Chapter 18 #2
“It’s your turn,” he said softly, tilting his head so that his eyes met hers again.
“To share a secret with me. The day we spoke about the painting on the wall, we both realized we were keeping secrets from one another. We agreed to keep them to ourselves, but now, I think it’s only right that you give me one in return. Tell me.”
Dorothy’s throat tightened again. She felt the electric tension of the moment, the closeness, the heat, the tension in his gaze that seemed to strip away her defenses.
She could feel the thrum of her own heartbeat against the rhythm of the dance, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
He was right. If she wanted to make the marriage work, the least she could do was be agreeable about some things. Although she hesitated, letting the words simmer on the tip of her tongue, unsure if she could actually voice them aloud, she decided it was best to be vulnerable for once.
“I… I have a fear,” she began softly, her voice barely above the hum of the orchestra.
“A fear I’ve carried for years, one I never dared admit to anyone.
” Her chest tightened as she continued, but Magnus remained quiet, his presence patient.
“It’s the reason I thought I would remain a spinster all my life.
I did not want to marry anyone. I thought I could not. ”
Her eyes flicked momentarily to the crowd in the room as she pressed on.
“My sisters, Emma and Cecilia, found love, real love. Marriages that seemed to overcome obstacles before they even began. I watched them, and I hoped—I dared hope—that I might find something like that too. A love that was all-encompassing, one where my heart would be treated as though it were the entire world.”
“But time passed,” she said, her voice faltering for a moment as a pang of bitterness crept in.
“The more I engaged in society, the more I realized… perhaps that was not for me. I tired of the endless conversations with gentlemen that led nowhere, the polite flirtation, the endless etiquette. It became exhausting. So over time, I began to feel… inadequate. That I would never live up to what my sisters had achieved, that I could never find happiness like theirs. The fear of failing grew so large that I thought it safer not to try at all.”
She swallowed, her pulse quickening. “It was easier to remain in the shadows, to keep to myself, than to risk disappointment, than to risk failing in front of the world, and before my sisters, whose lives seemed so complete. I convinced myself that by avoiding the chance altogether, I would at least not fail. I thought it was the only way I could live without shame.”
Dorothy finally lifted her eyes to meet his. “That’s my secret, Your Grace. My fear of failure. For some reason, the thought of not living up to my sisters always saddened me.”
His closeness unsettled her more than she could ever admit.
His hand at her back, his gaze steady and unflinching, the faint warmth of his breath near her cheek—it all left her feeling cornered, unable to retreat.
Her heart stumbled painfully against her ribs, and before she could stop herself, the words slipped out.
“What is it?” she whispered, her voice laced with both curiosity and a trace of defiance. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Magnus’s lips curved, faintly, almost imperceptibly.
“Because I just realized that you must hold your sisters in the highest reverence,” he said.
“It explains why you reacted so strongly when I insisted they address you with the respect due to your title. I see now that your bond with them is… central to you. Perhaps the most important thing of all.”
Dorothy blinked, startled at the perceptiveness in his words. Her throat tightened, but she managed, “And you… understand that?”
His expression did not shift, save for the faint hardening of his jaw as he held her gaze. “No,” he said at last, evenly. “I do not understand it. I did not have that kind of relationship with mine.”
Her breath caught, and instinct urged her to ask, to press about the sister she knew had once been, the one he never spoke of.
But she faltered. The shadow in his tone, the finality of his words, warned her that he was not ready to share more.
So instead, she lowered her eyes, choosing silence, though her heart ached with unspoken questions.
“It does not matter how others feel about you anymore,” Magnus said, his gaze fixed upon her. “Frankly, I don’t think it matters what anyone thinks of your achievements or failures. Opinions don’t quite matter.”
The statement startled her, and before she could think better of it, she let out a quiet, nervous laugh. “So, only my husband’s opinion matters now?” she teased.
But he did not smile. His hand at her back pressed more firmly, drawing her closer. “No. Only your opinion matters now.”
