He was wrapped in darkness.

His every heartbeat echoed with fury, and wild plans for vengeance chased each other across his mind. But the hatred was the strongest, and the darkest. Black, brutal hatred toward his father and his grandfather. Oh, he knew the old duke had had a hand in Andrew's murder, even if just by the raising of the son in madness. The years of fear and loveless anguish rose up to choke him, and his soul cried out for revenge. He would destroy the estate, he would burn the house to the ground, he would systematically destroy every trace of the heritage that was Cambridge. God help him, he would salt the fields themselves to show the duke that there was more to life than living and breathing and killing for the past! "Do not abandon your humanity, Alexander. You will become more like them than you ever imagined possible." Where had that come from? He was nothing like them, nothing like these monsters who had ruined his every moment of youth, who had robbed his brother of his life! He would never sacrifice everything for the empty honor of a past long gone; He caught his reflection in the glass, only the dimmest outline of his features by the fire. But it was enough to send shock vibrating through him. He saw his father. He saw his grandfather. In the black hatred that etched his features, he saw his legacy from them. In that moment, he knew. He had a choice. To choose his humanity, or to choose the past, and the darkness that came with it. Sinking down into the chair, he slowly lowered his head into his hands, rubbing at his face. He could feel his father's brow, his father's chin. He was a mirror image. There was no escaping it. On the outside. But what he became on the inside, that was his own creation. Alexander rubbed his eyes. His head ached, and his stomach roiled. He blinked, finally comprehending that he was sitting in his study chair by the dead, cold fireplace. He felt a kinship to those gritty ashes lying within it. He felt as though he had gone through fire himself, after the flames of grief and rage that had possessed him so completely throughout the night. Surprised, he discovered that the last rays of sunrise had crept over the hedge and sent questing gleams into the darkness of his study. He vaguely remembered the fire dying and the cold darkness filling the room, and feeling nothing but that it seemed most appropriate. Of the night just past, he remembered nothing. How had he reached home. Now, however, in every tissue he felt the ache of his long night in purgatory. And like one who had emerged from that legendary place, he felt cleansed of his darkness and rage. In fact, he felt weak and a little sick from it all. Laying his head back against the leather of his chair, he closed his gritty, reddened eyes and began to slide gently into an easy, healing sleep. Yes, he would sleep, and when he awoke, he would leave this wretched place for which his father had sacrificed everyone who had ever loved him, this birthplace he never again wanted to call home. He would take Lizzie and; Lizzie! He sat up abruptly, eyes wide and unseeing on the dawn. He had been so submerged in his hatred and his need for vengeance, he had given no thought to her reaction! He felt a tendril of pure fear enter his heart at the thought of what she must believe. Bolting to his feet, he ran, heedless of the curious servants he passed in the hall. As he raced, her visit the night before ran through his mind. he had paid no heed at the time, now every excruciating detail came rushing back to him. Her tears, her pleas for him to recant the dreadful threats of retaliation he had flung at his father.

Retaliation that would imperil Lizzie's happiness as well as the duke's. Surely she knew he had not meant those hideous words. Except that, last night, he had meant them. And he had told her so. Oh, dear God! Desperate now, he sped down the vast hall to her rooms. He must stop her; Her door stood open. The only person in sight was Mary, carrying a pile of folded fabric from the vicinity of the bedrooms. As he stepped through the door into the room here, Mary turned and gasped at the sight of him. For a long moment, she merely gazed at him, frankly curious at his disarray. Then, lips tightening in obvious disapproval, she turned her back on him and moved away toward the dressing room. It was clear that if the maid were angry, then the mistress must be truly furious. Surely, Lizzie awaited him inside her room. She must be dressing. No, Mary would be with her. She might be bathing, he thought desperately as he opened the door. Yet even as he did so, he knew the room would lie empty. She had gone; his bright treasure had slipped away during the night that he had wallowed in hollow, worthless rage. His body jerked as if from a blow, his breath leaving him in a great helpless gust. He had done it. Like his father before him, he had given up his very heart for something without meaning. No, he was worse, for the duke had forfeited any love in trade for the land, the title, and the family name. He had thrown away his love for nothing but a black and empty wrath. No more light, no more kindness shining in this house of desolation. What Lizzie had brought to him, with her sweetness and her laughter, he had squandered. She had left before he had managed to kill it entirely. The pain threatened to engulf him. Perhaps she was right to go, he thought. Perhaps it was better No! She could not have gone far in one night. He would go after her, and; And let her go. But not before he told her he was wrong. Not before he told her that he loved her. It was imperative that she know that. Turning swiftly, he strode determinedly back to her chamber. "Mary!" he roared, bringing the maid popping out like a jack-in-the-box. "Where did she go?" To his utter astonishment, the tiny woman only gave him a mutinous glare and a good look at the back of her head. As she walked away from him, he shook off his surprise and stepped forward to grasp her by one arm. Bending low and gazing deeply into her eyes as she warily withdrew, he growled one word. "Where?" "To Bess!" The words burst from Mary in a breathless gasp, and she looked as if she wished she could swallow them right back. Bess! Wasn't Bess the healer friend whom Lizzie often talked about? The one who stayed near his country Alexander smiled and gave her a resounding kiss on the lips before setting her back on her feet. He had plenty of time then. On his horse, he could outrun her even after such a great lead.