Page 43 of Caught By the Ruthless Duke
“Don’t.” Theodore turned toward the window, unable to bear whatever sympathy might cross his friend’s face. “I know what you’re going to say. That I’m not my father, that she’s not my mother, that history needn’t repeat itself. But you weren’t there, John. You didn’t see what unchecked passion can do. What desire can destroy when it overrules reason.”
“I know what your mother’s choices destroyed,” John said quietly. “That’s not the same thing as passion itself being dangerous.”
Theodore’s hands clenched against the window frame. “Every time I’m near her, I forget everything. Every rule, every boundary I’ve set to prevent precisely the kind of disaster that killed my father and uncle. Two weeks, and I can barely keep my distance in my own castle. What happens when proximity erodesthe last of my restraint? When I allow myself to want what I’ve sworn never to want again?”
“Perhaps,” John suggested, moving to stand beside him, “you discover that wanting your own wife isn’t actually the catastrophe you’ve convinced yourself it must be.”
Theodore said nothing. How could he explain that the catastrophe wasn’t the wanting itself, but what lay beneath it? The fear that once he lowered his walls, once he allowed Cressida past his defenses, he’d be as lost as his uncle Charles—destroyed by desire, ruined by attachment, unable to see clearly enough to prevent tragedy.
“She’s waiting for you,” John said. “In that castle. Alone. While you run to London and convince yourself you’re being noble.”
“I’m being careful.”
“You’re being acoward.”
The words landed like a slap.
Theodore’s head whipped toward his friend, but John’s expression held no malice, only the brutal honesty of someone who’d known him long enough to name his demons.
“Go home, Theodore. Stop making up reasons to avoid her. Stop hiding behind estate business and early morning exercise.Actually try…” John’s voice softened. “… before you’ve wasted so much time that there’s nothing left to salvage.”
Theodore wanted to argue. To list all the reasons why John didn’t understand, why this was different, why caution was wisdom rather than cowardice.
Instead, he finished his whiskey and wondered if his friend might be right.
Ashmere Village proved more welcoming than Cressida had dared hope. Molly had accompanied her in the carriage, chattering about which families lived where, which tenants had served the estate for generations, small histories that painted a picture of a community that had survived multiple dukes.
“The bakery there belongs to Mrs. Fletcher,” Molly explained as they alighted from the carriage. “Her husband works the mill. And that’s the smithy—Mr. Bartlett does all the estate’s metalwork. His son’s apprenticing with him now.”
Cressida absorbed it all, grateful for something to occupy her mind beyond thoughts about her absent husband. The villagers emerged from shops and cottages as word of her arrival spread, curtsying and bowing with expressions that ranged from curiosity to genuine warmth.
“Your Grace.” Mrs. Fletcher approached, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “What an honor. We’ve been hoping you’d visit. The whole village has been talking about His Grace’s marriage.”
“I hope favorably,” Cressida managed, summoning a smile.
“Oh, very favorably, Your Grace. We’re just pleased to see His Grace settled at last. He’s been alone in that castle for too long.” Mrs. Fletcher leaned closer, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “Between you and me, Your Grace, we’d begun to despair of him ever taking a wife. After everything that happened to his family… well, it’s good to see him moving forward.”
Cressida’s curiosity sharpened. “I’ve only heard speculation around ballrooms. What happened to his family?”
Mrs. Fletcher’s expression shifted, as though she’d suddenly remembered to whom she was speaking. “Oh, nothing for you to worry about, Your Grace. All ancient history now. Though His Grace does carry his burdens heavy, if you get my meaning.”
Before Cressida could press for clarification, another villager approached, an elderly gentleman who introduced himself as Mr. Webb, the former steward.
“Your Grace, permit me to say how delighted we all are. His Grace is a good man, despite what London society might whisper. Strict, yes, but fair. He’s reduced rent for families struggling through poor harvests, funded the new schoolhimself, and personally ensured Mrs. Lowe had adequate housing after her husband passed.” Mr. Webb’s weathered face creased with genuine affection. “He’s nothing like his father, and that’s to his eternal credit.”
The words settled over Cressida with revelatory weight. This was the man who couldn’t bear to dine with her, who fled to London to avoid her, yet he’d personally ensured that a widow had a home and children had a school.
Theodore wasn’t cold. He simply didn’t know how to extend the care he showed his tenants to the woman he’d been forced to marry.
“Thank you for telling me, Mr. Webb,” Cressida said quietly. “That means a great deal.”
The tour continued, each villager offering small insights into her husband’s character—his fairness, his attention to their welfare, the way he’d transformed the estate from his father’s harsh regime into something more humane.
By the time Cressida returned to the carriage, she carried a portrait of Theodore that bore little resemblance to the distant stranger haunting Ashmere’s corridors.
“They love him,” she said to Molly as they rode back to the castle.
“They respect him, Your Grace,” the maid corrected gently. “Though I think love might come, given time. He’s not an easy man to know, but he’s a good one. The servants all say so.”
