Chapter 13
Lady Helena Blackmore was sixty-three years old, and she carried every one of those years like armour.
Her silver hair was swept up in an elaborate style that had been fashionable thirty years ago and remained fashionable now through sheer force of will.
Her dress was severe—black silk, high-necked, unadorned except for a single strand of pearls that had belonged to her mother, and her mother's mother before that.
She was seated by the fire, ramrod straight, with a cup of tea that had long since gone cold beside her.
"Frederick." Her voice was cool, precise, utterly without warmth. "How kind of you to finally return home."
"Aunt Helena. This is unexpected."
"I imagine it is. I don't make a habit of travelling to the wilds of the countryside without good reason." She set down her teacup with a click. "Sit down. We need to talk."
Frederick sat. Not because she commanded it, but because he suspected he would need to be sitting for whatever came next.
"I've heard the most disturbing rumours," Lady Helena began. "About you. About your activities here in this village."
"I can imagine what you've heard."
"Can you? Then let me be specific." She folded her hands in her lap with the precision of a judge preparing to deliver a sentence.
"I have heard that you attended a village fair.
That you consorted with common people; farmers, tradesmen, children.
That you were seen giving away food, like some sort of medieval saint dispensing charity. "
"All true."
"I have also heard that you have been courting a woman.
A blacksmith's niece, of all things. That you were seen walking with her, talking with her, sheltering alone with her during a storm.
" Her eyes narrowed. "And that tonight, this very evening, you dined at her uncle's house.
Like a common suitor calling on a common girl. "
"Also true."
"Are you quite bereft of sense?"
The words came out sharp, cutting through the careful facade she had maintained.
For a moment, Frederick saw the real Helena beneath the armor—not the Dowager Viscountess, but his mother's sister, the woman who had held him at his mother's funeral and told him that his mother was watching from heaven.
"No," he said. "I think I'm finally finding it."
"Finding it? By throwing away everything your family has built? By dragging the Hawthorne name through the mud of some desolate village?" Helena's voice rose. "Your mother would be heartbroken, Frederick. Heartbroken."
"Don't." The word came out harder than he intended. "Do not use my mother as a weapon. You don't know what she would have wanted."
"I knew her better than anyone. She was my sister."
"She was my mother. And she died before she could tell me anything; what she wanted for me, what she dreamed of, whether she was happy in her marriage or just enduring it. So don't presume to speak for her. You have no more insight into her wishes than I do."
Helena's mouth tightened. "I see your time among commoners has taught you insolence."
"It's taught me to speak honestly. Something I was never permitted to do in this house."
"Honesty is overrated. What matters is propriety.
Duty. The obligations you owe to your position.
" Helena rose and began to pace, her silk skirts rustling against the carpet.
"You are the Duke of Corvenwell. Your ancestors have held this title for three hundred years.
You have a responsibility to marry well, to produce heirs, to maintain the standing of this family in society.
And you are proposing to throw all of that away for a girl who works at a forge? "
"I'm not proposing anything yet. I'm simply…"
"Simply what? Simply amusing yourself with an unsuitable woman until you tire of her? Is that what you intend?"
"No." Frederick stood too, unwilling to be loomed over.
"That is absolutely not what I intend. Lydia Fletcher is not an amusement.
She's not a dalliance. She's…" He stopped, searching for words.
"She's the first person who's ever seen me.
Not the title, not the money, not the position.
Me. The person I am beneath all of that. "
"The person you are is the Duke of Corvenwell. That's not something you can take off and hang in a closet."
"I know that. But I can be both, can't I? A duke and a person? A title and a man?"
"Not if you marry a blacksmith's niece, you can't." Helena stopped pacing and faced him directly.
"Do you understand what will happen if you pursue this?
Society will shun you. Doors that have been open to the Hawthornes for generations will close.
Your children, if you have any, will carry the stain of their mother's origins for the rest of their lives.
You will become a laughingstock. A cautionary tale.
