Chapter Eleven
“Were my eyes deceiving me, or were you smiling?” Oliver flopped into the chair behind Nathaniel’s desk as soon as they entered the study.
“I mean, I am quite used to that being the response when I enter a room,” Oliver continued. “But if I am not mistaken, I am not the one who inspired it.”
Nathaniel glared at Oliver before lowering himself into the chair opposite his desk. He turned to face the fire, his mind wandering back to the breakfast room where Emilia still sat.
Nathaniel liked to think of himself as a generally content man, but it was true that it was a rare occurrence for him to fully smile. He had perfected the polite grin, but anything beyond that put him at risk for making those he was not intimately acquainted with feel he was approachable.
Since he had awoke that morning, he had found himself smiling not once, but multiple times when Emilia spoke to him. The muscles in his cheeks actually ached from years of little use.
Oliver leaned back in his chair, beaming. “Am I to assume things became less painfully uncomfortable once you and your new bride were left alone?”
“No,” Nathaniel admitted. “I avoided her completely until this morning.”
Oliver laughed, but quickly schooled his expression when he caught a glimpse of Nathaniel’s scowl.
“Things will improve,” he encouraged. “You simply need to get to know one another. You do like her, do you not?”
Nathaniel nodded, his heart speeding up to an unfamiliar rhythm at the thought of how she had smiled and teased him in the hall.
“She is pleasant,” he replied evenly.
“Pleasant?” Oliver questioned, raising a brow.
“Yes,” Nathaniel scowled. “She is pleasant to converse with.”
“High praise, indeed!” Oliver propped his feet up on the edge of Nathaniel’s desk, appearing far too relaxed. “She is also quite lovely,” he hummed.
“I have noticed,” he responded, but judging by the amused gleam in Oliver’s eye, his voice had missed the casual indifference he had aimed for.
“Oh, have you?” Oliver laughed. “I was uncertain, considering you did not look at her once while standing at the altar.”
“I generally do not allow my gaze to linger,” Nathaniel said, already exasperated by the conversation. “But of course, I have noticed that she is pretty.”
Pretty was not the right word. She was beautiful, delicate, breathtaking. He hadn’t dared to meet her gaze during the ceremony for fear he would forget the words he was supposed to say and make a fool of himself.
Oliver sighed.
Nathaniel buried his face in his hands, “I do not know what I am doing, Oliver. I never felt so out of my depths.”
“You know,” Oliver replied with a compassionate grin. “Most men would be pleased to find themselves married to such a pleasant and pretty woman.”
Nathaniel huffed a laugh, but it was void of any humor.
It was true that, as far as unfortunate, accidental scandals went, he could have found himself in a far less favorable position.
But no matter how hard he tried, he could not unravel the knot that had plagued his stomach since the moment everything had unfolded.
“I know how happy you are with Grace, and how you wish that for me as well,” Nathaniel said. “But this is not a love match.”
His friend shrugged, “Not yet. But who is to say what time will bring?”
Nathaniel shook his head. Oliver was always the optimist and more of a romantic than he would ever admit to. Perhaps he had more of an influence on Charlotte’s formative years than Nathaniel had realized.
“Emilia is not going to fall in love with me,” Nathaniel admitted quietly. He made no mention of his feelings towards her. Even though he was not ready to admit it, he knew if he were not careful with his heart, he would be in danger of losing it completely.
“Why would she not?” Oliver pressed.
“Why would she?” Nathaniel’s frustration began to rise.
“Because you are kind, loyal to a fault, and incredibly dashing.” Oliver’s tone was light, but his eyes narrowed slightly, and Nathaniel worried that he could see into his very soul.
He crossed his arms over his chest, doing his best to shove down the emotions that were threatening to rise. If he could not feel them, perhaps Oliver wouldn’t sense them.
“She did not choose me, Oliver,” Nathaniel’s voice raised slightly. “She did not wish to marry me.”
Oliver nodded, but the look in his eye was not convinced. “This would not have anything to do with Sarah, would it?”
Oliver’s tone softened to something far too close to pity. Nathaniel closed his eyes tightly, but did not reply. As much as he wished to say he was completely unaffected by his broken engagement, it would be a lie.
The only reason he had been present in society the year he had met Sarah Weston was to find his sister Adeline a match.
He was unsure what had possessed him to dance with the young woman, or appear unannounced in her parents’ sitting room the next morning to declare his intentions of courtship.
Sarah had somehow drawn from him a vulnerability he had never permitted himself to show to anyone else—save for Oliver on rare occasions.
His deepest wound did not come from losing her, nor even the breaking of his heart, but the knowledge that she was able to affect him so profoundly while feeling nothing for him in return.
He had weakened himself and offered his heart to a woman who had not even wanted it.
Nathaniel was quite certain he would not survive if it were to happen again.
He let out a low breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of everything he had never spoken out loud. Oliver stood, making his way to where Nathaniel sat, leaning a shoulder against the warm hearth.
“I believe you are confusing being loved with being chosen, Nathaniel.” His voice was quiet, but the words brushed against the bruise on Nathaniel’s heart.
“You are right in assuming that love is a choice, but it is not a one-time affair. Grace and I are wildly in love, but only because we wake up every morning and choose to love one another—and believe me, it is no easy task.”
“Perhaps for Grace,” Nathaniel muttered.
Oliver grinned, but continued. “Your marriage may not have begun on the most promising note, but that does not mean it is beyond hope. If you resist the urge to fight against every good thing that comes into your life, you may find yourself pleasantly surprised.”
