Chapter Twenty-Six
By the beginning of the following week, Anthony had finally escaped the confines of his bedchamber.
The physician still insisted that he take care not to overexert himself, but at last he had been permitted to resume most of his normal responsibilities.
Estate accounts once again occupied his desk.
Correspondence required answers. Tenants requested meetings.
The ordinary demands of the dukedom, which had seemed so frustratingly distant during his recovery, returned in full force.
Ordinarily, Anthony would have welcomed the distraction. Instead, he discovered that he was incapable of concentrating for more than a few minutes at a time. His attention drifted continually toward Evangeline.
While reviewing estate reports, he found himself wondering whether she had visited the village school that morning.
During meetings with his steward, he caught himself listening for the sound of her footsteps in the corridor outside.
Twice he signed letters incorrectly because his thoughts had wandered toward the previous evening's conversation over dinner.
The realisation was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
His life had resumed its usual course, but his mind had not.
That afternoon, he travelled into London for luncheon with Sebastian at White's, partly because estate business required his presence in the city, and partly because he suspected his friend would not cease pestering him until he appeared in person.
White's was crowded despite the hour. Gentlemen occupied their customary tables while servants moved discreetly through the dining room carrying silver dishes and bottles of claret.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows overlooking St. James's Street, illuminating clouds of cigar smoke drifting lazily beneath the ceiling.
Sebastian was already seated when Anthony arrived.
"It's good to see you up and about."
Anthony removed his gloves and sat down.
Sebastian reached for his wine. "So I see the Duchess finally allowed you out of the house."
Anthony accepted the menu offered by a servant. "She was not delighted," he confessed. "But I have been permitted to resume my life."
"Hmm," Sebastian mused, narrowing his eyes. "What is it?"
"I had assumed your newly found freedom would thrill you," he said. "But you do not appear as thrilled as I predicted."
"Have you ever seen me thrilled?" "Fair," Sebastian replied, grinning. "But I can tell something is on your mind."
Anthony sighed. "In truth?" he said. "I found my convalescence to be less tiresome than I had anticipated.”
Sebastian smiled. "Ahh, the charms of her Grace, I presume."
Anthony reached for this glass and took a sip of wine. "Yes," he agreed. "In fact I have had quite a lot of time to think, or rethink, more accurately."
"That explains the problem," Sebastian teased.
Ignoring him, Anthony stared out the window for a moment. The streets beyond bustled with carriages and pedestrians moving through the afternoon sunshine. For several moments he said nothing. Then, before he could reconsider, he spoke.
"When Evangeline and I married, we made an agreement."
Sebastian immediately sat forward.
"The understanding was that once she conceived and fulfilled her obligations, she would be entirely free. She could reside at whichever estate she preferred. Maintain her own household. Live independently if she wished."
Sebastian nodded. "I remember."
"At the time, I had considered the arrangement both practical and generous. But I do not want it anymore."
The words settled between them. Sebastian remained silent. And Anthony found himself speaking more honestly than he had intended.
"The thought of her leaving is intolerable."
There it was, the truth, and once spoken aloud, it seemed impossible to take back.
He stared down at his wine. "I keep imagining the house without her and it feels wrong."
Sebastian's expression softened, but Anthony continued before he could lose his nerve.
"I thought I wanted independence. Simplicity. An arrangement free of expectations." He laughed quietly. "It appears I was an idiot."
“Yes, you were,” Sebastian agreed.
"I miss her when I spend a day away from home."
The admission felt almost embarrassing, yet it was true.
"When I was recovering, she was constantly beside me. And I have not known peace or comfort like that in many, many years."
A smile touched his mouth despite himself.
"I cannot imagine my life without her."
For several seconds Sebastian simply stared, and then he leaned back in his chair.
"My God."
Anthony frowned. "What?"
"Who knew after all this time, all it would take was a hard bump to the back of your head to make you see sense."
"Funny," Anthony replied dryly.
"I for one have been waiting for this day," Sebastian continued. "The day that you admitted to me you were in love."
Anthony immediately opened his mouth to object, but no words emerged. Because there was no reason to argue.
"I do love her."
Sebastian's smile widened as he sat back in his chair. "Welcome to humanity."
Anthony rolled his eyes, but his friend ignored him. "You need to tell her." The amusement disappeared from Sebastian's expression. "Do not assume she already knows."
Anthony's brow furrowed. "Surely she—"
"No." Sebastian cut him off. "Anthony, you spent months insisting your marriage was practical. You created rules. Conditions. Agreements." The reminder was uncomfortable. "She deserves to hear the truth."
Anthony knew he was right.
"She deserves to know that she is wanted for herself," Sebastian continued. "Not because she might provide an heir. Not because she fulfils some obligation. But because you love her."
Anthony stared thoughtfully into his wine. Eventually he nodded. "Yes."
