Not Quite A Duke (Dukes' Club Book 6) (23 page)

He didn’t think they knew that he came to the cottage and gardened, but perhaps given the ease with which the coach had brought his wife to him, they did.

Perhaps everyone knew that when he disappeared for a time it wasn’t to be purely sinful, but to wallow in despair.

How demoralizing that was.

He loathed pity.

Pity was something he’d seen in the eyes of many for months after the death of his father.

If they’d known the truth, that pity would have only been deeper. He was damned glad they all thought he’d accidentally shot his father whilst hunting.

Far better than the truth.

Yes. Far better.

The last light of the evening was fading and, frankly, he wanted a bite to eat and a glass of wine.

Which meant he’d have to see her. To chance conversation.

Despite this, he did wish to see her. But he was concerned that too many hours in his plagued presence would cause her to depart, never to return.

Even so, he took his tools to the small shed behind the cottage, then headed into the kitchen.

As she had for the majority of the past three days, she sat at the large oak table, writing. Tonight, a delicious spread was before her.

She looked up with her goddess-like hazel eyes and said softly as she poured two glasses of wine, “I thought you’d be hungry.”

“I am.”

“Good,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’ve eaten. Now, I must go back to my work. Do you mind if I write while you take your repast?”

She wasn’t going to push? Or pry? Still?

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she took up her wine glass with one hand and her quill with the other. Then as if he weren’t there at all, she bent over her manuscript and began to write.

The delightful sound of her pen scratching over parchment blended with the crackle of the fire.

He was finding that he loved that sound. It was as soothing and assuring as a lullaby.

He headed to the pump and sink beside the door and quickly washed.

The lack of conversation should have felt strange and, yet, he found the companionship welcome.

Carefully, he sat at the table and placed bread, meat, and cheese on his plate. As he ate, tasting little, he contemplated her.

She was still a goddess. Something powerful and otherworldly seemed to overtake her as she wrote. It was as if she disappeared though her body was still present.

It struck him as an honor that she was allowing him to be in her presence at such a time.

With each bite, he studied the lines of her face, the curve of her neck, the grace of her hands, her beautiful, still presence that felt as timeless and pure as an ancient river.

It filled him then. Love. Like water springing in a hidden pool. Love filled him. He didn’t worship her. He didn’t admire her. He didn’t simply enjoy her presence. He
loved
her.

In all his life, he’d never felt such love and it was such a strong contrast to the dark scar on his heart. How could light and dark all exist in him at once? But it did. He was dwelling in the mire of memory and yet he was full of love for his wife.

He should tell her the truth. About his father. After all, if there was one person who would understand, surely it was she. Her uncle had been down that same path that the old duke had done.

Yet, he couldn’t.

Patience was so very strong. He doubted she would look favorably on weakness. Weakness in an uncle or father? Of that, she would surely be sympathetic. But weakness in a husband?

His fiery angel surely needed a man without such faults.

And while he had his faults, she, at least, didn’t think him weak.

“Am I so very riveting?”

Charles sipped his wine, not looking away. Refusing to be ashamed of admiring her, of loving her. “You are.”

She leaned back, raised her arms, and stretched. “You say it so passionately, Charles, that I almost believe you.”

His heart sank. Did she think so little of herself? “I wish you would.”

Patience took up her own wine, and turned towards him fully. “I must tell you something. I’ve been avoiding it but I cannot now any longer.”

Charles’ innards twisted. Such serious conversation couldn’t bode well. Had she traveled all the way to the country to break with him? To tell him that she wished them to have separate lives in their marriage? For she’d certainly been acting thusly in London.

God, it felt such a gaping chasm, he thought.

She drew in a long breath. “I’ve been a dreadful coward.”

Coward? He sat up straighter. “I can’t imagine you ever being such a thing.”

She laughed nervously. “Oh, I have. A terrible one.”

“What cowardly secret could you have?” He couldn’t believe it. Patience? A coward? And the moon was made of cheese.

“I have been. . . I’ve been avoiding you since right after our marriage.”

