Chapter 1 #3
At these words, for just a moment, Simon woolgathered. If Peter, the brother he had never met, to his recollection, had sired heirs … that would mean Simon would be free to pursue his own path. With Madeline.
If only …
The thought of it had his heart leap with excitement before he scolded himself for foolish whimsy, refusing to complete the thought that would lead to frustration at his circumstances.
“What a cad,” Isla proclaimed. “Your father was committed to duty. The baron would have brought Peter’s children into our home and raised them as his own even if they diminished the Scott bloodlines. If there had been any progeny. It is a ridiculous accusation!”
John bobbed his head. “I do not trust the little weasel not to spread lies. You are to steer clear of him, you hear?” The baron looked around expectantly, as though awaiting each family member’s assent.
Molly stared back in mild confusion when it came her turn. “Whom am I to avoid?”
“The Baron of Filminster.”
“Oh. Certainly, I shall avoid him.”
Simon buried a smile, hearing the irony in her voice despite the polite response. Molly was in mourning for her mother, so she did not get out and about much. John’s intrinsic understanding of what her day consisted of as a bereaved, unwed young lady was deficient.
Shortly the family adjourned, Simon managing to solicit the much-needed signature from his brother. Isla was to dine with friends, and John was off to a separate, but similar event.
Simon had turned to find Nicholas, only to find he had disappeared without so much as a good-night, frustrating Simon’s intention to corner his little brother before he left for the night.
Shaking his head in aggravation, Simon held out an arm for his step-cousin to escort her to their lonely dinner. Molly smiled, locking arms with him, and they walked down the hall.
“Are you enjoying your stay with us?”
Molly giggled. “We have years ahead of us in this household. Must you remain so formal?”
The gentle tease caught him off guard. He had not considered that his reserved manner might strike her as cold.
Perhaps he had grown too accustomed to formality, too wary of warmth.
The thought unsettled him. Once he had been a man of laughter and easy charm, but those parts of himself seemed to have worn thin beneath the weight of obligation.
Duty had leeched the humor from him, bit by bit, until he scarcely recognized the man he had become.
“I apologize. It is not directed at you. Being dutiful is a habit that is hard to relinquish, I confess.”
“How about we enjoy our dinner with no talk of duty, then? Just two cousins sharing repast?”
Simon forced a grin. But even as they entered the dining room, a shadow pressed at the edge of his thoughts.
The memory of whispered promises made long ago beneath the stars of another garden.
Tomorrow he would honor his duty, but tonight he could not shake the ache of what that duty would cost him.
Leaving his step-cousin in the music room, he headed out to the garden to wait for Madeline. His stomach was tight with tension, and he dreaded what he was to do.
I do not wish to deliver bad news.
But it was more than that. Tonight, he buried his last links to his past. To the man he had been and the dreams he had held. He had put it off as long as he could, but John’s health made it imperative that he take care of his obligations. It was time to close the door on what might have been.
He waited as evening cast shadows upon the ground, kept company by Greek gods and their feminine counterparts, savoring the sense of freedom that the garden had always represented.
An oasis from the solemnity of real life.
A place he could still hold on to the fantasy of a future shared with his Psyche.
It was more painful than he had thought it would be.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath slippers had alerted him to her arrival, his heart leaping when he caught sight of her. She was ethereal in the ghostly moonlight.
“Simon!”
“Madeline,” he greeted. “You look lovely this evening.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment, but she did not seem pleased at the compliment. He sensed she was melancholy as they took their seats on the bench.
Simon sat on the far edge, as was his custom lest he be overcome by the impulse to bolt from his rigid life where his responsibilities would rise to suffocate him if he considered all he had lost.
“How have you been?”
Madeline had fidgeted as if uncomfortable, not speaking for several moments as the silence stretched on. When she responded, there was an undercurrent of disappointment. “I have been well.”
Simon nodded, not paying much attention as he summoned the will to say his piece.
“I shall not be visiting our garden beyond this evening.”
She did not reply for some time, and Simon was afraid he would have to repeat the awful declaration to cap his terrible day.
“I … see.”
It was all she said, and the silence that followed pressed upon him until he was compelled to explain himself further. “I have negotiated a marriage contract with Lord Boyle to marry his daughter.”
“He is a viscount.”
Her remark did not require a response. They both knew it was the primary motive for such a match.
“Which daughter?”
“Olivia … the eldest.”
“Do you admire her?”
Simon rolled his shoulders, discomfort prickling beneath his coat. The question unsettled him.
“I barely know her, but it will strengthen the Blackwood title. Elevate our connections and increase our influence when I wed the child of a respected viscount. Strengthen our bloodlines, which was my father’s wish. It is—”
“Your duty.” Madeline completed the sentence for him. “You have not visited our garden in some time. Did you come to tell me this?”
Simon bowed his head to study his boots, his legs stretched out in a languid position which did not reflect his state of mind in the least. “I wanted you to hear it from me, not read it in the news sheets.”
Madeline rose to her feet, making to leave. “I thank you. Felicitations, Simon. I wish you every happiness in your future.”
The finality of her words struck him like a blow. He was not ready. Reaching out, he caught her delicate hand in his. He was selfish—he knew it—but tomorrow he faced the gallows, and he was not quite ready to say goodbye.
“These are my last few hours of freedom. Would you … spend them with me? Perhaps we might speak as we once did, when the world was still kind?”
He longed for that simpler time, when he had been a bold youth without the weight of expectations weighing him down. When they had planned their lives together. How different things might be if he had not caused Nicholas’s accident.
Madeline tilted her head, considering his words until she relented and seated herself. “One last conversation before we say goodbye.”
His heart resumed beating in his chest, and Simon resolved to savor each second of their last night.
He made a conscious effort to cast off the mantle of solemnity that had become his nature, and after an awkward start, they talked and laughed together about the mishaps of youth until well past midnight.
At last, she checked the time. “I have work in the morning,” she said, regret coloring her tone as she rose.
Simon raised a finger to brush back a lock of her silky hair, taking his time to view her features in the silvery light for the last time.
Then, with reverent restraint, he bent and pressed a gentle kiss to her brow.
It was all he dared, a benediction more than a farewell. Something pure to remember her by.
Stepping back, he gave a little bow. “Farewell, lovely Psyche.”
Madeline’s lips trembled into a wistful smile, hesitating for just a moment, then headed toward the arch to disappear from sight.
Simon watched his goddess walk away, his thoughts bittersweet. He was losing his best friend to be an honorable husband to Olivia Boyle. To be fair to his future wife, he would have to do his best to find peace within his arranged marriage.
He hoped Madeline would find a husband worthy of her grace. Someone who would see not merely her beauty, but the strength and goodness that had once made him believe in the infallibility of true love.