Chapter 7
Two days later…
Margaret woke to the sound of someone moving downstairs.
She lay still, listening. Darkness pressed against her window. Too early for dawn.
Her heart kicked when she recalled everything that had happened in a week. She threw off the covers and reached for her wrapper, tied it hastily as she hurried down the stairs, bare feet silent on worn floorboards.
Candlelight warmed the kitchen, turning the worn table and plain crockery into something almost gentle. And there—standing at her stove, still in his shirtsleeves, waistcoat unbuttoned, hair thoroughly mussed—was Henry.
Making tea.
Margaret stopped in the doorway. Unable to move. Unable to speak. A duke. In her humble kitchen. Making tea, as if this were normal, as if he belonged here.
The scandal… oh why bother? It was out now…
He turned, and his eyes found hers. Something warm flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or gladness.
“Margaret. I didn’t mean to wake you. They came to tell me that all’s been arranged to take Mr. Foley to London.
Dr. Fernando has a bed at Cloverdale House, the rehabilitation center.
” His voice was rough. Tired. Beautiful.
“Is Mr. Foley—” The fear clawed up her throat.
“He’s fine. Sleeping peacefully. Matthew’s with him.” Henry gestured to the kettle. Steam curling from the spout. “I thought you might want tea when you came down. I always do.”
Her throat tightened. He’d noticed. Of course, he had.
He’d been here every night for the past two days, sitting vigil outside Mr. Foley’s door, trading shifts with her and Matthew so they could sleep.
During the day, he’d helped her siblings carry the old man downstairs.
Cut firewood. Made broth. He never complained or acted like any of it was beneath him.
And every morning, she found him here. In her kitchen. Making tea. Setting out bread and butter for breakfast. As if this cramped cottage with its threadbare curtains and patched chairs was exactly where a duke belonged at dawn.
“You didn’t have to stay.” Her voice came out softer than she meant it to.
“I know.” He poured hot water into the pot with careful precision. “But I wanted to.”
She stepped into the kitchen, the flagstones cold against her bare feet. She should have put on slippers and pinned up her hair. Should have made herself presentable instead of appearing in her nightclothes with her hair loose around her shoulders.
Too late now.
Henry’s gaze dropped. Caught on her bare feet. Traveled slowly up to her face. His jaw clenched.
Heat flooded her cheeks and pooled again lower.
“Please sit.” His voice had gone rougher. “You’ll catch cold.”
She sat at the small table and pulled her wrapper tighter as if fabric could protect her from the ravenous way he was looking at her. This was beyond scandal and propriety, yet it felt so right that she couldn’t care less.
He brought two cups and gently set one in front of her. Then he took the chair across from her. Not beside her or at a proper distance, but directly across, close enough that their knees almost touched under the table.
The candlelight flickered across his face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and making him look less like a duke and more like Henry. Just her Henry. The man who’d sat beside her in the dark and held her hand while she tried not to fall apart.
“How is he truly?” she asked.
“Better. Much better. The doctor was right—he’s gaining strength every day. His arm is improving. He managed to hold a spoon at supper last night.”
Relief crashed through her. She pressed a hand to her chest. “I was so afraid—”
“I know.” His hand covered hers on the table. Warm. Steady. "But he's going to be alright. You got him through the worst of it, and soon, he'll be well enough to rest properly."
“We got him through it.”
His eyes held hers. “We did.”
The word hung there. We.
Margaret pulled back her hand and wrapped both around her teacup. “We need to talk about the scandal.”
Henry went still. “What scandal?” He raised a brow and inclined his head.
She nearly laughed out loud. “Don’t.” She met his eyes. “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. You’ve spent two days and nights living in my home. Half of England knows by now.”
“I don’t care what England knows.”
“You should.” Her voice came out sharper than she meant. “Lady Thornby caught us kissing. Then you raced here and stayed. For days. People are talking, Henry. They’re saying—” She stopped. Swallowed. “They’re saying terrible things.”
“About you?”
“About both of us. But mostly me.” She set down her cup, hands shaking. “They’ll call me your mistress. Or worse. Say I trapped you. That I’m a scheming widow who set her cap at a duke.”
His jaw clenched. “That’s vicious, foolish, and altogether wrong.”
“Is it?” She laughed. Bitter. “I was caught alone with you. Twice. You’ve been living in my cottage. What else are people supposed to think?”
“That I care about you. That you needed help and I provided it.”
“That’s not how society works.” She stood. “You’re a duke. You could have sent servants. Sent money. Sent anyone but yourself. Instead you stayed. You made tea and carried firewood and—” Her voice cracked. “You ruined us both.”
“Margaret—”
“Oh, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not blaming you.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m just stating facts. My reputation is shredded. Again. And this time it’s my own fault because I knew better. I knew what would happen if we were caught, but I let it happen anyway because I wanted—”
She stopped. Couldn’t say it.
“Because you wanted what?” His voice was quiet. Careful.
“You.” The word came out broken. “I wanted you. Which was foolish and selfish and—”
He was across the kitchen before she could finish. His hands on her shoulders. Gentle but firm. “Look at me.”
She couldn’t. If she looked at him, she’d fall apart completely.
“Margaret. Please.”
She looked up.
His eyes blazed with something that tightened her chest. “You didn’t ruin anything. And neither did I. What happened this week was a choice. My choice. To be here with you.”
