Hunt folded his arms across his chest and stared down at his shining black boots. “You know, I’ve been your friend for a very long time.”
Ryder eyed Hunt wondering what kind of inspiring speech the man had up his sleeve this time. The mere thought was enough to send him back down to the floor in search of a seat. After the last days, he was ridiculously tired and Hunt wasn’t helping. One of his rallying talks might finish him.
Hunt finally looked up, his mouth a grim line. “I’ve put up with your self-inflicted hate fest for a very long time because you are my dearest friend. We’ve shared much. The death of parents—”
“I don’t need any sentimental—”
Hunt snapped up a hand, his green eyes sharp with intent. “Shut your damn mouth and listen.”
Ryder blinked and listened with a new degree of interest. Hunt was hardly ever serious.
“I have to believe you can get over this.” A surprising tinge of desperation intensified Hunt’s rough voice. “I have to believe you can find happiness.”
Ryder slowly stood, wondering where the hell this was coming from. Perhaps Hunt had not overcome his own dark wounds.
“I’ve waited and stood with you through Hell, always believing that one day you’d pull yourself up out of this grave you’ve been hiding in.”
“It’s not a grave,” he lied.
Is this how Hunt thought of him? All this time, he’d been watching him wallow in grief with what he now knew was detestable self pity?
Hunt snorted. “It is a grave. You won’t say goodbye to the dead so instead you’ve said goodbye to the living.”
The words and the truth of them filled the space between them. For years they’d lived in a tentative truce over all this, but apparently Hunt could no longer keep silent.
“You bastard,” Ryder ground out.
“You’d rather live with the ghosts,” he continued determinedly, “than with me or with most importantly, Kathryn, a beautiful woman who was silly enough to have loved an idiot like you.”
“That’s not true. I’d give anything to love her freelly.” Ryder swallowed. For even as he spoke, he could taste the bitterness of his own dishonesty.
“No, Ryder.” Hunt’s face softened, but he took a step forward, his eyes pinning Ryder to the spot. “You wouldn’t. You’ve cradled your guilt to your chest like a beloved child and now you don’t know how to live without it. And if you don’t stop, Kathryn will—”
“Don’t,” Ryder barked, his eyes stinging.
“Kathryn will live her life without you,” he continued mercilessly, his voice sharp as a blade. “You will never have children with her, you will never grow old with her, in short, you will never have her if you cannot let your guilt go.” The hard lines of Hunt’s face softened and he asked quietly, “Is that what you wish?”
“You’re supposed to be my friend.” The pain of Hunt’s words cut him to the bone, and Ryder couldn’t bear it. “Why the hell would you say this?”
“Because I am your friend. And for my own sake, I have to believe you can overcome this.” Hunt’s eyes dimmed as if he was recalling some distant memory. He shook his head. “When you’re ready to join the world again, come and find the people who love you.”
Ryder stared ahead as Hunt strode from the room and shut the door.
A grave.
He was living in a grave of self-recrimination and self-hate. But it was so deep and he’d been in it so long, how would he ever dig himself out?
For Kathryn, he would find a way.
* * *
The evening air was cool and the groomed grass beneath his bum was growing damp, but Ryder didn’t give a tinker’s damn. He’d sat all day with Jane, and he wasn’t quite ready to leave. He’d been talking to her for hours. . .
At first, the pain had been unbearable.
Her pale, buttery headstone stared back at him. But there was also something comforting about the place and the words on the stone. Jane had indeed lived, and here was the physical proof of it. She didn’t just exist in his mind and his memories. She was here, a part of the earth and the grass beneath him.
Ryder fiddled with the green wine bottle before him. “I—” He drew in a breath and shifted, his heels cutting into the earth. “I’ve fallen in love with someone, Jane. Someone I don’t deserve.” The words which should have been so difficult to utter came from him as simply as water flowing from a stream “You would have loved her. I know that sounds strange, but—” Ryder stopped and trailed his fingers through the cool grass. “I need to be with her. I’ve been meaning to say this all day, but I wasn’t sure how.” He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. “It’s time. ’Tis finally time for me to say goodbye.”
