Chapter 21
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Carlyle met him in the round entry room. Frederic’s valise glinted off the tile as he passed it to him.
“Did Lord Grandon get away on time?” He slipped off his gloves. “I had a message from Earl Harding while on the way, saying they expected his arrival.”
Carlyle bowed.
“Lord Philip left yesterday, Your Grace. Jenkins accompanied him as you requested. They should arrive in Nottingham sometime today.”
Good. All was as it should be, then. It had been against his better judgement, at first, but Philip had begged so hard for a holiday that he had at last relented.
He was to spend six weeks with Earl Harding and his sons with whom they had become particularly intimate last summer.
Frederic slipped off his gloves and turned to toss them onto a side table.
“And Caroline?”
Carlyle hesitated. Frederic’s concern, which had been only casual and habitual, focused on the old servant’s silence.
“Is she well?”
“Yes, of course, Your Grace. She has been—-a little out of sorts.”
Frederic folded his arms.
“Explain.”
Carlyle licked his lips.
“It’s nothing unusual, it appears—she has—she has been taken with headaches of late, that is all, and has spent appropriate time recuperating in her quarters.”
That sounded normal enough. Headaches were common in certain seasons, he had heard—especially when certain flowers or shrubs bloomed, according to the gardener. But why did Carlyle look so—awkward? Regretful, even.
“Anything else?”
Carlyle lowered his eyes.
“No, sir.”
Frederic dismissed him and sighed. His concerns had only been slightly assuaged, but that had been the case since—well, since the unnerving ball.
He rang the bell. He could use a sandwich tray or sweet roll. Where was Caroline? Perhaps she would like to share the tray with him. His heart fluttered. He could find her, perhaps, and ask her to join him. The thought filled him with unexpected buoyancy.
It had been that way—that distracted quick beat his heart seemed to tap whenever he smelled lavender, the scent she had worn that night.
At first, he had dismissed the turbulence in his feelings as a result of the ratafia or the evening’s disappointment.
With time, however, the full depth of his emerging regard had startled and even astounded him.
How had it happened? How had he changed from duty-bound husband to ardent admirer? He did not quite know himself.
The library was—unsurprisingly—empty. Caroline frequently carried her books off like a cat with small prey to some small, soft spot where she could devour them at her leisure. She did many things, actually, which he had begun to notice with increasing tenderness and appreciation.
He left the library and stepped into the hall. Perhaps she was in the sitting room, the one where she had first agreed to go to the ball as his wife and partner. Frederic turned his steps there.
After that ball, something had been—different.
His thoughts floated to whatever part of the house she haunted at the moment, and his ears itched to hear the sound of her feet.
He felt more arduously the responsibility of his daily calls and business arrangements, and he longed for the opportunity to smile across the table at her once he arrived home again.
It felt so easy, so natural, that he thought she must comment at least, but she said nothing. Not a word. Not a syllable out of place or even slightly above what he would call platonic interest and consideration.
The dining room, too, was empty. Frederic frowned, a little irked.
His hopes wavered but weren’t quite dashed.
He could ask, of course, if she was about the house.
She could be out on her own visits, to be sure, and might not be available at all until her return.
He sat down in the sitting room chair and rang the bell.
One of the housemaids entered and curtsied.
“You rang, Your Grace?”
“Where is the lady of the house?”
“The duchess went out of doors but a half hour ago, Your Grace. She said something about taking some flowers.”
Ah! Of course. Frederic sprang from the chair and headed toward the side door. It opened onto the side lawn, and he would have easy access to the grounds from there.
She, it must be admitted, did not seem to be affected by the same feelings that had seemed to grow in him.
They had agreed, after all, to subsist only as committed but otherwise amiably indifferent acquaintances.
Perhaps—it was altogether possible she did not think as highly of him as he was coming to think of her.
Each day, however, stretched longer on his mind. He ached for something—a closeness, a rightness that he did not quite have the words to explain but longed for exquisitely in his thoughts.
He opened the outside door and stepped through. The early beams of a dreamy midsummer evening caressed him. The sun had begun to cast a deep, golden pall over the lawn and beds, lighting the zinnia into fiery red torches. One of the gardeners was working in a bed close to him.
