“A shrew and a crosspatch?” The duke gave a soft laugh that sounded almost like her husband’s. “I can hardly believe that. You’ve been nothing but gracious in my family’s company, even after we intruded on your honeymoon.”
“We’ve hardly had a honeymoon, unfortunately. All we do is fight.”
“Fight?” He leaned closer. “My son hasn’t hurt you, has he? Physically?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. Wescott had spanked her on a few occasions, but she didn’t wish to admit that. No, the fights she meant were the emotional ones, the words they snapped at each other.
“You argue then?” the duke asked. “Well, all married couples do so on occasion.”
His kind reassurance made tears rise in her eyes. “It’s not as simple as that. I’ve said so many bad things to him. I’ve said that I didn’t want to marry him, that I didn’t want this life, this house, his love. I’ve said that I don’t want him to touch me.” She could barely get out the last words. “I’ve said that I…that I hate him.” When she stole a look at the duke’s face, she expected to see anger. Instead, she saw sympathy.
“That does sound bad.” He clasped his hands upon the table, considering. “I wonder, did you mean all those things when you said them?”
The tears in her eyes spilled over. “No, I didn’t. I don’t. I think I’m only trying to tell him something else. Maybe that I’m…that I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of Wescott?”
She nodded, then shook her head. “I think… I think I am afraid of everything.” She shuddered, hugging herself beneath the duke’s intent gaze. “Since the fire, since everything changed, I have terrible nightmares and I’m afraid all the time. And now I have… I have…”
She sniveled, trembling all over. She shook so violently, the duke reached for her and took her arm.
“I have ruined everything and made him hate me,” she cried, “and all my fears have come to pass. I wish that fire had never happened. I’m so tired of feeling troubled all the time.”
She hadn’t realized until now how much her fears had changed her. She’d been so afraid since the fire, so unsettled and anxious, that she’d pushed away her husband and refused to feel anything for him, even though she desperately needed a friend.
“What will I do?” she sobbed, the words coming out in stutters. “I think I’ll be afraid forever. I feel too tired to be brave.”
She did feel, suddenly, so very tired and helpless. When the duke guided her against his shoulder, she clung to him blindly, crying into his fine woolen coat. He produced a handkerchief with the same easy grace as his son, and she pressed it to her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace.”
“You mustn’t be sorry. Cry it out, my dear. You’ll feel better afterward. I know, because I’ve raised several daughters, all with their mother’s stormy Welsh blood. There now.” When she stopped shuddering so violently, he released her, but kept hold of her hand.
“May I tell you something?” he asked. He waited for her to wipe her eyes and meet his gaze. “As bleak as things seem now, Ophelia, I have great hopes for you and my son. Your relationship was forged in fire, literally, which can’t have been easy, but it shows you’re both strong, that you can survive things with each other’s help.”
“I don’t know.” She hid her face in her hands, then looked up again. “In some ways, I feel I didn’t survive.”
“Oh, dear child, things will get better. You’ve had a traumatizing experience, and you haven’t fully recovered yet. Not only the fire, but what happened afterward. My son’s trespass, the hasty wedding. And the terror of that night, of the fire, has likely become mixed up in your marriage, complicating matters further.”
“It may be so,” she said.
“In time, though, you’ll begin to heal. It’s been a matter of days, really. Barely a fortnight. Things will get better between you and Wescott.”
“But how?” She dabbed away the last of her tears, still clutching his handkerchief. “They can’t get better when I’ve ruined everything and acted like such an unlovable fool.”
“Let me share some wisdom that comes with age.” He released her hand and patted it in a fatherly manner. “Nothing is irreparable. Most of the time, missteps can be fixed.”
“No, I’ve driven him away. He hates me. He’s left me.”
“Wescott is merely taking a break, Ophelia. He’s taking time to breathe and gather his thoughts, as you must, too. It’s like the matches at his club, when they spar with swords. When the action gets too heated, the fight master calls a break to the action, so the rivals can recollect their heads.”
Perhaps her father-in-law was right. Their marriage had felt like a sword fight to this point, with no one to step between them and make them calm down.