Chapter 29
Thelma stood in the nursery, carefully pulling the thick, yellow wool blanket up to Liliana’s chin. The baby was deeply asleep, her small chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, her dark curls splayed across the crisp white linen of the mattress.
Thelma lingered for a moment, resting her hand against the polished wood of the crib, letting the absolute peace of the room settle into her bones.
"She will not wake for hours, you know."
Thelma turned around. Patricia stood in the nursery doorway. The cook’s hands were folded neatly over her stomach.
Thelma narrowed her eyes, her gaze dropping to the crisp, blindingly white fabric tied around Patricia’s waist. "Patricia," Thelma said slowly, "why are you wearing a freshly starched apron? It is past eight o'clock. The kitchens are closed. You never change your apron after six."
Patricia smoothed her hands down the stiff cotton, not entirely meeting Thelma’s eyes.
"A woman can appreciate clean linen at any hour of the evening, Miss Preston.
And since the child is asleep, I thought I would sit up here and keep a close eye on the fire grate.
You should go downstairs. The duke requested you join him for a walk in the gardens. "
Thelma looked at the cook, recognizing the poorly concealed, eager glint in her friend’s hazel eyes. Thelma did not press the issue. She untied her own practical, dust-stained apron, draped it over the back of the rocking chair, and smoothed the skirts of her dark blue evening dress.
She walked down the grand staircase and found Roman waiting for her by the heavy oak front doors.
He wore a dark charcoal coat that stretched perfectly across his broad shoulders, his white cravat tied with immaculate precision.
When he heard her boots on the marble floor, he turned.
His gray eyes swept over her, completely focused, carrying a heat that made her pulse skip a rapid, uneven beat against her collarbone.
He held out his arm. Thelma stepped forward, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.
They walked out into the late evening light.
The Yorkshire sky was a brilliant canvas of bruised plum and burning apricot, the sun sitting just above the jagged line of the distant moors.
The air was cool and crisp, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth, crushed lavender from the bordering flower beds, and the faint, smoky trace of the estate’s chimneys.
Roman did not lead her toward the ornamental lake or the paved terraces they usually frequented.
Instead, he guided her past the expansive rose gardens, their boots crunching a slow, rhythmic tempo against the white gravel path.
He took her down a narrow, winding trail lined with ancient, towering oak trees, leading toward the very edge of the manicured estate grounds.
Through the thick canopy of leaves, Thelma saw the structure she had previously only glimpsed from the high, narrow window of the nursery.
It was a small, stone chapel. The building was ancient, covered in thick green ivy that crawled up the rough, gray granite walls and wrapped around the edges of the slate roof. A tall, arched window dominated the western-facing wall.
Roman stopped in front of the heavy, iron-bound oak door. He reached out and pressed the heavy iron latch. The mechanism clicked loudly in the quiet evening air. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter first.
Thelma walked across the threshold.
The interior of the chapel was incredibly cool, smelling faintly of old beeswax candles, polished wood, and aged stone. There were only four rows of dark oak pews sitting on either side of the narrow center aisle.
But it was the light that stole the breath completely from her lungs.
The setting sun was shining directly through the tall, arched western window.
The glass was heavily stained in rich, brilliant colors, deep cobalt blues, fiery ruby reds, and bright, piercing golds.
The dying sunlight hit the colored glass and fractured, spilling a massive, vibrant mosaic of colored light directly across the smooth gray flagstones of the aisle.
Thelma walked slowly down the center of the chapel, watching the patches of red and gold slide across the dark blue fabric of her dress.
Roman closed the heavy oak door behind them, sealing them inside the quiet sanctuary. He walked down the aisle and stopped exactly halfway to the altar. He turned to face her.
Thelma stopped. She looked at his face.
Roman Berengar, the Duke of Langley, a man who stared down hostile magistrates, who commanded a staff of seventy people, who had thrown Daphne Vane out of his house without a single flinch, was visibly, physically nervous.
He dragged his thumb across his lower lip.
He adjusted the pristine cuff of his left sleeve.
His jaw tightened, a small muscle ticking rapidly just beneath his ear.