“But the scandal—”
“Needs to be addressed. Quickly.” His jaw set. “Which is why I should get a special license.”
Her stomach dropped. “Henry—”
“Wait. Before you argue, listen.” His hands slid from her shoulders to frame her face. “I’m not proposing out of obligation. But we both know the gossip won’t stop. Lady Thornby has made certain of that, and it will affect the prospects of your younger sisters. So here’s what I’m thinking.”
She waited, heart hammering.
“Mr. Foley is going to Cloverdale House in London for recovery, which means you and your siblings will need to be in London to visit him and be close during his treatment.”
“We can’t afford lodging in London—”
“I have a townhouse. Empty. Fully staffed. You and your siblings can stay there. I’ve never used it and it’s there.”
“Henry, that’s not proper—”
“Neither is having spent two days in your cottage.” His mouth quirked. “We’re past proper, Margaret. Now we’re managing scandal. And the best way to manage it is to show everyone this is a courtship, not an affair.”
She stared at him. “A courtship.”
“Yes. You stay in my London house—properly chaperoned, your siblings with you. I court you openly. Flowers. Calls. Drives in the park. All the tedious formality society demands.” His thumbs brushed her cheekbones.
“And while I’m courting you, we get to know each other.
Outside of crisis. In normal circumstances. ”
“And the special license?”
“Insurance.” His voice went quiet. “If at the end of a few weeks—after proper courtship—you decide you want to marry me, we can do so without waiting for banns. Without further scandal. But Margaret”—he leaned his forehead against hers—“The license doesn’t mean you have to marry me.
It just means the option is there if you want it. ”
Her breath caught. “You’d get a license without a firm yes?”
“I’d do anything to protect you from more gossip.
And if that means securing a license we never use because you decide I’m insufferable after two weeks of courtship…
” He smiled wryly. "Then at least I tried.
I'd never forgive myself if I didn't try to make a woman like you my duchess. My wife. I may be new to being a duke, but I'm not an idiot and this is not a fool's love. I’ve never met a woman like you and if you’ll allow it, I’d like to protect you with all I have and all of me.”
“That’s a lot of money to waste.”
“It’s not wasted if it gives you a choice.
” His eyes searched hers. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?
You’re terrified of being trapped again.
Of having no say. So I’m giving you every say.
You stay in London. I court you. Properly.
And at the end—when you’ve seen me in my world, when you know this is real—you decide.
Marry me or don’t. The choice is yours.”
Tears spilled over. “Henry—”
“I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said simply. “I know it’s fast. I know it makes no sense. But I do love you, and I’m willing to wait for you to believe it. To feel it. To choose me.”
“What if I don’t? What if at the end of all this, I—”
“Then I’ll survive.” He brushed her forehead with his lips. “I’ll be heartbroken, but I’ll survive. And you’ll be free. With your reputation intact. With your father-in-law recovering in the best facility in London and your siblings cared for. That matters more than whether you choose me.”
She couldn’t speak, much less breathe.
“So.” He pulled back just enough to see her face. “Will you come to London? Let me court you properly? Give me a few weeks to prove this is real?”
“And if none of this works?”
“Then I’ll accept that but only after we tried.” His voice was steady despite the pain in his eyes. “I’ll make sure Mr. Foley’s care continues. I’ll—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I’ll let you go. If that’s what you need.”
She stared at this man who’d upended her life, who’d spent a week carrying firewood and making tea and loving her family as if they were his own, who was offering her everything and asking for nothing except time.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His breath left him in a rush. “Yes?”
“Yes. I’ll come to London. I’ll let you court me. I’ll”—she gripped his wrists—“I’ll give us both time to be certain this is real.”
He kissed her then. Deep and desperate and full of promise.
When he pulled back, they were both shaking.
“I should go,” he managed. “I’ll send word and a carriage when everything’s arranged. The townhouse. Mr. Foley’s transfer to Cloverdale House. All of it.”
“Henry?”
He paused at the door. Looked back.
“Thank you for giving me a choice. For not forcing this. For—” Her voice broke. “For everything.”
He smiled. Sad and hopeful and so full of love it made her chest ache.
Then he was gone.
Henry stood on her front step in the pre-dawn darkness, heart hammering, hands shaking.
She’d said yes. Not to marriage yet, but to London and courtship. To giving them time. That was enough. It had to be enough, even though he wanted her with the ferocity of a wild animal.
But the alternative—forcing her into another marriage she didn’t choose—was unthinkable, so he’d court her properly and publicly. He’d show her his world and let her siblings see his home. Give her every opportunity to decide this was a terrible idea.
And if at the end she chose him anyway? Then he’d know it was forever. They’d both know.
He walked toward his waiting carriage, already composing the letters he’d need to write to make arrangements: prepare the townhouse, coordinate with Dr. Fernando, secure the special license—just in case.
Hopefully.
The sky was lightening, dawn breaking over the shabby street. Margaret was in her kitchen, probably crying, definitely doubting, but she’d said yes to London, and Henry had never been more determined to prove himself worthy of anything in his life.
Henry climbed into his carriage and gave the driver directions back to his estate. As the horses pulled away, he looked back one last time at her window. A candle flickered in her kitchen. She was still there, still awake, still thinking about him.
He smiled despite the ache in his chest.
A few weeks. He could wait. He would wait.
For her.