“On purpose?” he questioned.

She nodded then took a large swallow of the deep red-colored wine. “I confess it.” 

“Am I such unpleasant company?” he teased, though he felt dread. “I can change, if it pleases you. I can try.”

For just an instant, he could have sworn tears sparkled in her eyes.

“Oh Charles, you mustn’t change. Not in essentials. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

The best people? “Then why have you been avoiding me? I was beginning to think you found me boring.”

A laugh, warm and rich, rolled from her. “Boring? Oh my. What we have been secretly fearing, the two of us. Charles, I have been avoiding you because I like you.”

His brow furrowed. “That makes no sense at all.”

“Perverse,” she agreed. “And it’s worse still.”

“Why?” he asked, genuinely shocked by her confession.

“Because. . . Because, I don’t just like you.”

“No?” He found himself almost holding his breath as he waited for her imminent revelation.

She studied her glass of wine for several moments then lifted her stunning gaze to his. “Charles, I love you.”

The whole world seemed to expand and contract around him as she said those incredible words. “Patience, you can’t possibly mean it.”

“Did you mean it when you called me divine?” she challenged softly. “Or insisted I’m riveting?”

“I did.”

She leaned forward. “Then you must believe that I love you.”

He blinked. Stunned. Trying to take it in. He’d been feeling so low and now? Now, it was as if he’d been drowning and gotten a good breath of air. He still felt lost but it was as if a lifeline had suddenly been thrown his way. “When?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I didn’t even know myself until last night. I’ve been such a fool. I was so afraid of losing you. Of you growing tired of me that I determined to sparkle and attend every gathering I could. I refused to be a burden to you. . . Or someone who liked to stay at home and sit by the fire.”

That last sentence struck him. Because, in truth, he spent a great deal of time by himself. “And do you?”

“What?”

“Like to stay at home and sit by the fire?” he repeated for her.

She cradled her wine glass, her face paling before she squared her shoulders. “I must admit I do. Oh, I shouldn’t like to gather dust, but I find the great round of
ton
parties to be. . . Uninspiring. I’d like to go to some of them and to continue my research and work with the Duchess of Roth but, frankly, I love the quiet, too, and the sound of my pen scratching along paper. And I should like to spend more time with you.”

She paused then said, “Just you, if you’re amenable.”

Just him?
She wanted to be with
just him?
Those two simple words filled him with such hope he could barely comprehend it. 

She loved him? It seemed impossible. How could he be worthy of her love? And that last thought sent his hope falling.

Love couldn’t save him. He knew that. Love hadn’t saved his father, but lies would condemn him to hell. Of that, he felt certain. His father had kept secrets. He had not talked of his pain and that had led to pure tragedy.

He wouldn’t let that tragedy befall him.

So, in that moment, he resigned himself to the truth. No matter how hard it was, he had to tell her. “Before you commit yourself so fully—“

“Charles, I cannot take back what I’ve said,” she pointed out.

“No, but. . . You’re not the only one who has been a coward.”

A look of acceptance crossed her face and it pained him but there was no helping it.

“You know about my black moods,” he began.

“I do.”

“They only started after my father’s death,” he said flatly, desperate to keep the pain somewhat at bay. “My father suffered from them, too.”

She nodded her head, encouraging him to continue.

He’d never said these words and he found that they were gathering in his throat like a great deluge finally freed by a dam that had broken. “I didn’t shoot my father. I didn’t accidentally take his life. I couldn’t tell Mother. I couldn’t tell any of them. I couldn’t tell.”

He swallowed in a great gasp of air. He had to get this out. He had to tell someone. No, not just someone. Patience. His Patience. “You see, that day I knew something was amiss. He’d been in as black a spell as any, talking much of my brother that drowned. I followed him from the house, out to the forest. I thought, perhaps, he just wished to be alone, but he walked with such purpose. Purpose he hadn’t had in weeks. And just that morning he had taken my hand and told me I was a fine fellow and that he loved me.”