A tear slipped down his cheek, and instead of dashing it away he let it trickle down and splash onto his black breeches. He was here for a reason. For Kathryn and for himself. “I never came to visit you. Mostly because I couldn’t bear the truth. That I couldn’t make you come back. But now I know that was a grievous error. So, today, I think it’s time we celebrate.”
He uncorked the bottle of white wine, Jane’s favorite. He cleared his throat. “Here’s to you, sweetheart. A beautiful, kind woman whom I will always dearly miss. It was your goodness that took you to God.”
Another tear slid down his cheek and he bit down on his lip, forcing himself to continue with the words that so long had needed to be said. “I know you would have hated what I did, and I wish you had been here to knock some sense back into my head.”
Ryder lifted the bottle. “Here’s to the future. I think perhaps I’ve kept you from peace by not letting you go. And for that I am truly sorry. Peace to you, Jane. Peace to all of us.” Ryder took a drink then slowly, he poured the wine over Jane’s grave. When he let a healthy toast pour from the bottle, he re-corked it and smiled. “I’ll see you again. But now, I must go and live my life.”
He stood, placed the wine bottle in his coat pocket and walked down from the family plot without looking back. It was time to become the sort of husband Kathryn deserved.
Chapter 26
Kate was going to kill Imogen. It was purely that simple. She was, after all, to blame for her current defensive stance by the immense marble fireplace in the Duke of Portland’s Whig ball.
Dancers swept by, skirts billowing and wigs bouncing. The crowd around her pushed and maneuvered. A particularly drunk woman in powder blue had loosened her bodice, lowering it till her nipples showed, and the man with her wove through the people lining the dance floor. They were having a splendid time.
Unlike her.
And every blasted man in the place had at one point or the other asked her to dance. To console her misery, no doubt. As she clasped her champagne glass, she spotted another one.
Pinning what she hoped to be a fiery stare upon her features, she glared at the approaching fop across the Duke of Portland’s ballroom. Decked in puce satin and gold embroidery, his purple waistcoat glittered with a veritable diamond mine. And his hair. Well, it resembled quite the cake. And if he wandered within a foot of her, she might swipe it off his head.
But people—no, men—would insist on asking her to dance. Every person in London knew she and the duke were living separately. Apparently, that made her available to the attentions of any ass who thought to give her a try.
At last, he minced forward on his red-heeled shoes. Sadly, her fiery stare did not affect him. He smiled, his lips slightly rouged. “Your Grace, do me the honor?”
Kate lifted her champagne glass and took a long swallow to steady herself. Throughout the night, she’d been composing more and more ludicrous responses to this question. “I’d rather dance about with a monkey on a chain.”
The fellow blinked at her for several seconds. “But—But—”
She raised her brows and shook her head at him. “No, thank you. Forgive me. I am in ill humor.”
He humphed, causing his wig to twitch upon his head. “Very ill, indeed
.” And then he was off, wig high.
Kate sighed, glad to be alone again, even if it would only be for moments.
If another fop, dandy, gentleman or lady of any sort asked her to dance she was going to smash her glass of champagne down upon their head. Oh, it was true, she was standing along the ballroom wall, watching the raucous merriment of the dancers which would lead one to believe she was interested in dancing.
In truth, it was by sheer force of will she wasn’t rolled up in a quilt eating chocolates rolls, drinking wine and sobbing her eyes out. Not to mention the fact that Imogen made it her personal endeavor to ensure she didn’t lock herself up and turn in to moldering dust.
Initially, Kate had been grateful. But at this moment, she was inclined to dunk her friend’s head into the exceedingly large, gold nymph-lined crystal punch bowl. When she’d first arrived in London, Kate hadn’t realized how many idiots were allowed to walk freely about let alone be invited to parties.
A month ago, she probably would have enjoyed the said idiots. Right now, their sugary happiness and carefree bliss only grated on her like sand on glass.
It was beyond painful, standing amidst the merriment.
