CHAPTER 26
“You are in love with her, aren’t you?”
At the sound of his mother’s voice, Michael turned from his office window, from where he had been contemplating Josephine playing with her nephew out in the garden, and walked back to his desk.
His mother moved to the sideboard where he kept the liquor and poured two snifters of cognac.
Approaching the desk, she offered one of them to him, as if she knew he would require fortification for the talk.
His mother was never once to mince words or tolerate prevarication, so he answered honestly.
“Yes. But she doesn’t want me.”
“Balderdash.” His mother made one of her eloquent hand gestures, as if she were swatting at an impertinent gnat. “That girl has been smitten with you since the moment she met you.”
He raised his brows. “When we first met, she was engaged to my brother.”
“Oh, I know. But I have a feeling she was about to break that engagement. During that entire house party, she only had eyes for you.”
His gaze clashed with his mother’s. Two pairs of almost identical green eyes, his, wide with shock. Hers, smug with confidence.
“You knew?”
“I don’t know all the particulars. But I have eyes. And there’s no better use for them than to observe what is going on with my children. I saw the way you looked at each other during that house party. And realized her engagement to Henry was a mistake. She was the perfect girl for you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
His mother shrugged. “I was waiting for you two to say something. To acknowledge your feelings. I know you are not duplicitous, Michael, and that you would never have betrayed your brother. If you and his intended had reluctantly fallen in love, I expected you would come forward and reveal the news on your own.”
“I wanted to talk to you and father. And Henry as well, of course.” He looked down into his brandy snifter, twirling the amber liquid in his hand.
Anything to avoid his mother’s astute gaze.
“She asked me to allow her some time to talk to her parents first. And I agreed. But her parents took her away precipitously. By the time I reached London, she was gone. Her brother convinced me she had eloped with another man, when in reality, she had been kidnapped.”
The succinct recount of his idiocy left a bitter taste in his mouth, so he chased it down with a swallow of brandy.
“I thought her disappearance was suspect and never fully believed the story that she had eloped. But when you came back empty handed and bitter, I thought you had reason to believe it was true. Then you went off to war. I fretted so much about you, Michael. The entire time you were in the army, I was sick with worry.”
He had to admit his mother had reason to be. On more than one occasion his bitterness and self-destructive behavior nearly cost him his life in the war. He had received a medal for valor in the battlefield. It hadn’t been valor. It had been suicidal recklessness.
It should have killed him. Instead, by the time the fog of despair had lifted, instead of landing him dead of crippled, he had been promoted to the title of Lieutenant Colonel after the Crimean war. A distinction he didn’t want or deserve. After that horrid war, he had been done with soldiering.
But he still stayed in the army, for there was nothing else for him at home.
He was not the heir, so he was not needed.
He had no wife or sweetheart waiting for him and was unfit to court any young debutante, set up a family, and settle into bucolic life.
His father and brother were alive, so he thought his family didn’t need him.
Until his father and brother died within two years of each other, and his mother begged him to come home.
How could he deny her that? It wasn’t for the title he had returned. It had been for his mother. She had lost her husband and a son. He was all she had left. And he was a duke now.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I have failed you, failed Josephine.”
“Don’t say that!” She stood and came to him. “I may have not agreed with some of your choices. I have worried and despaired of ever seeing you happy. But never once have I felt that you failed me.”
He stretched his arm to envelop her in a hug and after a brief hesitation, she relented with a sigh and leaned into him.
His mother was always so stoic, every inch the duchess.
But she must feel lonely living here by herself most of the time.
Maybe that is why she wanted him to marry and have children.
“Sometimes I feel so inadequate,” he confessed.
“You are not!” His indomitable mother untangled herself from his arms to scowl at him. “You are a capable, compassionate man who’s been a credit to the name he bears. Now if you would manage to get to the altar and produce offspring post haste, you’d make me the happiest and proudest of mothers.”
He gave a dry chuckle. “That does not seem likely at the moment.”
“Why not? Josephine agreed to marry you. Now, I understand a proper wedding takes some time to plan, but with my help, it shouldn’t take more than a month. Two weeks, if you give me free rein and unlimited resources.”
If he told his mother he wanted to marry tomorrow, he had no doubt she would somehow make it happen. She seemed to thrive on impossible tasks.
“I have complete faith in your capability to arrange a proper event on short notice. Alas, my capability to convince the bride may not be up to par.”
“What are you talking about? Hasn’t she already agreed to marry you?”
“No. Our engagement is a sham.” God, it hurt to say it. “A ploy devised to help her retain custody of her nephew. She has no intention of marrying me.”
It wasn’t every day he managed to confound his mother. Her brows drew together in a gesture she didn’t allow herself often. “That doesn’t make any sense. For one, she loves you. And surely a marriage to a duke would lend her more gravitas than a fake engagement. Why wouldn’t she want to marry you?”
