Chapter 31
This couldn’t be happening. Not under the scrutiny of her grandmother. Amelia had known this day would come, but not like this. And Richard looked quite unhappy. Of course he was—like a prisoner, he had been forced to wed under circumstances that he had not agreed to.
First Somersby Hall and now this?
Richard hadn’t spoken a word since the ceremony, when the vicar had congratulated them on their marriage. There had been no joy, no smiles, and no congratulations from friends. It had been efficient and over quickly, as her grandmother wanted.
Still, as he stood there next to her as her husband, he didn’t say a single word. And the expression on his face worried her deeply. Did he regret this?
She didn’t want this. Not like this. Any kind of emotion would do. At least she knew how he felt. Well, she knew he wasn’t happy, but honestly, he could at least acknowledge he wasn’t happy. That she could live with. Anything but this silence.
But, in truth, they had said everything they had to say, with dread.
“Do I need to stay to make sure the marriage is consummated?” her grandmother said.
“There is no need for that,” Amelia said.
“Good,” she said.
Her grandmother’s doctor insisted she should rest, so she went upstairs with her physician to retire. Kate and the children had not been permitted to attend the wedding as her grandmother hadn’t wished it.
“I am sorry about all this. I know this isn’t the plan you agreed to,” Amelia said to Richard once they were alone.
He said nothing.
“Can you at least say something?”
“What else is there to say?” he said. “The deed is done.”
“So, then, are we going to live out the rest of our lives without speaking with one another?”
“I have to go, to think.”
“You do?” she said. “You regret this?”
“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “I just need to think.”
With that, he walked out of the parlor and left her alone, shattering her heart to pieces.
Walking down the steps to the street, Blackthorn exhaled.
What was this strange ache in his heart? This confusion that seemed to plague him? He wasn’t certain what this was. It was not as if he spent his days contemplating his emotions. That kind of luxury was not for him. He didn’t have the time or the need, as his former occupation hadn’t allowed him that kind of indulgence.
But he’d given up on that profession.
Why did he want to leave London? Granted, the only memories he had of this place were the shouts and screams of his parents to each other when he had visited them. He had dreaded the visits to Blackthorn Hall. Was that the reason?
Yes, he had learned to numb himself when they fought like cats and dogs. He and his brother, Max, used to hide in his room and comfort each other when the fight would last for hours, doors slamming.
Screams.
Broken vases.
And blood . . .
The things his parents used to say to each other, spiteful comments and verbal abuse—that was what he remembered the most.
And tears. Not his mother’s tears. His father’s silent tears. He’d only been seven years old and he could remember it like it was yesterday. She’d often leave and find comfort with her lover while his father locked himself up for days in his study. She would not return for weeks. Until finally she left them for good.
He felt the unpleasant sensation growing deep in the pit of his gut. God, he felt like he was seven again, like that damn boy who used to cover his ears with his hands to block out the hell that was his reality.
The carriage door in front of him opened and out came Philip.
Blackthorn stopped in his tracks. “What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk, privately.” Philip motioned for Blackthorn to join him in the carriage. Once they were ensconced in the carriage, Philip spoke again. “I need your help. I must confess I cannot do this myself as it involves my father.”
“Continue,” Blackthorn said.
“I think my father has kidnapped Millie. She is carrying my child. I don’t know what he plans to do with her or my child, but he can be quite cruel when he is angry, and I fear for her life.”
“Be a man,” he said. “You must confront your father.”
“How can I?” Philip said. “He is all I’ve got.”
“That is the precise reason you need to.” Blackthorn heard his own words, and something in him clicked. He knew what he needed to do. What he must do.
“I can’t.”
“I will accompany you,” he said softly. “You must do this; otherwise, Millie will never forgive you, and your child may never forgive you.”
Philip looked at Blackthorn, his face dour and uncertain, his eyes frightened. “I will go with you.”