The duke who threw everything away for a village girl. "
"Let them laugh."
"This is not a jest, Frederick!"
"I know it's not." He met her eyes steadily.
"I know exactly what I'm risking. But I also know what I'm risking if I don't pursue this.
I'm risking becoming my father—cold, alone, dying eventually with no one to care.
I'm risking a lifetime of emptiness dressed up in fine clothes.
I'm risking never knowing what it feels like to be loved by someone who doesn't want anything from me except myself. "
Helena was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer.
"Your father was not a happy man. I grant you that. But he understood his duty. He did what was expected of him, even when it was difficult."
"And where did that get him? Is that the life you want for me? Is that what you think my mother would have wanted?"
"Your mother would have wanted you to be secure. Comfortable. Protected."
"My mother would have wanted me to be happy.
" The words came out fierce, certain. "I may not have many memories of her, but I remember that.
She wanted me to laugh, to play, to be a child, not a miniature duke in training.
And if she were here now, if she could see who I've become and who I could be, I think she would tell me to follow my heart.
Even if it led me somewhere unexpected."
Helena's expression flickered; something passing across her face that might have been doubt, or memory, or grief.
"You speak of happiness as if it's simple. As if you can just decide to be happy and everything else will fall into place." She shook her head. "The world doesn't work that way, Frederick. Especially not our world."
"Then maybe our world is wrong."
"Our world is what it is. You can rail against it, but you cannot change it."
"I'm not trying to change the world. I'm just trying to live in it as myself, not as a hollow shell wearing a coronet.
" Frederick took a breath, forcing himself to be calm.
"Aunt Helena, I know you think you're protecting me.
I know you loved my mother, and you feel responsible for me because she's gone.
But protecting me from happiness is not what she would have wanted. And it's not what I want."
"What you want is irrelevant. What matters is…"
"What I want is the only thing that matters.
It's my life, my choice, my future." He stepped closer to her, close enough to see the lines around her eyes, the silver threading through her hair, the woman beneath the formidable exterior.
"I'm not the child you remember, Aunt Helena.
I'm not the boy who needed protecting. I'm a grown man, and I'm asking you, begging you, to let me make my own decisions. Even if you think they're wrong."
Helena's eyes glistened. For a moment, just a moment, Frederick thought she might relent, she might see reason. She might even remember that she had once been young and hopeful too.
Then her expression hardened again.
"You didn't know her like I did," she said quietly. "She was romantic, yes. But she was also practical. She understood the way the world worked."
"Then help me change the way the world works. Stand with me instead of against me. Be my aunt instead of my adversary."
For a moment, Frederick thought he'd reached her. He thought he saw something soften in her eyes, some crack in the armour she wore.
Then her expression hardened again.
"I can't support this, Frederick. I'm sorry, but I can't. It goes against everything I believe, everything I was raised to value.
" She straightened her spine, reassembling the Dowager Viscountess piece by piece.
"But I love you. You're my sister's only child, and I love you.
So I'm going to give you a chance to reconsider. "
"Reconsider what?"
"This infatuation. This temporary madness.
" Helena reached into her reticule and withdrew a letter, which she held out to him.
"Lord Ashby's daughter, Veronica. She's nineteen, well-educated, and accomplished in all the ways that matter.
Her family's connections are impeccable, and her dowry is substantial.
I've been cultivating this match for two years, waiting until you showed any interest in marrying at all. "
Frederick didn't take the letter. "I'm not interested."
"You haven't even met her."
"I don't need to meet her. I'm not going to marry a woman I don't love just because her connections are impeccable."
"Love," Helena said the word like it tasted bitter. "Love is a luxury, Frederick. A nice addition to a marriage if you can manage it, but not a necessity. What matters is suitability. Compatibility. The ability to build a life together that serves both parties' interests."
"That's not what marriage should be."
"That's what marriage is, for people like us. Anything else is fantasy."
She pressed the letter into his hands despite his resistance, then stepped back.