“She has plenty of reasons to resent me. For one, I failed her twelve years ago. I believed the worst of her while she was being kidnapped and imprisoned. I should have trusted her. I should have attempted to free her.”
“Why did you believe she had betrayed you?”
“Her brother showed me a letter. It was her handwriting, and the tone made it very believable. Like something she would say. But it was a forgery.”
“Good God, how vile.”
“Yes. And the worst part is it was her own brother who betrayed her. Under the indolent noses of her parents. And I, the man who had professed to love her, believed their lies and abandoned her to her fate. Is it any wonder she can’t trust anyone?”
His mother shook her head. “Give her time. She is hurt and probably still confused. But I would bet anything that she still loves you. Don’t give up.”
“I don’t intend to, Mother. But I warn you, this is a battle I might lose.”
“You won’t. You are too good of a strategist to lose.”
He wished he had his mother’s confidence in his abilities. Unfortunately, he was very much aware of his unforgivable mistakes where Josephine was concerned.
“Would you show me the letter?” Josephine asked, sliding into his study.
Michael looked up from the report he was studying and immediately stood as she approached his desk.
A smile of pure joy broke across his face at the lovely interruption.
Indeed, he was elated that she had sought him out at all.
He had feared that after yesterday’s kiss and subsequent rejection, she might try to avoid him.
The buttery yellow morning gown she wore today made her look good enough to eat. It lent a glow to her fair features, and he fancied he saw fewer shadows in her eyes.
“Good morning, Josie. I hope you slept well?”
She blushed a delicate shade of pink, no doubt embarrassed that he had not addressed her question. She had asked something upon entering, but he had been too distracted by her loveliness to catch her words.
“Good morning. Very well, thank you. You?”
“Well enough.” No point in telling her that he had spent half the night awake, tormented by the knowledge that she was but a few steps away. Consumed by desire and longing.
“Well? Would you show me the letter? That is, if you still have it.”
He knew immediately what letter she referred to. The letter. The one that had shattered his life.
“I have it.” He leveled a steady gaze at her. “Are you sure you want to see it? It might upset you.”
“I want to see it. The notion of that letter… the audacity. It’s become an obsessive thought. I need to know what was written under my name.”
“Very well, then.”
He turned and walked to one of the bookcases. Removing a stack of books, he pressed on a hidden latch and it sprung open. Behind it was the safe. Not the main one. The real safe was in the family vault in the basement of the manor.
Turning the knob this way and that, he unlatched the door and retrieved three objects that had resided there ever since he became the duke. The letter, the perfume she had made for him, and the formula for said perfume.
He placed them on top of his desk. She didn’t rush to take them. Her gaze was glued to the items, her body so still he was sure she held her breath.
“You still have the perfume and the formula.”
“Yes.”
She took a step closer, extended her hand as if to grab the bottle, but then stopped.
“Did you have it remade?”
“No.”
“Then you haven’t worn it. The bottle is still full.”
He couldn’t discern her feelings. Her voice was so calm, so devoid of inflection.
But he knew it was not because of a lack of emotion.
Maybe the opposite was true. She must be remembering, as he was, the night she gave him that perfume.
What transpired then. The first and only time they had been together.
“It was too painful. The fragrance evoked memories I was doing my utmost to forget.”
“And yet you kept it.”
And not only that. Kept it in a safe in his study. Locked away, but always close at hand. “I told you I wasn’t very good at letting go.”
She nodded, not meeting his gaze. This time when she reached for the bottle, she grasped it, unstoppering it and bringing it to her nose.
She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring while her eyes closed.
An expression of what appeared to be ecstasy came over her features.
It seemed the fragrance brought no painful memories for her.
“The perfume has changed, evolved. But it’s still good,” she said, setting the bottle back down.
Much like his love for her. It had matured like fine whisky. Acquiring depth, character, and yet never evaporating.
“Maybe I’ll wear it now.”
One side of her mouth tilted up in not quite a smile.
“Is that the letter?” She pointed to one of the papers.
He nodded. Her hand was hesitant as it reached for it, almost as if she feared the contents but was determined to face them.
A brief scan of the note had her gasping, bringing her hand to cover her mouth while her brow furrowed. “Oh dear God.”
He couldn’t stand it. He started circling the desk. “Josie, you don’t need—”
“This is horrid,” she interrupted, lifting her hand, palm out, to stop him. “I know I never wrote this, but the handwriting is so similar that I had a moment of disorientation. And the style… it sounds like something I would write. No wonder you believed it.”
“I wish I hadn’t. That I had trusted my instincts and questioned the note.”
She shook her head again. “You couldn’t have saved me.”
“Don’t try to absolve me, Josie.”
“I’m not. Trust me, there’s nothing I would have liked more than to be rescued, but not at the expense of your life.”
“Then let me use the rest of my life to care for you. To protect you.”
But Josie shook her head. “You are doing enough.” She turned to stride to the door as if someone was chasing her. “Burn that letter. It’s evil.”