A Baron for Becky

Chapter eighteen

He rode all afternoon, though it felt longer. He let the horse pick the way much of the time, while his mind went over and over the horrors his wife had lived through. His wife. His gentle, kind, comfortable wife who had made his house into a home, gathered his daughters into her heart, and made him happy.

He was no better than all the rest: a user, a destroyer of women. Lady Ballingcroft's face floated before him again, and dozens of others he'd tempted with honeyed words.

Like he had Becky. Oh, he'd offered marriage, but that wasn't what she wanted, was it? "I was not free to choose," she said. He hadn't offered her freedom, he and Aldridge. Instead, she was being used again. To carry the child who would save the estate. To mother his other children and manage his household. And to comfort him with her body. He was no better than the unnamed and uncounted men who had used her before.

What was it Aldridge had said? "You aren't fit to kiss the hem of her robe." He hated that Aldridge was right. He hated Aldridge. He hated every man who had used his Becky, up to and including himself.

She wanted her freedom, to be left to her own devices, and no wonder. After all she had been through, why would she ever want to service a man again?

But he and Aldridge had barged in with their selfish plans.

He couldn't fix it; couldn't turn back time and give her the quiet village she wanted, but he could respect her wish to be left alone. He wouldn't impose himself on her again. From this day, she would be a saint in his household, to be cherished and protected, but worshipped from afar.

His mind made up, he returned home.

In the schoolroom, he was told when he asked after Lady Overton. He thought of following her there, but decided to wait until they met at dinner. He had to act normal, convince her nothing had changed.

But only one place was set, and the butler informed him Lady Overton had retired early. "Her Ladyship complains of a headache," he said.

"Ah. Yes. She was unwell earlier," Hugh replied. Was his butler glaring at him? No. Just his guilty conscience. He shouldn't have left her. He should have stayed and reassured her. He pushed his plate away. "I find I am not hungry. You can clear."

But when he arrived in their bedchamber, she was asleep, pale, except for her red-rimmed eyes and small, but for the great mound of her belly.

He wandered up to the nursery. The children were also asleep, but the governess was still awake, doing some mending by candlelight. Yes. That was decidedly a glare. Had Becky said something? No, she never complained, never criticised.

He remembered her red eyes, and their raised voices. Undoubtedly, the servants had drawn their own conclusions and taken sides. And they were right. He wished the woman a good night and went back down to his bedchamber, where he crept into bed beside his sleeping wife, not daring to touch her.

In the morning, Becky's heavy-lidded eyes suggested her sleep might have been feigned. She'd clearly had as little rest as he. "Stay in bed," Hugh advised. "You don't need to get up."

But she came downstairs, wan but composed, before he left to supervise firewood cutting on the far side of the estate. "Make sure you stay warm," she said, but there was no warmth in her voice. It wasn't cold, exactly. Lifeless and dull, as if the woman who lived inside the beautiful, brittle shell had gone away somewhere.

That evening, when Becky joined him for dinner, he ventured to discuss the duchess's letter that had set off the disastrous conversation. "The governess that the Duchess of Haverford recommended..." he began.