A lump formed in Nathaniel’s throat. He had married Emilia under the assumption they would be friends, not that they would fall in love.
It was not that he did not wish for love; he had once believed he would only marry for that very reason—but the thought of loving her and having their lives intertwined in every way, yet never possessing her heart in return, was a kind of torture he was unsure he could endure.
Nathaniel’s thoughts died on his tongue at the sound of a soft knock on the door. It slowly creaked open, and Emilia’s soft smile appeared.
“I do not mean to intrude,” she whispered, a light blush staining her cheeks. She entered the room, revealing a small tray piled high with food balanced in her hands.
“I know you said you were not hungry,” she stammered. “But the servants were beginning to clear away breakfast, and I did not want you to have to wait until afternoon tea for something to eat.”
Nathaniel could feel Oliver’s bright grin burning into the side of his face, but he could not take his eyes off his wife. He stood from his seat, crossing the room to take the tray from her.
“One of the maids could have brought this,” he said, and her smile dimmed just a bit.
“But it was a nice thought,” he added quickly, desperate for the light to return to her eyes. “Thank you, Emilia.”
She tensed slightly, and Nathaniel’s heart dropped.
“What do you have planned for your first full day as duchess, Your Grace?” Oliver asked from his place in the corner. Emilia immediately relaxed, and Nathaniel had never been so grateful for his friend’s interruption.
“Charlotte is taking me on a tour of the house,” she smiled, but Nathaniel felt a twinge of guilt. He should have offered that very thing the day before, instead of hiding in his study.
“That sounds like a very entertaining day,” Oliver said, clapping a hand onto Nathaniels’ shoulder. “Thank you for taking care of our noble duke, here,” he continued.
Emilia’s blush deepened. All of them knew that the staff of Kenswick House would not let their duke go hungry, and Emilia’s gesture held more weight than simply meat and breakfast pastries.
She gave a quick curtsy, her red curls bouncing against their pins.
Even after she had turned and left the room, Nathaniel’s attention remained fixed on the space she had just occupied. Oliver laughed as he swiped a piece of cold ham from the tray that was still in Nathaniel’s hands.
“Be careful, Your Grace,” he crooned. “Your gaze is most certainly lingering.”
∞∞∞
Emilia slipped into her chambers, leaning against the closed door with a sigh.
After their tour of the house, Charlotte had insisted on taking a walk in the garden for some fresh air.
The sun shone just brightly enough to burn away some of the February chill, but Emilia had decided to forgo the excursion and retire to her room until afternoon tea.
She enjoyed Charlotte’s company immensely—despite her unchecked commentary and disregard for most of society’s rules, she was naturally one of the most poised and elegant young women Emilia had ever met.
Watching the effortless way Charlotte bore her station only made Emilia realize how difficult it was to breathe under the weight of her own title.
She was a duchess.
The thought still seemed too ridiculous to be true. She opened her eyes, her gaze unintentionally falling on the door that led to Nathaniel’s room. Her heart twisted as she remembered the painful way he had looked at her when she entered his study that morning.
She had meant the tray as a simple gesture of goodwill—but even though he had told her he would never turn her away, that did not necessarily mean that he wanted her close.
Emilia pushed off the wooden door and crossed the room to the window that overlooked the gardens.
Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, but Emilia let her eyes wander over the empty courtyard.
No flowers had yet begun to bloom, but the hedges that lined the walkways were thick and green from the wet winter.
Ever since she was a child, Emilia found herself desperately searching for the first signs of new life after months of cold, bleak winter.
Whether it was a leaf on a tree or a single blade of green grass, her heart longed for the reminder that no matter how cold and dark the season, spring always came.
Emilia’s head ached with the pressure of tears she refused to let herself cry. She turned from the window with the intention of lying down to rest, when her eye caught on a piece of postage sitting on top of her writing desk. Her maid must have delivered a letter while she was with Charlotte.
She stepped closer, and her heart sank at the familiar script. She sighed as she ripped open the wax seal.
Lord and Lady Moorfield present their compliments to
Her Grace, the Duchess of Kenswick, and request the honour of her company, together with His Grace, at their residence in Hanover Square on Thursday evening, the twenty-third of February, at seven o’clock for dinner and an evening of entertainment.
The ink on her marriage license was barely dry, and her uncle was already using the connection to the duke for his own social gain—a marriage he had been so vehemently against just a few short days ago.
She looked at the carefully penned script. She had spent hours repeatedly writing the same message as she assisted her aunt with the invitations for their lavish dinner party. She had never imagined she would ever be on the receiving end of one.
She knew if she took this to Nathaniel, he would be more than happy to send their regrets—he did not seem to hold any particular affection for her aunt or uncle.
But an unfamiliar feeling of courage surged inside Emilia at the thought of penning the reply in her own hand.
She sat down at her desk, pulling out a piece of stationery.
The Duke and Duchess of Kenswick express their gratitude for the kind invitation extended by Lord and Lady Moorfield.
It is with most sincere regrets that they decline the honour of their company at the forthcoming gathering.
With every good wish,
The Duchess of Kenswick
Emilia smiled as she finished her signature and reached for the bell pull. She paused, her hand mid air as she studied the note in front of her. She lowered her hand, folding the paper and slipping into the drawer of her desk.
There was no urgency to respond today. She would have her maid post the letter in a few days. There were few things Lord and Lady Moorfield valued more than control, and Emilia suspected they would find waiting for her reply just as trying as the rejection itself.