This time there was no hesitation. He would tell her as soon as he returned home.
***
After luncheon, Anthony's carriage moved through London. It had nearly reached the western end of Bond Street when Anthony's attention was caught by a shopfront.
He glanced up from the window to see rows of leather-bound volumes filling the display behind the glass. Afternoon sunlight gleamed upon gilt lettering and polished bindings, transforming the books into rich blocks of crimson, green, navy, and gold.
A bookseller.
Ordinarily he would have paid little attention, but today he felt a pull. Before he realised what he was doing, he rapped sharply against the roof of the carriage.
The vehicle lurched slightly as it slowed and his driver appeared at the window moments later.
"Your Grace?"
Anthony looked back toward the shop. "Stop here."
The driver blinked. "Here, Your Grace?"
"Yes."
A few moments later, Anthony stepped down onto the pavement.
Bond Street bustled around him. Elegant ladies emerged from milliners and dressmakers while gentlemen moved between tailors, print sellers, and luxury merchants.
Carriages rolled steadily past, their wheels rattling over the stones.
The air carried the mingled scents of horseflesh, tobacco, and the faint sweetness drifting from a nearby confectioner's shop.
For a moment Anthony simply stood there.
The impulse seemed vaguely absurd. As he had never been a man inclined toward gifts. Certainly not sentimental ones.
Yet as he looked at the bookseller's window, he found himself remembering Evangeline seated beside the library fire several days earlier.
She had been speaking about poetry.
Not merely reciting favourite lines, but discussing them with genuine enthusiasm.
He remembered the animation in her voice and how her eyes had brightened. The way she had forgotten herself entirely while talking about books.
The memory made him smile.
Before he could reconsider, he pushed open the door and entered. A small bell chimed overhead.
The interior smelled of leather, paper, and beeswax polish. Tall shelves stretched toward the ceiling, packed with volumes of every description. A rolling ladder stood against one wall while sunlight filtered through leaded windows, illuminating countless gilt titles.
The proprietor looked up from behind a counter.
He was an elderly gentleman with silver spectacles perched low upon his nose.
"Your Grace."
Anthony inclined his head. "I am looking for a gift."
The bookseller's expression brightened immediately.
"But I do not know exactly what I am looking for," he admitted.
The bookseller nodded. "Who is the recipient?" he asked.
"My wife, the Duchess."
"Ahh, and what does Her Grace enjoy reading?"
"She enjoys poetry." Anthony's gaze drifted toward the shelves. "She likes novels as well, though she frequently becomes annoyed when the heroes behave foolishly."
The bookseller chuckled. "That narrows the field considerably."
Together they moved through the shop and, after passing a few shelves, the bookseller stopped and carefully removed the volume from its case and turned it over in his hands.
"Wordsworth."
Anthony nodded. "My wife is fond of him."
The old gentleman smiled. "That tells me a great deal about her."
Anthony raised an eyebrow. "Does it?"
"Indeed." He opened the book and lightly touched one of the pages. "The ladies who prefer Byron generally want excitement. Adventures. Grand passions. They wish to be swept away."
Anthony found himself unexpectedly interested. "And Wordsworth?"
"Wordsworth readers tend to love quieter things." The bookseller glanced up. "Beauty that lasts. Home. Family. The countryside. They are often the sort of people who notice a sunset when everyone else is looking at themselves."
Anthony immediately thought of Evangeline kneeling beside tenant children, stopping to admire wildflowers during estate walks, and spending an entire afternoon discussing books with a village schoolmistress.
The bookseller smiled. "They also tend to possess more feeling than they admit."
Anthony suddenly remembered Evangeline standing before a shelf in the library speaking of William Wordsworth.
"I think he understands places better than anyone," she had said. "The lakes, the hills, the countryside. When you read him, you feel as though you're standing there."
He had remembered every word.
"I'll take it."
The old man smiled. "An excellent choice," he agreed.
They returned to the sales desk.
"Would you like to add an inscription?" he asked as he opened the book to reveal the blank sleeve.
Anthony hesitated before nodding, and the bookseller handed him a quill.
A short while later he stepped back onto Bond Street, the late afternoon sun bathing the city in gold. He carried the book in his hands, wrapped in brown paper and tied with blue ribbon.
Climbing back into his carriage, he rested the book beside him.
As the city gradually gave way to open countryside and the familiar road toward Blackwood Hall stretched before him, Anthony glanced once more at the carefully wrapped book resting beside him.
The years he had spent guarding his heart had brought him nothing but loneliness, and for the first time, he was prepared to risk something greater.
And as Blackwood Hall appeared on the horizon beneath the golden light of the setting sun, Anthony found himself eager to return home—not to the estate, nor the title, nor the responsibilities awaiting him there.
To Evangeline.