And she just should have stayed home, because forcing cheer to her face was about as far from her ability as a woman winning a seat in Parliament. She missed Ryder. Missed him so intensely, she felt hollow inside.
Many times, she almost bolted into her coach and headed back to the house Ryder purchased for them. It had been her happiest home. Luckily, Imogen had always been there to present a sound argument. Still, sound arguments didn’t comfort one at night nor uplift one’s spirits while sniffling into a pillow.
“You look like the champagne has gone off,” Imogen lilted from behind her.
Kate jumped, sloshing the bubbly liquid. “For goodness sake, one mustn’t appear out of nowhere. It’s rude.”
Imogen leaned forward, placed a quick kiss to Kate’s cheek then waggled her brows and pressed a hand to her dark green and gold filigree stomacher. “And you wouldn’t know anything about rudeness. I saw you send off Baron Caraden. Silly man.”
“Ha. Men are the devil.”
“I won’t argue that, my dear.” Imogen placed her hand on Kate’s arm. “But I do hate seeing you so out of sorts.”
Out of sorts? Kate swallowed at the sudden pain in her throat. She’d thrown her happiness away. Hadn’t she? She drew in a slow breath and eyed Imogen with new interest. Her cousin’s cheeks were particularly bright. “Why do you look so happy?”
Imogen’s smile dimmed a little.
Kate frowned, instantly sorry she sounded so sharp. “Forgive me?”
“Of course you are forgiven.” Imogen glanced back over her shoulder towards the entrance into the ball. “And I am only happy because a plan is working just as it should.”
Kate rolled her eyes, unable to share in her friend’s unabashed enthusiasm in whatever machinations she was up to. “You are going to get in very serious trouble one day.”
“Ah, but just think of all the fun I’ll have getting into it.” Imogen patted at her curls then took a sip of Kate’s champagne. Bouncing on her toes in time to the orchestra, she looked out to the crowd of merrymakers. “Now, I won’t have you pouting any longer. I want a smile upon your lips. You’re going to dance with someone.”
“No,” Kate said flatly, folding her arms under her breasts in protest. She would not be convinced into anything else which Imogen deemed good for her spirits.
“Why ever not?”
“Because,” she said dryly. “I usually end up wanting to skewer whoever I’m dancing with one of my hair pins.”
“Hmm.” Imogen stopped swaying for a moment. “That would be a rather intriguing end to a dance, but you’ve caused enough scandal this year.”
Kate did not even wish to dignify the comment with a proper response.
Imogen blinked, a slow smile curling her lips as she stared towards the far end of the room. She snatched a glass of champagne from a passing servant. Slipping Kathryn’s glass away, she gave her the new one. “Here, you shall need this.” Batting her long blonde lashes, she said coyly, “I don’t suppose you’re willing to dance with anyone? Anyone at all?”
Tears stung her eyes. Quite irritatingly. “There’s only one person I want to dance with.” She swallowed determined not to cry before the ton. No doubt it would be in Snodgrass’ column if she turned into a watering pot in public. “And he’s not here.”
Imogen pressed in close to her and whispered in her ear, “And if he were?”
Kathryn’s breath stopped in her throat and panic immediately throbbed through her veins. “What?!”
“Don’t hate me, dearest. But he begged to know where you’d be tonight.” Imogen squeezed her arm. “I’ve seen your unhappiness, and I had to tell him.” She gestured slightly with her chin to the end of the ballroom. “He’s here, by the entrance, looking as gorgeous as ever.”
“Imogen, I swear I am—” The moment she spotted him, her throat squeezed off because her heart jumped up into it.
Ryder Blake, the Duke of Darkwell, the Duke of Death, the man who had stolen and in turn broke her heart stood by the Duke of Hunt in a shocking suit of ivory and silver.
Instead of one of the Devil’s damned he looked like a blasted angel.
The ivory coat clung to his broad shoulders, an extreme contrast to his dark hair. His waistcoat was silver cloth, shot through with gold embroidery. But even more superb, he looked perfectly at ease in it.
