Chapter 18
The day of the picnic had arrived.
Matilda had started talking before they even finished laying out the blankets, and she did not stop once, not when the food was unpacked, not when Augusta told her to sit still, and not when Duncan, to Charity’s surprise, actually answered half her questions instead of simply grunting and walking away.
Augusta, too, was in a far better mood than she wanted to admit.
But most of all, Duncan had agreed to come.
He looked less severe outside the house, and just wanted this moment for himself to relax.
By the time they had eaten, Matilda had dragged Augusta toward the water’s edge and started a game that seemed to involve throwing pebbles, changing rules every few minutes.
“You changed the rule again,” Augusta said, rolling up her sleeves while standing just out of reach of a splash Matilda had absolutely meant to send at her.
“A minute ago, you said we were counting who could make the biggest circle, and now you are saying points are for distance, which is not the same game at all.”
“I changed it because your circles were better, and now I want to win this way,” Matilda said with complete honesty, crouching to pick another stone. “That is fair if I say it out loud before I throw.”
“That is not how fairness works,” Augusta said, though she was trying not to laugh.
“It should be,” Matilda said, and then threw the pebble badly enough that it landed almost at her own shoes.
Duncan, who had been standing a little apart with Charity, let out a low sound that might have been amusement.
“You are laughing at her.”
“I am laughing at both of them,” Duncan said, watching the girls. “One cheats openly, and the other objects as if she has never bent a rule in her life.”
Charity glanced at Augusta, who was now trying to demonstrate proper pebble-throwing while Matilda ignored every instruction. “That is a fair description, unfortunately.”
They stood in silence for a short moment after that, listening to the water and the girls arguing, and Charity felt the quiet settle between them in a way that did not feel strained.
It was strange. Not long ago, every conversation between them seemed to end in anger or embarrassment.
Now she could stand beside him and say nothing at all, and it did not feel awkward.
Duncan spoke first.
“You arranged this to thank me,” Duncan said, looking at the water rather than at her. “Malcolm told me after you left the kitchens, so before you get angry with him, he did keep your secret for nearly a full day.”
“He told you?” Charity turned to him, startled.
“He told me enough to make sure I did not refuse and ruin your plan by being difficult on purpose,” Duncan said, and when she looked horrified, he added, with the smallest hint of dry humor, “You can stop looking like that. I am glad he told me. It let me pretend I did not know.”
“I should have known he would say something.”
“He says many things,” Duncan replied.
“I did want to thank you,” Charity said after a moment, and her tone changed when she saw he was listening seriously now.
“Not only for the letter, though that mattered more than I can say properly. I wanted one afternoon when everything was not about fear, or arrangements, or what my uncle might do next. I thought perhaps we all needed it.”
Duncan finally looked at her then.
“Aye. We did.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away first, mostly to steady herself.
Matilda shouted from the water’s edge, “Charity, Augusta says I cannot throw near her face, and I think that is unfair when she keeps winning.”
“It is not unfair, and do not throw stones near anyone’s face,” Charity called back. “If I have to come over there, both of you lose.”
“That is tyranny,” Augusta called back, but she was smiling.
“It is excellent judgment,” Duncan said quietly, and Charity heard the approval in it and hated that such a small thing made her so happy.
They sat again after a while, and the girls returned only long enough to eat more and then run back to the water, leaving Charity and Duncan with a little space and no obvious reason to fill it with safe conversation.
Duncan rested his forearms on his knees and looked out toward the trees for a moment before speaking.
“There is something I should tell you before we are married,” Duncan said, and his tone was steady but different enough that Charity turned to him at once.
“It is no scandal, so do not look alarmed, but it is part of why I made certain choices, and if we are to share a house, you should know it from me.”
Charity straightened slightly, immediately attentive. “All right.”
Duncan was quiet for a moment, as if deciding where to begin.
“My mother died when I was younger than I ought to have been to understand it properly,” Duncan said.
“My father followed years later, and by then there had already been too much loss in the family for him to pretend the title would carry itself forward without effort. He was ill at the end, and he spoke of the dukedom as if it were a living thing placed in my hands.”