“Have you seen the duchess?”
The man rose, brushing earth from his knees, and bowed.
“I have, Your Grace. She was about the gardens for the last half hour or so, wandering amongst the flowers. She looked like a fairy queen, if I might be so bold, in her white dress with the sun on her shoulders like a mantel. She may yet be there. She said she had been too much in the library, Your Grace, and she told me she wished to walk the grounds and take some cut flowers.”
A wistful regret caught and held him. He would have also liked to have seen her, to walk with her, out in the sunshine of this golden afternoon.
“Did you see which way she went?”
“No, sir. She arrived outside just as you were coming home. I remember because I heard the wheels grinding over the pavement before I made out the step of her quick steps, not five minutes later.”
“Just after I arrived, you say?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Frederic frowned. He had just missed her then. It had happened too frequently of late to be coincidence. She was avoiding him, but he couldn’t guess at her reason. He nodded curtly to the gardener and walked away, back towards the front door. If she was outside, he’d be able to see her at least.
Perhaps she regretted her decision to marry him. Yet, in most regards, she showed no displeasure with Highcastle or with the new life upon which she had so successfully embarked. In fact, sometimes he supposed—
He turned his back to the front door and looked down towards the lake. It glittered on the one half with deep gold light. The other half, shaded by the woods, faded to a murky black shadow. He sighed. The sunset dimmed, lowering the golden light to a wan hue like a faded memory.
Frederic entered the front door. It would be dinner time soon unless she took it in her room which she had more and more frequently of late. He had not noticed anything amiss at first, but now, her absences and excuses seemed increasingly odd.
He turned his steps back to the library.
He would read to pass the time before dinner.
It would settle his thoughts. He strode in near silence and firm determination.
Caroline jumped, and his heart, once he saw her, did likewise.
She was seated in a chair with her back partially turned toward the door. Frederic smiled.
“Ah! There you are!”
Caroline smiled amiably, stood, and curtsied.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
“A better one now, certainly, since I’ve found you.”
She blushed but said nothing. The silence sat between them before Fredric pushed it aside.
“I have but recently arrived, and I went in search of you. The gardeners told me you had been about the grounds.”
“The flowers have been so entrancing the last few days, and I hadn’t yet been out to enjoy them. The gardeners showed me the best bunches, and I carried a few inside with me like captive children and set them in a vase for dinner.”
“I’m sure they’ll be lovely, but did not the carriage wheels alert you to my arrival? I would have enjoyed walking the grounds with you.”
Her eyes flicked to the carpet.
“I did hear your arrival, Your Grace, but I worried about being about too much underfoot and so sought my occupation outdoors.”
“How could you be, the lady of the house?”
She curtsied and made to leave. What could he say, what reason could he contrive to invite her to stay?
“Which flowers did you choose?” He winced internally. His words sounded awkward as a schoolboy. She paused at the door.
“Roses and dahlias mostly. The gardeners planted some for me, just after—” She cleared her throat. “—just after the wedding.”
Why wouldn’t she look at him when she said those words? The answer hit him like a thunderbolt. She believed he regretted their union! The avoidance, the comments, the deference—it could only be that. He almost laughed out loud. What a dunce he had been to stay silent so long!
“Caroline.” She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Please.”
He almost whispered it. The word slipped out like a prayer before a war. This was the moment. She dragged her gaze to him. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and took her hands.
“May I— May I say something to you?”
He hardly knew where he found the breath to speak. It felt as though air had become a precious commodity just as he discovered a hole in his empty purse. Caroline’s eyes met his. His heart yearned for her—to touch the soul within her glance, to cradle it safe until death denied him the pleasure.
“Caroline, I did not recognize how ardently I loved you until I tried not to. My reason abandoned me, and I was left only with the stark truth: that you had entered my heart more firmly than I had ever expected and now—” He took a shuddering breath.
“I wish—more than anything else—for you to remain there.”
She looked at him though her face had hardened and fired to porcelain. Frederic blazed forward, desperate to have it out completely.
