“My point was only to enhance the—"
“I’m barren!” Color was high in her cheeks. She blinked as glossy wetness filled her eyes.
He scooted forward, his knees bumping her chair. “That doesn’t matter. I want to be with you. Isn’t that enough?”
She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her shawl. “You can’t mean that. You’re the Duke of Richland. The very design of this house party has been to find your duchess.”
He could argue a different point. Oh, she had one facet correct: the guests, the week-long entertainments were meant to find him a wife, but today…tonight shed new light on a dark, dark year. What if the true motive of his heart was to restore Richland? To fill it with love and happiness however such a gift might come?
Was the greater thing progeny? Or love?
He knew how he’d answer, but marriage was an equation with two hearts and minds.
Mrs. Chatham was prickly. “Don’t you understand? I can’t give you children. If you pursue this—this passion between us, you’d be leg shackled to me.”
He grinned. “I could use a good leg shackling. If it’s with you.”
Her jaw dropped. “This is not a light-hearted matter.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have ventured the leg-shackling quip.
“Mrs. Chath—"
“You must go. Now.” Her trembling voice brooked no disagreement.
His inborn stillness cracked. The heels of his hands dug into his thighs. None of this was going as planned. He was raised to give the utmost respect to women. He wanted to persuade her against her angry demand, but wisdom whispered otherwise.
Retreat was in order. He’d regroup and reassess how to fully win her heart.
Wearily, he pushed up off the fragile chair and returned it to its rightful place at the escritoire. The soles of his shoes scraped the floor from leaden footsteps. He made his way to the door and tarried there, bitter disappointment washing over him. He wouldn’t be the one to dry her tears tonight. But he was determined. They would have more nights together. Of that he was certain.
Before he closed the door, he faced the stubborn woman who would someday be his duchess. He was quite certain no other dukes had to work this hard to gain their duchesses. He’d take this as further proof of the widow’s worth: her refusal came from a wish to protect him, albeit misguided. Her valiant effort made her all the more endearing.
She wiped another tear, managing to be fierce and soft while sniffling in her chair. “Why do you linger in my doorway, Your Grace?”
“Because I must own that my poor choice of humor caused you pain. I will carry that with me for the rest of my life. I hope someday you will forgive me.”
“It’s done.” Chin to chest, she plucked a loose thread on the chair’s upholstered arm.
A million stars winked encouragement at him through the dormer window. Those heavenly bodies had witnessed centuries of lovers in turmoil. No doubt they’d preside over many more.
“There is something else…if you’ll allow…”
“This is your home,” she said peevishly. “I can hardly toss you out.”
A giant hand could be squeezing his heart. His fingertips whitened from their staying grip on the door. He’d failed her this night, a lesson to harbor for the future.
He took a labored breath and gentled his voice. “I think you’ve forgotten that there is more to Pandora’s tale. All translations end on a similar note. After the badness fled, there was one thing left.”
Her spine was off the back rest. She dabbed her nose with a kerchief and slipped one foot, then the other into her shoes. “I can’t recall what it is, but I’ve no doubt you’ll supply me with the answer.” Hands resting primly on her knees, she met his gaze and waited.
“Hope.”
Chapter 8
He sunk onto his bed and fell back onto a sea of the finest cotton money could buy. Mrs. Staveley and a battalion of chamber maids had prepared his bed for warmer weather: a fluffy summer counterpane, lighter draperies to shut around his bed, and the downiest pillows.
Restorative sleep was what he needed. He tore off the piratical patch and flung it to the floor. His eyes grained. He rubbed them, the good one and the cloudy blind one too. On occasion, when he caught his uncovered visage in a mirror, he’d fancy himself a villain in a gothic novel. The medieval-looking scar, an ugly jagged line, was just as frightening as his whitish eye.
Mrs. Chatham’s ardor had never changed. Lust between them had sizzled hotly before the accident when he was a whole second son, and it crackled like wildfire even though he was a damaged man.
The widow had deep, unseen wounds of her own. She’d masked them well. Wasn’t it time for her to let them go? Dare he suggest such a thing?
He wanted a life with Mrs. Chatham. To build and love, to heal and grow.
He smiled at the plum canopy overhead. Only a gardener would know how to fill the holes in his heart…humor for a more opportune time.
Stretching on his bed, the tips of his fingers grazed something stiff and crinkly on his pillow. He picked it up and held a neat square to the light. Foolscap. Folded in quarters. The slanted penmanship familiar to him.
“Mrs. Chatham. Leaving missives on my pillow, are you?”
Legs dangling over the bed, he opened the letter and read it with her knowing, sensual voice flooding his ears.
Richland Hall, Friday evening
May 23, 1788
* * *
My Lord Duke,
You’ve done me a great honor with your kind letter. There is no need to offer thanks. I am glad the oil of amber treatment agrees with you. You are possessed of an otherwise healthy constitution. Steady exercise and regular application should solve your aches.
He chuckled to himself. “Why Mrs. Chatham, you’re just as bland as Doctor Mimsby.”
