Pricing The Heart

Chapter 20

David arrived at his parents' townhouse late that evening, his limbs aching from being cramped in his carriage. His desperation to get to London before his mother was buried had seen him journeying for four days straight, only stopping once at an inn to change the horses before continuing on his way. He was exhausted by the time he climbed down from the carriage, but when his gaze rested on the black wreath that hung on the front door, it felt like someone had taken him by the throat and he was unable to stand on his own two feet.

Gripping the railing, he staggered up the front stairs into the house. Nothing had changed; the elaborate furnitures were the same from before his father's passing, the floors were polished as had often been demanded by the duchess, and the air smelled of fresh flowers. Still, it felt like everything had changed; the loud silence of grief assailed the halls, the hearths were lit, but there was a coldness in the air, and as David walked into the empty parlor that had once belonged to the duchess, he was struck anew by the void her death created.

"Where is my brother?" he asked, his gaze fixed on his mother's favorite couch. He had had many banters with his mother over its ridiculous floral design, but as he stared at it now, all it did was make him want to sink to his knees in tears.

"His Grace has been away all day, my lord."

David didn't doubt Jon was meeting with his parents' lawyers and solicitors. Now that both his parents were dead, Jon was in charge of figuring out just how much their family was worth.

"And my mother? I wish to see her remains." David turned to the butler, unsurprised to find his gray brows furrowed and his shoulders drooped. Anthony, the butler, had been in service of David's family since he was a lad—so had his father and grandfather. The duchess had been fond of him and had gone the extra mile to ensure he was educated.

"I'm afraid... That is impossible, my lord. Her Grace was buried a week ago."

Wincing, he turned from Anthony, for he feared if he didn't, he would give in to his grief before him. He stumbled out of the building, the cool evening air washing over him as he tore his lips apart and fought to force air through his constricted lungs. He wandered into the garden, and struggling to regain control of his emotions, settled on a bench. There was no point in crying, was there? His mother was dead—buried even, and while he loathed himself for being absent when she died, he knew there was no amount of self hate that could bring her back.

Releasing a shaky breath, he shook his head. Perhaps his being absent was for the best, for he was certain he would not have been able to bear the wrenching pain of watching yet another woman he loved die.

Just then, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his thoughts.

"I do not wish to be disturbed," he said, his gaze fixed on a bush of hollyhocks. He imagined the servant was here to tell him Jon had returned from his meeting with the solicitors, or perhaps he was being summoned to supper. David was uncertain what the message was, but was uninterested either way. He could neither face his brother in the state he was in, nor could he force food down his throat.

Silence followed his words, but not with the corresponding sound of retreating footsteps. Indeed, he felt the presence of the intruder looming over him, their gaze fixed on his back. Annoyed, he turned around to dismiss them, but the words died on his lips the second his eyes rested on her.

Eloise!

Clad in a light gray dress that appeared nearly white under the moonlight, Eloise stole the air from his lungs. He stared at her, shocked, yet thrilled by her presence. He could barely believe she was truly standing before him, for the morning he had stood on that front stairs in Oakham memorizing her face, he had been certain he would never see her again. Yet, here she stood before him, blue eyes sparkling like the finest sapphires etched into the loveliest face he had ever seen. Her brown hair draped her shoulder, leaving him with a barely deniable desire to bury his fingers in it.