Charity watched him carefully and said nothing, since she could see he was choosing his words with more care than usual.
“He made me promise him,” Duncan continued, and his voice was flatter now, as if he disliked the memory but had decided to give it plainly anyway. “He wanted an heir secured, and I gave him my word that I would provide one and keep the line steady.”
Charity felt something tighten in her chest.
“That is a great deal to carry as a promise,” Charity said quietly.
“It was not optional,” Duncan replied, then looked at her as if correcting the harshness of that with honesty. “If a dying man asks for the last thing he believes he can still secure, there is not much room left to refuse and call yourself a decent son.”
Charity lowered her eyes for a second, then looked back at him.
“No. I understand.”
Duncan looked away again, his jaw tightening once before he continued. “A few years after that, I nearly died myself.”
Charity went still.
He did not look at her when he said it, and that made it land even harder.
“It was not anything noble,” Duncan said, and there was bitterness in his voice. “It was a fight, and I made poor choices, and I lost a lot of blood. I lived, clearly, but for a while the doctors were not sure I would. While I was recovering, I had too much time to think about my promise.”
Charity swallowed.
“Is that when you decided?”
“Yes,” Duncan said. “Or rather, that is when I stopped pretending I had endless time to decide.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The water continued. The girls were laughing again, louder now. Matilda slipped and shouted in outrage. Augusta told her to stop being dramatic. The ordinary sound of them reached Charity so clearly that she felt, all at once, how close happiness and fear always sat beside each other.
She looked at Duncan’s face, and this time she did not stop herself from looking fully.
She had noticed the scars before. Anyone would.
She had also noticed that he disliked being looked at too long, especially by strangers, which had made her train herself to be careful.
But now he had just given her something private, something real, and the care she felt in that moment was stronger than caution.
Augusta and Matilda had run farther into the shallows, arguing over whose turn it was to count, and Charity realized they had a few moments where no one was watching closely.
She turned toward Duncan more fully.
“May I?” Charity asked softly, and though she had not named what she meant, her hand had already lifted slightly.
Duncan looked at her, then at her hand, and she saw him understand at once.
He held very still.
“Aye,” Duncan said, and his voice was low enough that she almost missed it.
Charity reached up carefully and touched the scar near his cheek with her fingertips, moving with a lightness that was more question than touch at first, and when he did not pull away, she let her fingers rest there properly.
His skin was warm. She felt the faint roughness beneath her fingertips, the shape of old healing. Duncan’s eyes stayed on her face, and the look in them changed in a way that made her breath catch.
Neither of them moved.
Charity became suddenly aware of everything at once: his shoulder close to hers, the warmth in his gaze, the fact that she was touching him in daylight with her sisters only a short distance away, the fact that she did not want to stop.
Then a voice rang out from behind them.
“CHARITY, YOU WRETCHED WOMAN, HOW DARE YOU?”
Charity jerked so hard that she dropped her hand at once and turned around in shock.
A woman was running toward them at full speed, skirts gathered in one hand, bonnet half askew, anger and delight mixed so openly on her face that for one confused second, Charity could only stare.
Then recognition hit.
“Temperance,” Charity said, and she had barely managed the name before Temperance reached her.
“You are the worst friend I have ever had, and if I do not tackle you this instant, I shall explode from indignation,” Temperance shouted, and then she did exactly that.
She crashed into Charity so hard that Charity lost her balance and went backward onto the blanket with a startled cry, and Temperance went down with her, arms around her so tightly that for a second Charity could hardly breathe.
“I have not seen you in months, and then I receive a wedding invitation as if I am some distant aunt who should be grateful for formal notice, and not one proper letter beforehand, and not one warning, and not one scrap of gossip to prepare me,” Temperance said in one furious rush, half scolding and half laughing while hugging her into the ground.
“What sort of friendship is this, and what am I meant to do with such treatment except arrive and shout at you in public?”
Charity stared up at her for one second, then two, and then the shock broke, and she started laughing so hard she had to grip Temperance’s sleeve.