suspected, everything he wished he could forget. He wanted to take her to his bed and lose himself in her until her gasps and cries chased the darkness from his mind and he could pretend he was like any other man, if only for a few hours.
But his truths were twisted and ugly, and they his alone to bear. “No, you don’t. You don’t know what you’re asking for. You don’t want that darkness in your head.”
“What darkness?” She tore free of him then with such suddenness, Gideon was left with his arms still out, clutching at air. “What’s happening at Darlington Castle, Gideon? Who did Miss Honeywell see from her bedchamber window? Was it a ghost? The ghost of your dead wife? Or is she not really dead, after all?”
“What?” He stared at her, shocked. “I-I don’t understand.”
“Is your marchioness truly dead, Gideon, or have you been chasing her all this time?” Cecilia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Is her death a lie, or part of some twisted game? Is it true, what the villagers in Edenbridge whisper about you?”
“Are you asking if I’m a murderer?” Gideon’s arms fell to his sides, his body going still. “Do you… do you truly believe that of me, Cecilia?”
“No, I…I don’t know! I don’t know what to believe anymore, but I know something is terribly wrong at Darlington Castle. The villagers say no one ever saw Lady Darlington’s body. They say you murdered your wife and denied her a proper burial. Is she hidden in the walls of Darlington Castle, Gideon, as the villagers claim she is?”
The air seemed to grow darker and colder around Gideon then. A chill rushed over his skin, skeletal fingertips that left a thin layer of ice in their wake. It didn’t occur to him Miss Honeywell—his betrothed, the woman he’d intended to marry—had accused him of the very same crime a day earlier.
She didn’t matter. Miss Honeywell, her mother, his broken betrothal…none of it mattered. The ugliest of the rumors he’d heard whispered in the village, the appalled glances of the ton in London, even the nickname the Murderous Marquess—he’d borne them all without a murmur.
But nothing—nothing—had ever hurt him as much as Cecilia’s words did. They flayed him open like the strike of a whip, tearing through the scars there and opening the raw, bloody flesh beneath. All the ugliness, all the lies and loss of the past year, the grief and the pain and the betrayals came oozing out of the gaping wound, threatening to drown him.
And this time, it did matter. Because this time, it was her.
So, for the first time since Cassandra’s death all those months ago, Gideon clawed his way free of the blackness. With quick, jerky movements he stripped off his coat, draped it around Cecilia’s shoulders, then took her hand. “Come with me.”
Cecilia’s eyes went wide. “What? Where are we going?”
“You said you wanted the truth.” Without another word, Gideon led her from the kitchen garden gate into the rose walk.
“Gideon, where are you—” Cecilia broke off with a gasp as she stumbled against him in the darkness. Gideon didn’t slow, but he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, leading her farther and farther into the grounds, the grass crunching under their feet, their steps seeming endless to Gideon until at last the rough outlines of Darlington chapel emerged from the darkness, the tall, narrow spire rising into the sky.
They passed under the arch with the enormous cross at its peak, then through the stone gate. Gideon’s throat closed as he led Cecilia through the tiny churchyard to the neat row of graves at the back, where centuries of Darlington marquesses and their families had been laid to rest. Each one was marked by a tombstone with the deceased’s name and the dates of their births and deaths carved into the white marble.
Here lies…departed this life…in loving memory…
“Read them,” Gideon commanded, his voice low and hoarse.
“Nathanial Theophilus Rhys, the fourth Marquess of Darlington.” Cecilia turned to him uncertainly, and he nodded at the next gravestone. “Diana Caroline Rhys, the fourth Marchioness of Darlington.”
Her voice was so hushed Gideon had to lean closer to hear her. “My aunt and uncle, my father’s elder brother and his wife. Who else, Cecilia?”
“Nathanial Theophilus Rhys,” Cecilia read, her voice not quite steady. “Fifth Marquess of Darlington, and Frances Isabella Cornelius Rhys, fifth Marchioness of Darlington.”
“My mother and father,” Gideon said tightly. “All the firstborn males in the family bear the same name. Keep