Chapter 25
Rob lingered outside his palatial home which had been beautifully refurbished and wondered why the hell he was such an arse. He knew, he knew what he was doing was damned dangerous but something had fallen over him a few days after his wedding.
Fear. Undeniable, inexplicable fear that he was going to cock everything up and so, he’d retreated, allowing his wife to do as she wished, when she wished, without his guidance. He wouldn’t be an overbearing, selfish husband who forced her to his bidding like his father.
Yet slowly, that, he realized, had been an error. A grave one. He’d thought he was giving her freedom but, with each day that passed, she looked at him differently. As if his determination to allow her total freedom in the workings of her life was a declaration of dislike or worse. . . disinterest.
She’d begun to seek him out less, waiting for him in her room. Oh, she always welcomed him with a smile, with passion. But she’d stopped asking him about Parliament, studying him instead with wary eyes as if she’d married a stranger and not her childhood friend.
It had taken him this last week to realize that it was he who had caused this. And his distance had not been altogether as altruistic as he’d pretended. Oh no, he’d grown distant because he’d been afraid of their growing intimacy. That somehow, she’d see inside him and, instead of the good man she was so certain was there, she’d find the rot he knew existed in his very bones. It had come with his title, after all, just like everything else.
It seemed that no matter what he did, his marriage was not going to end well. He needn’t gamble and whore. Oh no. He was capable without those vices. And with each day that passed, he found it more and more difficult to speak beyond pleasantries lest he break a dam and let all the pain and horror that he had kept locked away pour out onto her beautiful, summer soul.
He could not do that to her. No. He had to keep himself contained. It was essential. For if she truly saw him, she could not. . . she could not care about him. . . let alone love him.
For it had become utterly clear to him as he’d watched her turn his house into a home, that he longed for her love. Like the shore longed for the tide, he longed for Harriet. But somehow, he was driving her further and further back with no ability to stop her.
Surely a wiser man would know what to do. His friends and Harley had eyed him askance when he’d begun spending so many hours at Number 79, poring over parliamentary papers.
Drake had mentioned that it seemed as if he were afraid of going home.
He’d laughed. It had rung hollow. He’d never thought he was a coward. But with each passing day, he’d begun to understand that he was afraid of his new life. Afraid of ruining it. Surely, if he let her in, she would disdain him. For what would she see but a hollow duke?
At last, he mounted the steps, and stood before his entrance. Tonight, he would try. Yes, he would try to speak with her and let her know how just her presence warmed his life, even if he did not know how to show it yet. If he did, what if. . . what if she wished to open the door to the inner workings of his heart?
Drawing in a breath, he faced his own doors, feeling like a stranger.
The double doors swung open and he readied himself to make pleasantries with Stevenson.
The butler stood, his white hair completely wild, his eyes frantic.
Instinctive fear hit him like a wave, the sort of fear a man gets from years of battle and knowing something tragic had occurred. “Good God, man, what’s amiss.”
Stevenson’s gaze darted behind him. “Is Her Grace not with you?”
“Harriet?” he asked, forgetting niceties in his lack of comprehension.
Stevenson nodded frantically.
“She is not,” he said, suddenly floating as if in a dream. No, a nightmare. “Why would she be?”
Stevenson swallowed, his cravat, usually in perfect place, entirely askew. “She left several hours ago.”
Rob’s entire body tensed. “She did not mention a dinner or party?”
“Your Grace, she left just before midnight. Seeking you.”
“Seeking. . .” He understood abruptly that his wife had gone, looking for her errant husband and a wave of self-hatred crashed upon him. “Stevenson, what has happened?”
“She was most upset and most demanding, Your Grace. She wished to send word to Parliament.”
His mouth dried. He had not been at Parliament. Something his butler knew all too well. “What did you say?”
Stevenson’s brow creased. “She was most insistent.”
“Stevenson?” Rob prompted, needing answers.
“I told her the truth, Your Grace. I told her where you were and she left. But she has not returned.”
And just as he was about to lose his wits with his old retainer, a moan came from the street. He whipped around and looked through the still open doors.
There in the shadows, a man stumbled and fell.
“My God,” he ground out. “Henry.”
Rob ran to the young footman who was half-dressed, his shirt ripped, his cravat undone.
Henry’s face bore a large purple bruise at his temple. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Forgive me.”
“You’re not at fault, Henry,” he said quickly, even as his pulse throttled through him. If he thought he’d known fear before, he was vastly mistaken. There was only one person at fault here. Him. “Where is Her Grace?”
“I—I don’t know,” the young man panted past a split lip. “I was overtaken when she went into that place. I never saw her again. I woke up in the gutter.”
“My God,” Rob whispered.
He clasped Henry and hauled him over his shoulder. Quickly, he took him inside, shouting, “Fetch a doctor. Now.”
As Rob’s thoughts rioted, he took the young man into his study and placed him down carefully on the leather settee. Splashing brandy into a glass, he handed it to the footman. “What did you see?”
Henry grabbed the glass with shaking hands and drank. Wincing. “A big man. Rough. His voice. . . was low.”
Rob’s guts clenched. This was bad. Terribly bad.
“What was he wearing?” Rob asked softly, not wishing to frighten the young man further.
“He wore all leather. Brown.” Henry closed his eyes, as if envisioning his attacker. “And a mask. He said. . . he’d warned you.”
Rob turned slowly as understanding settled in his bones. How had the man found him? For it had to be the highwayman from the park. Rob had been so flippant. So damned arrogant. And now, his dangerous lark, his adventure, and his seemingly finished way of saving his dukedom for a few months had come back to destroy him.
He’d known that Harriet marrying him would end in tragedy. Known it in his very core, but he’d never thought like this. Not like this.
And it had nothing to do with gambling, or children, or a broken lineage. Oh no, it had to do with a highwayman and revenge. And his own arrogance to think he would be untouched, that those he loved, would be untouched by his choices.
My God, Harry had tried to warn him that night, when she’d confronted him for taking such risks. She’d asked how he could do it and he’d brushed her off.
Why had the man not come for him? Rob grimaced. He knew. Bloody hell, he knew. For to hurt him the most, coming for Rob wasn’t the answer. Coming for his wife? That was the answer. And now, Rob had no idea where she was. Or if she was even still alive.
But there was one hope. The highwayman wished to torment him. So, he’d keep her alive. At least for a little while and that was the only thing standing between him, Harriet, and never-ending hell.
He lifted his gaze and spotted his mother standing in the shadowy doorway, her face white as porcelain. “Robert?”
He sucked in a breath. “Harriet’s been taken.”
His mother blanched, horror struck. “What shall we do?”
“Do?” He leveled his mother with a hard stare. “We get her back.”