Page 103 of Caught By the Ruthless Duke
Theodore cleared his throat and decided not to say anything, no matter that she had hit the nail perfectly on the head.
“Definitely bathe.” She moved toward the door, then paused. “Theodore? When you see her, don’t lead with explanations. Start with an apology. A genuine one, without qualifications or justifications. She deserves that much.”
After Lady Seymore left, Theodore stood alone in his study for a long moment. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in its path and gilding Charles’s portrait with false warmth.
He’d kept this painting covered for seventeen years. Had refused to look at his uncle’s face because confronting it meant confronting his own shame and guilt and the terrible conviction that caring about people inevitably led to destruction.
But Cressida had pulled back that curtain, literally and figuratively. Had forced him to see what he’d been hiding from—not just Charles’s betrayal, but his own fear of becoming like his uncle. Of letting passion override reason until he destroyed everything good in his life.
Except he’d managed that destruction anyway. Not through passionate excess, but through its opposite. Through cold calculation, careful distance, and the deliberate refusal to let anyone matter enough to hurt him.
The irony was almost funny.
He headed upstairs to make himself presentable, his aunt’s advice ringing in his ears. The castle felt different somehow, lighter despite the afternoon fading toward evening. Or perhaps that was merely his own perception shifting, the weight of seventeen years’ denial finally lifting from his shoulders.
Mrs. Agnes appeared as he emerged from his chambers, freshly shaved and dressed for travel.
“Your Grace.” Her expression carried cautious hope. “Shall I have the carriage prepared?”
“The horse.” He needed speed more than comfort. “Have Atlas saddled and ready in ten minutes.”
The housekeeper’s face brightened considerably. “Right away, Your Grace.”
Theodore descended to the entrance hall, pulling on his riding gloves while his mind raced ahead to London. To Bardwell House, where Cressida was no doubt convinced he’d meant every word of his cruel dismissal. Where she was trying to piece together some kind of future from the wreckage he’d made of their marriage.
He had no illusions about what awaited him. She would be justifiably furious. Might refuse to see him entirely, might tell him to leave and never return. He’d earned that response and worse.
But he had to try. Had to find the words to explain what he’d been too frightened to admit even to himself: that somewhere between their forced proximity at Ashmere and her stubborn determination to build something real between them, he’d fallen completely and irrevocably in love with her.
And that loving her terrified him more than anything else in his carefully controlled life ever had.
A groom brought Atlas around, the stallion snorting impatiently in the cooling air. Theodore swung himself up into the saddle, gathering the reins, and urged Atlas forward.
The ride to London would take hours at the pace he intended. Hours to rehearse what he’d say, to imagine every possible response, to steel himself for the very real possibility that he’d destroyed something irreparable with his fear and his cruelty.
But as Ashmere disappeared behind him and the road opened ahead, he felt something unexpected settle in his chest.
Hope. Fragile and tentative, but unmistakably present. He’d spent seventeen years convinced that isolation was safety. That walls were protection rather than a prison.
Now, riding through the fading afternoon toward London and Cressida and whatever future they might salvage, he understood the truth his aunt had been trying to tell him for years.
The real courage wasn’t in keeping people out. It was in letting them in despite every fear, despite every past hurt, despite the absolute certainty that loving someone meant risking devastation.
Cressida had been brave enough to try. To push past his defenses and offer him something real, something worth having, even when he’d given her every reason to stop.
The least he could do was match that courage. So, he urged Atlas faster, the countryside blurring past as evening settled over England.
Somewhere ahead, in a London townhouse, his wife waited.
And Theodore Yeats was finally ready to stop running.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Have you seen the garden at Ashmere? It’s extraordinary this time of year.”
Cressida looked up from her tea.
Mary had been describing the glasshouse construction for twenty minutes while Peter provided sardonic commentary about the expense. The parlor felt warm with their presence.
