Chapter 8 #3
Taking a slow sip, his father considered him over the rim. “A noble reason, but unwise. Do you even love Miss Winslow?”
Luca shrugged. “I don’t dislike her.”
A humorless smile tugged at his father’s mouth. “That is a fine start to any marriage,” he muttered, settling into his chair with deliberate weight.
“I don’t actually intend to marry her,” Luca admitted, lowering himself into the seat opposite.
“Pray tell,” his father said dryly, “how will you manage that feat?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll think of something.”
“Very comforting, Son.”
Luca leaned forward, earnest. “It wasn’t my finest plan, I admit. But when the Duke of Brackenford cornered her, I saw the panic in her eyes. She needed rescuing.”
“Understandable,” his father conceded, “but foolish. Word has already spread. I heard about it in Parliament before I even returned home.”
A pang of guilt pierced Luca. “I’m sorry, Father. Had I known it would spread so quickly, I would have told you first.”
“I believe you,” his father said, though his gaze softened only slightly. “But I am worried about you.”
Luca forced a smile, one he hoped looked reassuring. “There’s no reason to be.”
“That,” his father said, swirling the contents of his glass, “is the job of every good father. I want you to know the happiness I knew with your mother.” His voice gentled, as it always did when he spoke of her. “I want you to marry for love.”
“I will,” Luca promised, though even to his own ears the words rang hollow.
His father studied his glass, then lifted his eyes again. “I am acquainted with Miss Winslow. She does not seem… serious enough for you.”
“She is more than she seems. She is kindhearted—though she tries to hide it.”
“Why hide it?”
Luca hesitated. To explain would be to betray Charlotte’s secrets and, that, he could not do. “The ton can be a fickle beast,” he said carefully. “I believe Miss Winslow has learned to play her part.”
His father huffed into his glass. “The problem with games, Son, is that there is always a loser. Promise me you will tread carefully.”
“I will,” Luca assured him.
The duke waved a dismissive hand. “Go then. Enjoy dinner with your Miss Winslow.”
“She is not mine,” Luca countered.
But the smile that curved his father’s lips was knowing. “Then why do you smile whenever you speak her name?”
“I do not.”
His father’s chuckle was low, edged with truth. “You may claim indifference, but your actions betray you. You care for her more than you admit.”
“I do care for her,” Luca conceded at last. “But that is a far cry from wanting to marry her.”
His father raised his glass. “You just might have to.”
The words—you just might have to—clung to Luca as he crossed the study, lingering like smoke, heavier than the scent of brandy and fire. His hand closed around the brass handle, but he did not pull. Something inside urged him to turn back.
He faced his father again. “Do you know what troubles Jude?”
“No,” he admitted. “But he seems to be increasingly unhappy.”
“I’ve noticed that as well,” Luca said. His chest tightened. It wasn’t like Jude to wear his burdens so plainly.
His father set his glass down with a soft clink, folding his hands as though weighing his words. “He needs a wife.”
“A wife is not a cure-all.”
“Perhaps not,” his father replied, his gaze drifting to the hearth.
The firelight etched the lines in his face more deeply.
“But the right wife is a helpmate—someone who makes this life worth living. That is what I had with your mother.” His voice caught.
“I only wish I’d had more time with her. Had I known…” His words trailed off.
The sight of his father—always so steady, so commanding—cracked by grief, tugged something sharp inside Luca. “I’m sorry, Father.”
His father gave him a weak smile. “Man is not meant to be alone. Yet the thought of remarrying is petrifying. I am not ready for such a step.”
“I only want you to be happy,” Luca said. And he meant it, though he doubted happiness was something easily found again.
“I was happy,” his father murmured, his voice hollow. “But now I feel as though I am barely keeping my head above water. Years have passed since your mother died, and still the memories don’t fade. Some people are more than love, Luca—they are home.”
Luca’s throat tightened. He wanted to give comfort, but no words seemed adequate. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the phrase feeling woefully insufficient.
His father shook his head faintly. “No, it is I who am sorry. I shouldn’t be burdening you with this. But…” His eyes glistened, though no tears fell. “I wish I had just one more day with her. Now I can only see her when I close my eyes.”
The long clock in the corner struck, alerting him to the time. Luca straightened, reluctant but resigned. “I should go.”
His father closed his eyes, leaning back into his chair as though the weight of memory pressed too heavily upon him. “Go, then. I will remain here… remembering a much more simple time.”
Luca lingered a moment longer, watching the once-indomitable man who had raised him look impossibly mortal. Then with a heaviness he could not shake, he left the study.