Magnus’s gaze did not waver. Her breath faltered. Heat flooded her cheeks, her blush impossible to contain. Her heart stumbled against her ribs again, and she could scarcely breathe, for the truth was plain. She had never felt so present, so exposed, as she did in that moment with him.
Then, as though he had plucked the very thought from her mind, his voice came low, almost gentle. “Would you like to go out for some air after this dance?”
Had he noticed the flush on her cheeks? The restless rise and fall of her chest? She prayed he had not, though some part of her knew he must have. Perhaps he thought her overwhelmed by the heat of the room or the crowd, or perhaps—though she dared not believe it—by him.
“Yes,” she said quickly, almost too quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I would like that very much.”
The words had scarcely left her lips when the music drew to its close. The final notes lingered in the air, delicate and fading, and she realized the moment had come to an end. Yet her heart was still pounding, the warmth in her cheeks refusing to subside.
Magnus’s hand loosened from her waist, though his presence still seemed to surround her. He inclined his head, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth, and for the briefest instant, she wondered if he, too, had felt the strange, breathless strain of the moment.
Dorothy and Magnus sat on a shaded alcove where two wrought-iron chairs were half-hidden beneath a trellis of climbing roses. Their petals brushed in the evening breeze, scattering sweetness over the secluded spot.
Dorothy smoothed her gown over her knees, her heart still unsettled from the dance.
For a moment, she watched Magnus, her mind heavy with the question that had been troubling her for weeks.
It sat at the tip of her tongue—the matter of an heir, the one duty that society whispered endlessly of, the one that shadowed every marriage of their kind.
She wanted to ask, truly she did, but her throat tightened. To say it aloud would mean admitting what it implied, that she thought of their union as more than an arrangement, that she had begun to wonder what it meant to be his wife in every sense. Her fingers knotted in her lap instead.
Magnus leaned back, his gaze sweeping the flowers before settling upon her with a thoughtful softness. For a moment, she thought he might tease her again, but instead, his tone was gentler.
“How is Eugenia faring?” he asked. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. Her speaking. Did she ask for anything? Is there something she longs for but does not say outright?”
Dorothy blinked, surprised by the direction of his concern. She had expected talk of the evening, of the dancing, perhaps even of her own nervousness, but instead, he was thinking of the little girl who had, in so short a time, come to mean so much to her.
“She is doing well,” Dorothy answered softly, folding her hands in her lap.
“Truly. She has not asked for much of anything. She is a clever child, Your Grace, very quick to learn and so very eager to please. Sometimes, I think she holds her tongue for fear of being a burden, but she is far more observant than most give her credit for.”
Magnus shifted slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, gaze intent but softened by an undercurrent of uncertainty.
“I do want to be closer to her,” he admitted at last, almost as though the words cost him something.
“Eugenia. I reckon you must have noticed that by now. She’s my responsibility, but more than that, I want her to know me, to trust me.
I’m not entirely sure how to begin to do that. ”
Dorothy felt a tug at her heart, seeing this rare vulnerability in him. For all his commanding presence, for all the way he filled a room with authority, here was a man who confessed he did not know how to bridge the distance between himself and a child he so dearly wanted to reach.
“You have already begun,” she assured him gently.
“You notice her. You have started to actually talk to her. I know that once we get back home, she will have questions lined up for you about the hyacinth and about her painting. She might have even finished her painting and just waiting to show it to you. But if you truly wish to grow closer, I have been considering something.”
His brows lifted slightly, intrigued. “Oh?”
Dorothy’s voice warmed as she leaned toward him.
“I was thinking we might set aside a day just for the three of us. A picnic in the garden, perhaps. We could spread a blanket beneath the trees, bring food, and play games—simple ones that would make her laugh. She adores being outdoors, and I believe she would love having your undivided attention.”
Magnus regarded her in silence for a moment, then a small smile curved his lips, almost boyish in its rare openness. He gave a low chuckle. “I cannot recall the last time I played any sort of game.”