The words rushed out, uncontrollable, unstoppable now. “I followed him deep into the woods. I followed him but not fast enough. I couldn’t stop him as he stopped beneath a great oak tree, pulled a primed pistol from his pocket and shot himself. He took his own life. I didn’t understand why right there. Why under the oak tree? I quietly approached, unable to believe he’d blown his brains out and then there, on the tree, I saw it. The name of my eldest brother carved into the bark. He must have done it as a boy, as boys so often do.”

His voice broke then. “I-I don’t know why I didn’t call out to my father. Why didn’t I shout,
Father
! And ever since. . .”  Charles gasped for air. Good God, he was drowning in the memory. In the grief he had swallowed.

But then, Patience’s arms were around him, rocking him. Her lips pressed to his temple and she crooned softly. “I love you, Charles, I love you. I’m here,” she said in an unending litany while he wept.

Wept for his eldest brother and the father he couldn’t save. He wept for the man who had never been able to recover from his heir’s death and chosen death over his family. . . Over him.

And at long last, he gazed up into her hazel eyes and realized that his goddess was a woman. His woman. And she was there for him. And accepted him. “I love you, too, Patience,” he whispered.

She caressed his face, tilted it up, then brushed his hair back from his face. “I’ve never met a man as strong as you. As kind as you. For all your sardonic surface, you are the wounded one, Charles. You’ve carried this burden on your own and I’m so glad you’re letting me help you carry it now.”

“Is that what I’ve done?” he whispered, unable to believe the words she was uttering. Kind. Wounded. Strong. Was that him? As he gazed into her eyes, he could believe it.

“How did I deserve to meet you, Patience?”

“We met each other out of sorrow. And now, we’re healing each other. Now, we can choose love not pain. Now, we can choose new paths.”

He pulled her down against him, slid his hand into her soft curls and took her mouth in the slowest, most loving kiss. Exchanging soft breaths and the touch of their lips, their tongues tangled.

As if two separate halves had finally come together and found wholeness, Charles slid her skirts up her legs and brought her down to straddle his lap. For long moments, they kissed in the firelight. Doing nothing but drinking each other in, their bodies melding as their hearts and souls found freedom from fear.

His heart completely exposed now, he leaned back and asked, “But what if. . . What if the darkness doesn’t go away?”

At that, she locked gazes with him, her hair falling about her face. She cupped his face in her hands “Then we shine a light on it, we wait for it to pass, but we know that it will pass because we have each other. Because now we’ve both been brave enough to bare our souls to each other, we will always be there for each other. I will hold your hand through the dark times, Charles, and you will hold mine. And we will trust each other because we know each other as no one else ever could.”

“I do know you, Patience,” he replied, full of wonder. “I’ve seen your heart and your soul and I still can’t believe you love me.”

“Then believe it, you silly, wonderful man,” she said, a smile warming her countenance. “I love you. I love you for seeing me that day we met, for knowing I was more. You saw beneath my disguise and you admired me.”

“Admired you? I thought you a goddess,” he countered, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Well, I am just a woman, Charles.”

“
Just
?” he scoffed before he gently stroked his hands up her back and brought her lips close to his.

“Never just, my darling, Patience,” he whispered. “You are the sun, the moon, the stars. You are my world.”

“I am yours. . . And you are mine.”

“Yes, my love, oh yes,” he replied before he sealed his words with a perfect kiss.

Epilogue

2 Years Later

Full summer sunshine shone down on the terrace just outside the beautiful manor house near the river Avon. Swans floated by majestically.

The scent of wisteria wafted through the air, the purple blooms climbed the bower over Charles and Patience’s head.

She smiled a contented smile, her head in Charles’ lap as she gazed up at the amethyst-colored flowers.

They’d purchased the house almost two years ago, when she and Charles had decided they needed a nook for themselves, a place to go away from the world.

Oh, it didn’t mean that his family and The Duchesses and their husbands didn’t pop over for long visits with their children. She adored the sound of little babies laughing as they toddled over the groomed lawn.