Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Our carriage awaits,” Hector whispered into his duchess’s ear, and he heard her breath hitch quietly beside him.
“May I say farewell to my family?” Her tone was sad, and he heard the panic in it.
He cleared his throat. “Of course you may.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she whispered.
“You are welcome, Your Grace.” She froze beside him at the mention of the title, but he watched her features and saw a small smile curl at the corner of her lips.
The ceremony and wedding breakfast had been small, but he had a feeling that his duchess’s family did not want to let go of her.
The sun was beginning to set, and Hector watched the world gather itself for him in contrasts and colors without precision as his bride stood a little to his left.
Her warmth was like a magnet to others, and he frowned, trying to imagine why she felt different from the rest.
“My dear aunt,” she said beside him, her voice softened in the way it did when she spoke to his nieces. “Thank you for everything.”
“Oh, Poppy,” the countess of Bendon’s voice cracked with emotion as Hector listened in. “You do not have to thank me; it was a pleasure raising you and your sister with whatever little time I had with you two. You have brought us so much joy.”
“You truly have, and I will miss my sisters so much!” Lady Georgia added.
Hector heard Lord Bendon clear his throat uncomfortably beside them.
He turned toward the elderly man who paid no regard to his niece.
He could see the outline of his massive body and the light reflecting off his beady eyes, which were stuck on Hector.
Hector ignored him and watched as the duchess embraced her aunt and cousin.
“You have always been kind to me,” Her Grace continued, and something in the simplicity of it made the surrounding voices seem farther away. “Thank you for supporting me when you need not have done so, and thank you for hosting our wedding breakfast on such short notice.”
Her aunt made a sound that might have been a protest, but Hector could see tears falling. There was something pure about tears that light caught onto, allowing him to see their trails.
“You were always deserving of kindness, child,” the countess said emotionally.
She lowered her head, and Hector looked away. He had no wish to intrude into her life any further. He looked around and felt the lack of such a farewell on his own side. He invited no one on his behalf, and he had preferred it that way.
Her Grace stepped back from her aunt and turned to her cousin.
“Lady Georgia,” she said to her cousin, who was sniffling. “I will miss you dearly.”
“Surely you will visit?” Lady Georgia choked on her words.
“I will try my best.” He caught the sidelong look she gave him.
Hector felt as though he should say something.
He cleared his throat and addressed the younger lady. “Of course, the duchess can visit whomever she pleases.”
He could see the color of the duchess’s skin brighten under her ivory dress.
“I cannot wait!” Lady Georgia’s response made Her Grace smile brightly, and Hector felt his breath hitch.
He continued to watch his bride bid farewell until her uncle came. Her posture changed almost imperceptibly when she stood in front of him. The man made a small movement. A nod in the Duchess’s direction as he ignored her and drifted toward Hector.
“Your Grace, may I—”
Hector turned his head toward the Duke and Duchess of Pridewell, who approached with their son, and he ignored Lord Bendon. The man stuttered, then said nothing further.
There were men who mistook access for authority, and Lord Bendon was one of them. Hector had no use for these kinds of men who treated their families terribly while praising those in power.
“Poppy,” the Duchess of Pridewell’s voice carried an intimacy that softened the formal address she might otherwise have used.
There was another embrace, harder this time, gathering Her Grace in not as a bride being admired but as a woman being sent onward. The duchess bent to embrace the child as well.
“Goodbye, Thomas,” she whispered.
Hector watched the pale line of her back curve as she straightened.
“If you ever need anything,” the Duke of Pridewell started. “Your sister and I—”
“I can assure you that she will lack nothing.” Hector cut him off.
The Duke of Pridewell nodded with understanding in his direction. Her hand lifted once toward her face; Hector did not know whether it was to adjust a veil, brush away moisture, or conceal what she would rather not display.
He stepped closer to her as they reached the carriage.
“Your Grace,” the footman said from near the carriage door.
Hector did not look toward him as he set the cane aside. “I have her.”
The possessive words emerged before he considered them.
He felt Her Grace’s attention shift toward him at once, though she said nothing.
He offered his hand, and for a moment she did not take it.
Then her gloved fingers came down into his palm.
The contact was slight and proper. Nothing in it should have reached beneath his skin, yet it did.
“I got you,” he said confidently.
He closed his hand around hers with measured care and ignored the tightening in his gut as she shuddered. It passed through her quickly. But he felt it.
He angled his head toward her.
“Are you cold, duchess?”
“No, Your Grace, but thank you for your concern…” She spoke too quickly and smiled nervously at him, but Hector did not return her smile. He was too busy studying her in her ivory dress and wondering why he felt a sudden rush of heat flow through his body.
“It is my duty to be concerned for you,” he eventually said, quite coldly.
She did not answer at once. A moment passed between them as he held her soft, warm hand.
For a moment, a flash of color emerged from her eyes, but it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.
Hector guided her toward the carriage step.
He knew the height of the step by memory and motion.
He placed his free hand where it needed to be and lifted her fingers a fraction, giving her some balance.
She gathered her skirts, and he saw the pale movement of fabric.
She was careful as she raised a fair foot and stepped inside.
Halfway into the carriage, she turned her head back toward him.
“Thank you,” she spoke softly but sincerely.
Hector knew that her gratitude was for something else entirely.
Their nearness was sudden, and the closeness of her lips altered everything. At this distance, her face was still not clear, but it was no longer an arrangement of pale shadow and color. He saw the darker shapes where her eyes rested beneath their lashes, and he saw their attention fixed on him.
She took a sharp breath, and where her face had been pale, a shadow of a blush moved across it like a cloud.
“You are blushing,” he pointed out.
Her hand froze in his. “You cannot possibly know that.”
She remained poised on the step, half in the world she was leaving and half inside the carriage that would carry her away with him. Her fingers were still in his, but neither of them had released the other.
Hector allowed the silence to lengthen by a breath.
“I know enough.”
Her face lifted more fully toward him. “How much can you actually see?”
The question should have annoyed him. It had annoyed him often enough from physicians, acquaintances, women pretending delicacy, and men pretending bluntness.
“How many fingers? Can you read this? Do you know who I am from here?” Questions posed like tests, as though his body were a puzzle placed before them for amusement.
But from his duchess, it was different. He leaned nearer, just enough that his words belonged to only her. Her stillness deepened. The blush—yes, he was certain now—remained.
“I see enough to never let you out of my sight.”
Her Grace lowered her gaze and exhaled a shaky breath. She stepped fully into the carriage, and Hector let her go only when the movement required it.
The loss of contact was absurdly noticeable as he followed her in.