Page 69 of My Cruel Duke
“Your Grace? Welcome home.” Rufus’s calmness was infuriating. He even dared to smile. There was nothing to smile about, not when he heard the rumors that took the streets of London like a storm. He had not wanted to return, at least not for another month, but the moment he finished reading through the letter Angleton had set him, he knew he was wasting his time.
“I do not know what is it you have done, or if you truly desire a separation from your wife, but the rumors circulating are horrible—”
“Chris! Prepare my things; I leave for London in two hours,” he had ordered his Scottish butler, who hurried into the room and bowed with shaky hands hidden behind him. Rhysand did not care for the man, but for the journey he was about to take; his journey back home to his wife, his Penelope.
Chris was two decades younger than Rufus, but he acted exactly like the older man, shaking in his boots whenever Rhysand spoke. Nothing had changed, after all, he was still theCruel Duke.
“Is it a small trip, Your Grace, or do—” Rhysand shot the man a glance as if to say, “There is no time for silly questions,” but Chris missed it. He stood there, waiting for a confirmation from the duke he was used to seeing for three days in a row and no more. The duke did not visit Scotland often, and when Chris heard he had gotten married, he did not expect to see him in the magnificent Rosalie Hall anytime soon. Or ever.
The duke did not like visiting Scotland, which was why his visit shook Chris, and he was barely able to stay put when in his presence. For he was, after all, a scary man.
“Pack whatever. I need to be out of here in two hours.” Rhysand’s body shook with eagerness. He had calculated the journey in his mind. If he left in two hours, he would probably make it back to London at noon.
“The duchess is devastated. They say your marriage has fallen apart. I am not sure how she is handling it, but Lydia claims there is a dark cloud looming over her head, and she fears for the day she will break down.”
Rhysand did not know what to do, but he knew had to make sure it never got to that. He had a hard time falling asleep that night, like every other night he had spent in the cold empty house. He missed Thornbury house, he missed his wife, Penny. His Sunshine.
He hated himself for hurting her, for believing his lies and staying away from her when all he wanted to do was pull her close and never let go. Ever. He wanted to poke her dimpled cheeks and watch her face brighten up with a smile for the rest of his life. He wanted to place genuine kisses on every inch of her, apologize deeply for his short-sightedness, for leaving her, for being absent at a time he should not be.
His worries had only doubled when he rode on London soil, to the house he had gotten for Penny. She would be there, probably out in the garden painting a portrait she planned to decorate the halls with, or making flower arrangements for the drawing room since she loved flowers so much. But when he entered her mansion straight from his two-day journey from Scotland, she was nowhere to be found, and worse, none of the staff seemed to know where he had gone.
Rhysand paced around the drawing room in an attempt to calm his radically beating heart, and when he heard the main door being pulled open by the new butler whose name he did not know, he ran to the main door.
People entered.
First, Aunt Augusta in a bright orange dress, then Lydia Hislop, followed by Patrick Hislop behind her. No sign of Penelope. Rhysand swallowed and neared them.
“Your Grace?” Lydia started with a smile but Patrick blocked his view from the younger Hislop.
“Look who decided to return from the dead.”
Rhysand said nothing to Patrick following his words. He deserved that much, he deserved much worse. Aunt Augusta would not even look him in the eyes. She was upset with him, and she had every right to be. He had treated her niece unfairly.
“You did not see her, did you?” It was Augusta who spoke. Rhysand shook his head.
“You were right,” Lydia turned to her aunt. Rhysand hated not knowing what Lydia was talking about. It concerned his wife, he was sure, and he needed to know. His eyes darted from Lydia to her aunt.
“It seems Penny is not home. She did say she felt suffocated in this air-filled house,” Aunt Augusta announced and spread her arms. Rhysand ignored the little jab at the house in Aunt Augusta’s words.
“Where is my wife? Where has she gone?”
The older woman shook her head, and Lydia followed. Patrick did not respond. Anger ran hot in Rhysand’s veins. The Hislop family had just declared they had no idea where his wife was and no one made a move to go in search of her. She could be alone and in danger.
A wave of realization hit Rhysand. He was a hypocrite.
There he stood, slowly getting annoyed at his wife’s family for not looking after her when he had done the exact thing.
“I will find her.” Rhysand frowned, eyes locked on the door, but Aunt Augusta’s words halted him in his step.
“I do not think she wants to see you regardless, Your Grace.” Her voice was cold, but he could tell her concerns were from a good place.
“I will do whatever I have to for even a second with her,” Rhysand replied sternly and went on his way.
“Where are you, Sunshine?” Rhysand ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at his scalp, his brows creased with worry and determination, and something else.Fear.
He was afraid Penelope was in danger, and all alone. No, she would be fine. Penelope was a fighter. She was strong, she was beautiful, and… and she was almosthis, but he lost her, just like that, because he was not thinking when he uttered those words.
Scotland gave him enough time to think, and he realized he could not live without her. He had to be by her side or he would not function properly—the time away from her proved it. He would stand by her, beg to stay by her, even if she did not love him anymore.