“I have been loath to admit my feelings, to acknowledge how deeply you’ve been entrenched in my heart and habits, but I have never felt anything—anything quite like this before.” He squeezed her fingers in his. They were so cold! So wan and forlorn! “I am in love—in love with you.”
She stared through him, eyes glazed. At last, she blinked and pulled her hands from him.
“I—” She closed her eyes. “I am deeply grateful for the sentiments you’ve expressed, Your Grace. They are the most honorable, the most right of feelings, and I feel gratified that they may be extended toward a woman such as myself.”
He crinkled his eyebrows.
“And?”
She stepped away from him, towards the shelf where Tacitus was enjoying his afternoon nap. He wanted to follow, to pull her to him like a blanket in winter. She rubbed the space between her eyes.
“I think—it seems,” she stumbled, “the feelings you have developed for me are admirable and good but perhaps misplaced.”
Misplaced? It clanged around his thoughts like a shout. Though she spoke it so softly, it pierced his very soul.
“Perhaps, Your Grace,” she offered, “the marriage arrangement has confused you. Perhaps you feel appropriate admiration—affection, even. But love—”
Time had stopped. No breath, no sound, no stirring other than the mournful melody of her voice assailed his senses.
For a moment, the strings of his heart twanged like an arrow of a bow.
She was slipping away from him. The dream of her was crumbling, slipping through his fingers like gossamer, and he couldn’t draw her back.
Then, he straightened.
“I appreciate the tact of your reply,” he said, deliberately, “but I disdain the assumption that I am not familiar with the quality and depth of my own feelings.”
Her mouth opened in surprise. He blazed forward, sure of his footing now.
“I do love you—and I know how I feel as certainly as I know anything. But—” His hopes burbled to the surface in the surge, like fish escaping the thrash of a fisherman’s lure. “What I do not know, and wish desperately to understand, are your feelings.”
She hesitated, and his heart leapt the bounds of doubt that had constrained it and raced to find its place next to hers. He could feel her closeness, see it in her eyes.
She closed them.
“Your Grace, I—”
He stepped forward and took her hands again. She would try to refuse him—for what reason or secret fear she alone understood. He had only just discovered how much she meant to him—how could he possibly lose her now? He put his hand on the side of her face.
“Caroline,” he begged, “look at me.”
Her eyes opened, stealing his breath anew with their clarity and passion. He brushed his hand across her cheek.
“Look me in the eyes, and tell me that you do not feel the same.”
She opened her mouth to answer. His soul rested on her response. Nothing seemed to exist beyond this moment, this eternity between confession and remark.
Nothing. She struggled, her eyes locked in his. A flicker of hope ignited inside him, rising to a roaring flame. Her silence, locked in tension against the truth of her feelings and the inclination of her reason, spoke loudly as a choir on Ladies’ Day. She did love him.
He pulled his lips to hers. They kissed, warm and close, their hearts beating together in simple unity. Frederic pulled back, smiling. To his surprise, tears filled her eyes.
“But, I—I am cursed—” she choked. “And if something should happen—”
Frederic laughed. He threw back his head and laughed with the relief of a man freed from bondage.
“Is that it?” he gasped. “Has that been your worry all of this time? My dear love!”
He put his forehead down until it touched hers.
“There is no such thing as curses,” he said. “Not here—not with my duchess.”
A smile tickled the corners of Caroline’s mouth. Frederic ached to kiss it. She leaned into him and sighed.
“I hope—I hope not. That’s what Philip said, too—”
Frederic pulled back and stared at her in surprise.
“You told Philip before me? What possessed you?”
She blushed as crimson as a reddleman.
“He asked. He—he was worried that I didn’t love you—that I would leave.”
Frederic pulled her closer to him. He couldn’t listen to the words without some feeling of distance.
“And what did you tell him?”
A mischievous twinkle flitted across Caroline’s eye.
“I told him that you were very easy to look at.”
The deuce she did! He leaned down and kissed her again, this time on her crystalline brow.
“Maybe,” she said, hesitantly, “he was right. Maybe there is no such thing as curses. I—I want to believe it.”