Kathryn took a step forward and stumbled on the hem of her gown.
Imogen grabbed her elbow. “Here now, how much have you had to drink?”
“Shh,” she shushed quickly, smoothing down the front of her bodice. “A woman in love should not be expected to move with complete grace.” Kate waved her cousin away, her breath light and her head giddy. “He looks—”
Imogen cocked her head, the massive set of lilies in her hair tilting. “Beautiful. I know.”
“Imogen!”
“Heavenly,” Imogen further supplied, nodding in clear agreement with herself. “Bloody marvelous.”
Oh, yes and yes to all of the above.
Ryder looked transformed. The black that had formed his identity was gone—completely. Everyone, even those who were dancing, stared at him. His usual glower had even seemed to disappear, leaving him with a decidedly boyish though weathered expression.
And she simply could not tear her eyes from him. At last, he turned, the candlelight glinting off his jet black hair, and their eyes met.
The air slipped away and everyone in the room vanished save them.
Kate bit down on her lip, tears stinging her eyes at the sight. It was there in his eyes. A lightness that had never been before. He had not only physically shed the trappings of mourning, but dare she hope he had also done so in his heart?
Kate grabbed hold of Imogen, suddenly determined. Determined that she would never let this man go again. No matter what it took.
A slow smile curved his sensual lips, lighting a fire in his gaze. He strode forward cutting through the crowd, his gaze never leaving her face.
Just a few weeks ago, she walked out of his life sure they would never speak amiably again. Here he was crossing a crowded room towards her, absolute certainty on his strong face.
“What do I do?” Kate demanded, her mind a sudden blank.
“What else do you do with a man like that?” Imogen shrugged. “Drag him into the hallway and have your way with him.”
“That isn’t helpful,” Kate hissed, still unable to take her eyes of his approaching, muscular form.
“Hear what he has to say then. Then have your way with him.”
Kate swallowed, for a moment unsure. Unsure that they could ever find the friendship they had lost. “What if—”
“Kate,” Imogen said quietly. “He’s here for you, you know. Look at him. This change, ’tis for you.” She squeezed Kate’s hand. “He is here f
or you.”
Lord, she hoped Imogen was right, but with Ryder she could never be sure. He was a man of mysterious ways. He had ripped her heart up and done it without even truly intending to hurt her. She knew that. But he’d still done it.
And he might do it again.
“Don’t let him beg forgiveness too easily,” Imogen said. “Make him take you on a trip for his ill behavior. To Italy, I think.”
Kate was tempted to reply she’d never been further from Shropshire than London, let alone the continent, but before she could answer, Ryder stood above her. His broad frame towered over her.
Her hands ached to reach out to him. To touch his face, to hold him in her arms. But it would be foolish to pretend as if nothing happened.
Despite herself, she glanced at his wrist. She couldn’t see if the ribbon was there, his sleeve ever slightly too long.
Wordlessly, he lifted his arm and gently pulled back the ivory fabric, exposing his bare wrist.
Kathryn blinked, her gaze snapping up from his wrist to his face. “I—”
Ryder held out his arm to her. “Would you care to walk with me, Kathryn?”
Kate stared up, hanging on the gentle purr in his voice. Had the beast within truly been tamed? She slowly placed her hand on his arm. The gentle touch sent a shock through her, and even she felt the way his muscles tensed beneath her hand.
Together, they made their way through the crowd.
Kate risked a glance up at Ryder. “Where are we going?”
“It’s a secret,” he replied.
She contemplated him from the corner of her eye. He seemed nervous, yet oddly relaxed. A slight tension played at his shoulders, but his strong face was more peaceful than she could ever recall seeing it.
They walked through the crowd, then into a side hall, then down a barely lit narrow hall. Finally, they came to a tall, white-washed door. Ryder twisted the latch and the balmy night air, full of the smell of hyacinth wafted towards them.
“Come,” Ryder whispered. He took her fingers in his strong grasp and led her out onto the stone path that wound into the small garden.
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 179