CHAPTER 34
Josephine stood at her drawing room window, her fingertips pressed lightly against the cool glass, watching Lady Rutledge with Edward in the square below.
The boy laughed as he chased a hoop, his golden curls bouncing in the late afternoon light.
Another child joined him, a dark-haired girl, and together they ran toward the far end of the square, their laughter ringing through the crisp autumn air.
He was happy. Safe.
The thought should have filled her with peace, yet her heart remained an aching hollow.
She had won the battle for Edward’s future, yet in doing so, had she lost her own?
She pressed her lips together, swallowing against the painful lump in her throat.
Michael.
It had been days since she had last seen him—since she had refused his offer to stay at Aycliffe House, retreating instead to her own home.
Retreating from him. Putting distance between them.
She had not irrevocably ended things between them, as she knew she should.
Instead, she had told him she needed to think.
Buying time. Prolonging their misery when she knew what she had to do but didn’t have the courage to do so.
She had seen the hurt in his eyes, and it had cut deeper than she expected.
He had been nothing but steadfast, devoted, hers, and yet she had wounded him. And in doing so, she had torn herself apart.
She missed him—missed him like the parched earth missed the rain. His voice, his touch, the way his gaze softened when it fell upon her. She could not imagine her life without him.
But was love enough? Was it right to condemn him to a childless existence, depriving his title of an heir?
A sharp knock at the front door startled her from her thoughts. A few moments later, the door to the drawing room opened.
"Her Grace, the Duchess of Aycliffe, " the butler announced, stepping aside to admit the duchess.
Josephine turned swiftly, her heart stammering in her chest. Though Michael’s mother had been nothing but gracious and warm, there was something about the duchess that always left Josephine feeling as if she stood under careful scrutiny.
Maybe because in front of Michael’s mother she was acutely aware of her shortcomings.
Aware of how inadequate she was. Of how she had caused her son no end of pain and continued to do so.
"Your Grace," she greeted, forcing a smile and dropping into a curtsy. "What an unexpected pleasure."
The duchess stepped forward, her eyes—so very like her son’s—sweeping over Josephine with a piercing, perceptive gaze.
"You have won your case," the duchess said, lowering herself gracefully onto the settee. "I had thought to find you happier."
Josephine stiffened.
"I am happy," she replied automatically, sitting on the chair facing the duchess.
The duchess tilted her head, her lips curving in an expression both knowing and indulgent. "Then why does it not seem so?"
Josephine’s eyes darted around, as if looking for the answer among the cushions strewn over the settee.
After a long, unbearable pause, the duchess continued, her voice gentler now. "Michael does not seem very happy either."
The words were not meant as a reproach, but she still took them as such.
Josephine swallowed against the rising pain. She had known, of course. Had felt it in the very air between them, in the way he had looked at her when she had pulled away.
"I am sorry, Your Grace," she whispered. "It was not my intention to cause him hurt."
The duchess studied her for a long moment before nodding. "I know, child."
Josephine exhaled softly.
"It is obvious you love each other," the older woman continued. "And yet you are both apart and miserable. Why?”
She hesitated. Unsure how much the duchess knew. Had Michael confided in his mother? It didn’t seem so.
“What has Michael told you?”
The duchess’s lips compressed in annoyance. “Michael has been obstinately close-lipped. I was hoping you would help me understand. I only wish to help.”
Should she confide in Michael’s mother? Would she understand?
But who else could possibly understand more?
Josephine took a slow breath, girding herself to reveal the secret that had dictated her every decision.
“I am barren, Your Grace. Surely you understand how that makes me unsuitable to be Michael’s wife.”
The duchess listened, her expression giving nothing away.
"Does Michael know?"
Josephine nodded.
The duchess’s gaze sharpened. "And did my son refuse to marry you once he learned of this?"
A pang of something fierce and bittersweet resonated in Josephine’s chest.
"No," she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "He insists it does not matter. That he would be happy to let the title go to a distant cousin if need be. That he just wants me and would be content raising Edward as if he were his own.”
A slow smile touched the duchess’s lips. "Then I have raised my son well."
Josephine blinked, startled.
“Surely, as a duchess, you can see how it’s impossible. You must convince Michael—”
The older woman reached out, covering Josephine’s hand with her own. "You are an honorable woman, my dear. I respect you for it. But you are also wrong."
Josephine’s throat tightened.
"Twelve years ago, when he thought he had lost you—
“You knew about Michael and me…before, I mean. He told you?” She was horrified. What must the duchess think of her now…
“He didn't tell me then. He only confirmed it recently after I confronted him. But I noticed something between the two of you. I’ve always suspected. Especially when I saw how Michael changed after you left. He seemed… shattered. He went to war under that cloud. For years, I lived in constant fear that I would never see my son again. I thank God every day that he returned alive and well. But even after he settled into his life as a duke, I could sense he was never truly happy. And then you returned, and he was happy again. As a duchess, I may care about the title. But as a mother, I care only about my son’s happiness.
And for that, Michael does not need an heir.
He needs you.” The duchess squeezed her fingers gently.
“So I ask you, Josephine—do you need him?”
Josephine’s vision blurred with tears. Yes. God, yes.
“More than the air I breathe,” she confessed.
“Then don’t let a misguided sense of honor come between you two. You have both suffered a great deal. You deserve happiness.”
The duchess’s calm acceptance, something she thought she would never have once she revealed her flaw, undid her.
"I will think about it," she whispered.
The duchess smiled. "See that you do."
She rose, smoothing her skirts. "I shall leave you to your thoughts, my dear."
Josephine rose as well, dipping into a curtsy. "Thank you, Your Grace."
The duchess touched her cheek fondly, then swept from the room, leaving her torn between hope and fear.
Josephine went to the window and watched the duchess enter her carriage and depart.
A slow breath left her body, taking with it a burden she had carried for so long she didn’t even consciously notice it anymore.
But it was there nonetheless, guiding her every decision.
Making her reject Michael’s devotion. The feeling of worthlessness, of not being enough.
Her hand crept to her chest, attempting to still her racing heart.
Perhaps… perhaps there was still a chance for them. Perhaps she was enough.
A sharp rap on the door broke her reverie.
The butler entered once again. "You have another caller, milady."
Josephine hastily wiped at her damp eyes, bracing herself. "Very well. Please, show them in."
She expected one of her friends. Perhaps Hannah or Mrs. Wang.
But when she turned—
She froze.
All the blood drained from her head, her breath locking in her throat.
The pasha stood before her.
The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in as he smiled—a slow, sinister curve of his lips.
"My dear Josephine," he murmured, his dark eyes gleaming.
She could not move. Could not breathe. She was just a little deer in the sights of a tiger.
Just when she thought she could reach for happiness, the past had reached out from the depths of hell to claim her once more.