He swallowed hard, his gray eyes dropping to the colored stones between their boots for a fraction of a second before lifting back to meet her gaze.
He reached out and took her hand. His palm was warm, and his long fingers wrapped tightly around hers, holding on as if she were the only solid thing in the room.
"My parents were married in this chapel," Roman said, his voice dropping into a low, rough register that echoed beautifully off the stone walls.
"I was christened right there, at that stone font.
And next week, I am bringing the magistrate here to formally, legally register Liliana in the parish records as a blood member of the Langley line. "
Thelma squeezed his fingers, her heart hammering a fierce rhythm against her ribs. "It is a beautiful place, Roman."
"I wanted you to see it today," Roman continued, taking a half-step closer, pulling her slightly into his personal space. "I wanted you to see it first as something beautiful. I wanted you to see it as something other than dry legal paperwork and official registrations."
He took a slow, deep breath. The bright ruby light from the window slashed across the shoulder of his dark coat, highlighting the sharp, aristocratic lines of his face.
"I am asking you to marry me," Roman said.
The words did not sound like a question. They sounded like a profound, absolute necessity.
Thelma’s lungs completely stopped working. The air simply vanished from the room. She stared up into his face, the entire world narrowing down to the gray of his eyes and the heat of his hand gripping hers.
"Liliana needs you," Roman said, his voice thickening with a raw, bleeding honesty. "This vast, empty house needs you. But more than any of that, Thelma, I need you."
He lifted his free hand, his fingers gently brushing a stray curl away from her cheek, his thumb coming to rest softly against her jawbone.
"I have needed you since the very first week you arrived," Roman confessed, the words tumbling out of him in a rush of desperate truth.
"I have needed you since the night Liliana caught the fever.
I sat in the dark nursery. I watched you fall asleep, slumped against the side of the wooden crib, completely exhausted, fighting for a child you claimed was not yours simply because you loved her so fiercely.
I sat in the shadows, and I finally understood exactly what I was looking at.
I was looking at the only woman I will ever want. "
Thelma felt hot, heavy tears welling up in her eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face.
She thought about the lies, the terror, the freezing cellar, and the long, agonizing nights she spent believing she would lose him.
And now, he was standing in the colored light of a chapel, offering her his name, his home, and his heart.
"Yes," Thelma whispered.
The word caught in her tight throat, the sound giving out completely halfway through the single syllable. It came out as a broken, breathy squeak.
Roman’s eyes widened slightly, a sudden, fierce hope flooding his features.
Thelma cleared her throat, forcing air back into her lungs, refusing to let the moment pass with a whisper. She tightened her grip on his hand, looking directly into his eyes.
"Yes," she said again, her voice ringing clear and loud against the stone walls. "Yes, Roman."
Roman let out a harsh, ragged breath. He released her hand and immediately wrapped both of his arms securely around her waist. He pulled her flush against his chest, lifting her right off her feet.
Thelma threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into the curve of his shoulder, pressing her nose against the dark wool of his coat. She breathed in the familiar, grounding scent of clean linen, sandalwood, and the cool evening air.
Roman buried his face in her hair, holding her so tightly she could feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart beating in perfect time with her own.
They stood locked together in the center of the aisle, the setting sun painting their bodies in bright streaks of blue, gold, and red light, surrounded by the absolute, unbroken quiet of the ancient stone chapel.
By the time they finally broke apart and walked back up the long gravel path toward the main house, the sky had darkened into a deep, velvety indigo, pierced by the first bright silver stars of the evening.
Roman kept her hand firmly tucked into the crook of his arm, his fingers resting warmly over hers.
They approached the rear kitchen entrance of the estate.
Sitting on the wide stone steps, illuminated by the warm, yellow glow of the carriage lamps mounted beside the oak door, was Patricia.
The cook was balancing Liliana comfortably on her hip. The baby was wide awake, chewing happily on her own chubby fist, her dark curls standing up in wild, messy spikes.
Thelma stopped at the base of the steps, leveling a deeply suspicious glare at the cook. "Patricia. Did the baby wake up on her own?"