Chapter Twenty-One #3
Edmund wanted to expand the rose gardens.
He had been cultivating new varieties for years, working with Mr Greenway on experimental grafts and unusual hybrids.
But he had always worked alone, treating it as a private hobby rather than a genuine pursuit.
Helena’s interest in his experiments, her questions, her attention, her willingness to crouch in the dirt beside him and examine root systems, had made him realise how much he wanted to share this part of himself.
“You should publish,” Helena said. “Your findings on the twice-blooming roses. There are horticultural societies that would be tremendously interested.”
“I am a Duke. Dukes do not publish papers about flower cultivation.”
“This Duke does.” Helena’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Or at least, this Duke should. You have knowledge that could benefit other gardeners. It would be selfish to keep it to yourself.”
Edmund laughed, really laughed, the kind of full-bodied amusement that still surprised him when it emerged. Helena had given him back his laughter. She had given him back so many things he had thought lost forever.
“Perhaps I will,” he said. “If you help me write it.”
“I will help you with anything.” She leaned against his shoulder, her fingers interlaced with his. “That is what partners do.”
Partners. The word settled into Edmund’s heart like a key fitting into a lock.
They had been partners from the beginning, in a way, united against Reginald’s schemes, presenting a united front to the ton’s scrutiny.
But this was different. This was partnership by choice rather than necessity.
This was two people deciding, freely and openly, to build a life together.
“Helena.” Edmund turned to face her. “There is something I want to discuss with you. About the future. About what comes next.”
She raised an eyebrow, that familiar gesture that still made his heart skip. “That sounds ominous.”
“Not ominous. Hopeful, I think.” He took both her hands in his.
“When we wedded, we agreed to separate lives. Separate bedrooms. A partnership of convenience rather than affection. Those terms served their purpose at the time. They gave us both the safety we needed to enter this arrangement without fear.”
“But things have changed,” Helena said softly.
“Everything has changed.” Edmund squeezed her hands.
“I want new terms, Helena. I want a matrimony that reflects what we have become to each other. Not separate lives, but shared ones. Not a convenient arrangement, but a genuine partnership. Not two people maintaining careful distance, but two people building something together.”
Helena’s eyes were bright. “What are you proposing?”
“I am proposing that we start over.” He lifted her hands to his lips.
“Not as the Duke of Westmere who needed a wife before his birthday, and the vicar’s daughter who needed security for her family.
But as Edmund and Helena. Two people who chose each other.
Two people who cherish each other.” He paused.
“Two people who are finally ready to stop being afraid.”
Helena was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, she smiled.
“I accept your terms, Your Grace.”
“Edmund,” he corrected.
“Edmund.” She leaned forward and kissed him, soft, sweet, full of promise. “I accept your terms, Edmund. All of them. Unreservedly.”
He pulled her close, holding her against his heart, feeling the steady rhythm of her breathing.
Outside the library windows, the spring sun was climbing higher, casting warm light across the shelves of books they had both come to treasure.
The fire had burned low, unattended, but neither of them noticed.
They had everything they needed right here.
“I have one more question,” Helena said against his chest.
“Ask me anything.”
“The journal.” She pulled back slightly to look at him. “You recorded forty-seven smiles in three weeks in London. How many have you recorded since we first arrived at Westmere?”
Edmund considered. He had not counted recently, had not needed to, not since the night of the letters, when everything had changed. But the number was there, embedded in his memory like all the other details he had accumulated about her.
“Three hundred and twelve,” he said. “As of yesterday morning.”
Helena stared at him. “You counted them? All of them?”
“Every one.” He touched her face, tracing the curve of her cheek. “Though I suspect I will lose count soon. There will be too many to keep track of. You will smile too often, laugh too freely, and my careful records will become hopelessly inaccurate.”
Helena’s eyes filled again, but she was laughing now, laughing and crying at the same time, her face radiant with a joy he had only glimpsed before.
“Three hundred and twelve,” she repeated. “Edmund Ridley, you impossible man.”
“Indeed I am.” He smiled broadly.
She kissed him again. And again. And when they finally emerged from the library, hours later than any sensible person would consider appropriate, Edmund did not bother to update his count.
Some things were too precious to reduce to numbers.
Some things simply had to be lived.