He put his attention back on the staid missive. There was a break in the text and two ink blobs before the widow continued.
I’d be remiss if I failed to mention our kiss. There was something exalted and heavenly in our embrace. No man has ever kissed me like that. I can’t imagine another could (don’t let your head swell with such fine praise). As I write this note, I’m picturing your male satisfaction at having pleasured me so.
He gripped the paper with an air of possession. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
He’d earned an underlined word and high praise for giving the best kiss to the woman who made his heart sing. Of course, he was peacocking.
The minx.
Ideas were flowing. Seductions were forming. He’d have her again, and again, and again.
Another ink spot marred the foolscap. What a messy letter writer she was. He touched the surface lovingly, finding the outline of a stain. Wetness. A tear, he was sure. He scanned the remaining lines for the source of her weepiness.
Your Grace, this day with you will be with me forever. I will cherish it, but please know I will not infringe on your happiness. I will remove myself a suitable distance in another district.
We must do what is right. Your mother wants a proper marriage for you. I’m most certain your late father would too.
* * *
Yours in the deepest affection,
Mrs. Charlotte Chatham
P.S. Please burn this letter.
Burn the letter? Never. He’d memorialize it and read it when he was long in the tooth. Folding the tender missive back into neat fourths, he acknowledged a vexing point: the dowager.
What was he going to say to her?
Chapter 9
Carriages rattled steadily, lines of them. In the distance, clouds of dust billowed on one particularly dry, eastern road. He let go of the high, sweeping curtains and took a seat at the round table where his half-eaten breakfast waited to be finished. The ever-vigilant Thomas attended his private meal. The footman’s back was to the window overlooking the south lawn where his brothers escorted Lady Jacintha, her sister, and mother on a late morning. The merry troop a
ppeared to set out toward his newest folly, a recreation of a ruined Roman fortress.
There was much to decide today—and after seeing the earl’s daughter—a bit of strategy to plan too.
He speared his fork into a coddled egg when his mother nipped into his sitting room.
“Thomas, please arrange a carriage to take Mrs. Chatham home.” She paused, checking the brass mantle clock. “Have it ready for her in the next hour. She’s a bit peckish this morning and moving rather slowly.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” White glove on his midsection, the footman executed a perfect bow. “I’ll attend it now.”
“Please do,” she said, arraying herself on the settee. The dowager cleared her throat while fussing with yellow silk skirts. The rustle was distinct, concise with an I’ve got things to say to you air about them.
A wise son, he would listen. He swallowed his last bite and turned his attention to the settee. Pleasantries were in order.
“Good morning, mother.” He motioned to the chair facing him. “Care to join me?”
“Good morning, and no, I have already broken my fast, though my appetite was a bit off because I had to use much of the morning explaining your sudden departure from the ball last night.” She tipped her head and pearl earbobs slanted elegantly. “You remember. The ball in your honor.”
A line was being drawn this day in their shifting relationship. She would forever be his mother, deeply loved and much admired, but he’d not be managed.
“Everyone seemed to enjoy the evening, and my presence was not required.” He set his fork on his plate and dabbed his mouth with the serviette. “My choice for duchess has been made.”
“Oh? Has Lady Jacintha won the honor? You didn’t dance with her.”
“No. I didn’t. Yet she’s gamboling on our south lawn with my brothers as we speak.”
Hyphen-thin brows arched. “What else could I do, but invite her and her family to stay? Your name was on her dance card.”
He put some space between himself and the table. “How did it get there?”
“I don’t know.” The dowager’s feigned innocence was terribly obvious.
“Mother…”
“I had to do something. Of all the young ladies, you favored Lady Jacintha. You spoke to her the most.” Manicured fingers drummed the settee’s back rest. “Though you ogled Mrs. Chatham at every turn.”
“Ogled?”
“That is how I would describe it.”
He checked his desk where another missive for the widow awaited delivery. A new appreciation for correspondence was forming. With Mrs. Chatham as his recipient, the chore was fun. Hadn’t she pointed out his need for more fun? He’d risen early and labored over three drafts before perfecting his message in this latest edition.
The balled-up rejections sat in the hearth. The dowager followed his sightline to those half-burned offerings, eyeing them keenly when she asked, “What are your intentions with her?”
He stilled as a poacher would when caught by a sheriff. Excess warmth gathered under the knotted neck cloth Simms had perfected. He was tempted to run a finger between its tightness and his skin.
“You speak of Mrs. Chatham.”
“Are we discussing anyone else?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to mention Lady Jacintha, but his mother was testy this morning. If she didn’t want to discuss the earl’s daughter, he saw no need to encourage that conversation. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself. The topic of their neighbor would be tetchy enough.
“I’m assuming her remedy worked?” Azure eyes speared him. The dowager was hunting for information. Did she suspect more had happened?
“As you witnessed last night eve. My stride was fluid.”
She nodded thoughtfully, her scanty brows pressing together. She searched the room from her grand perch as if the walls and furniture would speak. He was blessedly thankful they couldn’t.
