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” the blacksmith said, turning to aid his neighbours.
Argyll quickly left the scene, Letitia still curled protectively in his arms, and made for the safety of his castle—and Mrs Fenway’s superior
nursing skills.
When he had made the decision to leave London and come back to talk things out with Letitia, he could not have foreseen this. The days since she had left London had been tough, with Helena and Frederick contesting his decision, but Argyll was no fool. He knew he was within his rights with every decision he made, and he would not be coerced into changing it.
He had arrived back at Inveraray in good time, heading for the vicarage. Letitia’s stepmother had opened the door, raising her eyebrows at him, though there was a quirk to her lips.
“She is out walking,” Mrs Arnold had told him. “She will be back soon if you would like to wait.”
The door had been pulled open wider for him to enter, but with his mind made up, Argyll wished to get things between himself and Letitia sorted as quickly as possible. He had decided to find Letitia himself, and Mrs Arnold had given him the vague route she had taken.
That was how he had found himself coming upon Letitia—and the dirty looking man who had her pinned against the wall. With terror in his heart, he could do nothing but attack the man, to protect his wife, whether she saw herself as such or not.
As he approached the estate, the door was already opening. Henry, the young lad from the alley, tumbled out. Mrs Fenway was following, frowning.
“Your Grace,” Henry said, bobbing his head a couple of times. “She didn’t believe me!”
“I do now, lad,” Mrs Fenway said, her hands clasped together, her eyes wide with horror as she took in Letitia’s form.
“Some coin,” Argyll said, gesturing at Henry with his head. As Mrs Fenway took her leave into the castle, Argyll gave him a sincere, relieved smile. “Thank you for your quick feet.”
“No problem, sir,” the boy said, thanking them both profusely as Mrs Fenway returned with a little money for his trouble.
As he took off back down the road, Argyll entered his home, Mrs Fenway at his elbow, muttering about fool boys and disgusting men who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.
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