Pushing upright, he dropped the serviette on his plate. “There is something I need to tell you.” Hands clasped behind his back, he paced a line to the mantle. “I have developed deep affections for Mrs. Chatham.”
The dowager’s head turned sharply toward him. Faintly painted lips firmed.
He and the widow had voiced their attraction in this room and sealed it with a kiss. In for a penny, in for a pound. There was no turning back…and how relieved he was in setting his course.
“I am going to ask her to marry me.” He’d tried last night and failed. His mother didn’t need that detail.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
She sighed a great gust of air. “Finally.”
For the second time that morning, he couldn’t move. Both times, his mother was the source of his befuddlement. She popped off the settee with startling energy and bestowed a relieved smile on him.
“I was worried you were considering asking her to be your mistress.”
“Mother!” he gasped.
“I don’t mean to be indelicate—”
“Then don’t be.” His stern tone earned a healthy pause.
The dowager was subdued, folding her hands together, wringing them ever so slightly. “Charlotte is my friend,” she said quietly. “Her good nature saved me more times than I can count.” The hand wringing slowed, and when his mother looked at him, light showed her age. Hurt etched the sides of her mouth and skin beneath her eyes. “I’ve known for a long time the two of you harbored an attraction for each other.”
“You have?”
The dowager rolled her eyes. Would wonders never cease?
“Give me some credit, my dear.” How sagacious, his mother. She smiled blandly at him with the tolerance one would give a dull pupil.
“Then you support my marrying her even though she’s…” He let his words trail because it was his turn to avoid being indelicate.
“I support your decision with all my heart. She will be exactly what Richland Hall needs. Her joy. Her laughter.” Hands fluttering, she tittered softly. “I can’t think of a better pairing of two souls. Opposite in many ways, yet a perfect, perfect fit in character and temperament.”
“You say this despite the fact she can’t…” He considered the carpet. Last night’s learned lesson was to speak the truth, and do it he would—as delicately as possible. “Despite the fact that she may never bear a child.”
“I have three more sons to carry on the Richland name.” A contemplative shadow flitted across her face. “This past year taught me that we must seize happiness because what we hold dear can be taken from us in the blink of an eye.”
The room was brighter for the honesty shared. It was a gift, adding dimension to their love. He strolled to his desk, plucked the folded letter from a mass of papers, and held it over his heart. Laughing gently for the sheer joy of it, he acknowledged another truth: love was softening him.
“You’ll have some convincing to do,” his mother said behind him. “A woman who can’t have a child carries a unique wound.”
“I know.” He’d love Charlotte Chatham through her trials as he suspected she’d love him through his.
Beyond the bank of imperious windows lining his wall, he spied his brothers emerging from the woods. They must already have finished their jaunt to the Roman folly. Their affection and brotherly camaraderie were dear to him. It was his place to lead their family now, and he’d do that by demonstrating love and fidelity.
Tucking the missive into his coat pocket, he was ready. It was time to launch the charge and win Mrs. Chatham’s heart once and for all.
Chapter 10
Her maid refolded a yellow underskirt for the third time. It was irksome because Malmsey had been with her for years and was the soul of efficiency.
She tapped her quill to her chin with the steadiness of a clock. Daylight washed over her latest unfortunate task: a list.
Villages had been written down, scratched off, and re-listed again…each one a possible new home.
When the grumbling maid removed a go
wn yet again, she had to ask, “Are you unwell, Malmsey?”
“No ma’am.” She turned the hem over, inspecting it with pursed lips.
“Then why so slow this morning?”
The maid ducked into the chest, her voice a muffled, “I didn’t know you were in rush to be gone, ma’am. You and the dowager get on so well. I thought you’d want to stay a bit longer.” Curious eyes peeked at her from a froth of skirts. “Maybe you’d want to see the duke again.”
Her quill-tapping stopped, and an odd tingle invaded her. The maid conspired to keep her in Richland Hall. Why? She’d not ventured from her chamber, but when she did it’d be to leave this fine estate and hunker down in Butterfly Cottage. She’d throw herself into gardening, find healing for the time being. She snorted. Maybe she’d give garden planning a try. Anything not to think of him.
Because the Duke of Richland would not be part of her future.
She could only guess she wasn’t in his. Not after last night’s uncomfortable dismissal. She’d paid for it with long, achy sobs and poor sleep. His last word about hope was far too cryptic.
Did he wish for a congenial parting? She was his neighbor and his mother’s friend.
That had to be it.
Smiling blandly, she looked out the window. From the third floor on a clear day, one could see the ocean spreading wide and blue in the distance. Perhaps a walk there would assuage the pain?
“No,” she said. “I won’t see the duke again.”
“Ever? That’s a bit hard, ma’am. He is your neighbor.” Mamlsey was, if anything, persistent.
“I’m sure the duke will be very busy soon.”
Neighbor’s could be avoided if one put some thought into it. Acknowledging that fact widened the void which had camped around her since last night. For two years she’d made a concerted effort to be in the duke’s vicinity, though never alone. It was always enough to fuel their attraction, yet not push them over impropriety’s cliff.
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