“I support your decision with all my heart. She will be exactly what Richland Hall needs. Her joy. Her laughter.” Hands fluttering, she tittered softly. “I can’t think of a better pairing of two souls. Opposite in many ways, yet a perfect, perfect fit in character and temperament.”

“You say this despite the fact she can’t…” He considered the carpet. Last night’s learned lesson was to speak the truth, and do it he would—as delicately as possible. “Despite the fact that she may never bear a child.”

“I have three more sons to carry on the Richland name.” A contemplative shadow flitted across her face. “This past year taught me that we must seize happiness because what we hold dear can be taken from us in the blink of an eye.”

The room was brighter for the honesty shared. It was a gift, adding dimension to their love. He strolled to his desk, plucked the folded letter from a mass of papers, and held it over his heart. Laughing gently for the sheer joy of it, he acknowledged another truth: love was softening him.

“You’ll have some convincing to do,” his mother said behind him. “A woman who can’t have a child carries a unique wound.”

“I know.” He’d love Charlotte Chatham through her trials as he suspected she’d love him through his.

Beyond the bank of imperious windows lining his wall, he spied his brothers emerging from the woods. They must already have finished their jaunt to the Roman folly. Their affection and brotherly camaraderie were dear to him. It was his place to lead their family now, and he’d do that by demonstrating love and fidelity.

Tucking the missive into his coat pocket, he was ready. It was time to launch the charge and win Mrs. Chatham’s heart once and for all.




CHAPTER 10




HER MAID REFOLDED a yellow underskirt for the third time. It was irksome because Malmsey had been with her for years and was the soul of efficiency.

She tapped her quill to her chin with the steadiness of a clock. Daylight washed over her latest unfortunate task: a list.

Villages had been written down, scratched off, and re-listed again…each one a possible new home.

When the grumbling maid removed a gown yet again, she had to ask, “Are you unwell, Malmsey?”

“No ma’am.” She turned the hem over, inspecting it with pursed lips.

“Then why so slow this morning?”

The maid ducked into the chest, her voice a muffled, “I didn’t know you were in rush to be gone, ma’am. You and the dowager get on so well. I thought you’d want to stay a bit longer.” Curious eyes peeked at her from a froth of skirts. “Maybe you’d want to see the duke again.”

Her quill-tapping stopped, and an odd tingle invaded her. The maid conspired to keep her in Richland Hall. Why? She’d not ventured from her chamber, but when she did it’d be to leave this fine estate and hunker down in Butterfly Cottage. She’d throw herself into gardening, find healing for the time being. She snorted. Maybe she’d give garden planning a try. Anything not to think of him.

Because the Duke of Richland would not be part of her future.

She could only guess she wasn’t in his. Not after last night’s uncomfortable dismissal. She’d paid for it with long, achy sobs and poor sleep. His last word about hope was far too cryptic.

Did he wish for a congenial parting? She was his neighbor and his mother’s friend.

That had to be it.

Smiling blandly, she looked out the window. From the third floor on a clear day, one could see the ocean spreading wide and blue in the distance. Perhaps a walk there would assuage the pain?

“No,” she said. “I won’t see the duke again.”

“Ever? That’s a bit hard, ma’am. He is your neighbor.” Mamlsey was, if anything, persistent.

“I’m sure the duke will be very busy soon.”

Neighbor’s could be avoided if one put some thought into it. Acknowledging that fact widened the void which had camped around her since last night. For two years she’d made a concerted effort to be in the duke’s vicinity, though never alone. It was always enough to fuel their attraction, yet not push them over impropriety’s cliff.

Their kiss unraveled everything. Their awkward conversation about Pandora’s box did too.

She rubbed her forehead. A throb banged there, magnifying the void that enveloped her. She badly needed the healing sanctity of her home.

There was a knock on the door, probably Thomas come to let them know the carriage was ready to take her home all of the short distance to Butterfly Cottage.

Malmsey opened the door with a cheerful, “And here he is, the duke himself.” The maid curtseyed. “We were just talking about you.”

She glared fiery darts at the maid’s back.

“Indeed.” His Grace wasn’t bothered by Malmsey’s forward chatter. He filled the doorway, more heart-achingly handsome than ever. “Good morning.”

His chocolate-smooth voice was a balm to her irritation.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

It was silly how the small things about him affected her. His strong, thoughtful hands. His scar peeking out from the black eye patch. She wanted to kiss the slanted line and heal it, though she never would. The denial left her dry as sand.

He was staring at her mouth. Had he come for a parting kiss?

She became aware of her death-grip on her chair’s back rest. Since she was leaving for good, she’d allow the luxury of a last kiss. A brazen idea, but recklessness in small doses was good for the heart. Freeing. Life was meant to be lived to the fullest, and he filled her. Thus, it was easy to order her maid to leave.

“Malmsey, go find Mrs. Staveley and ask her about the carriage.”

She was steady, giving the order. The maid’s eyes were saucers, the unspoken Alone? writ on her face. It had to be a shock after two years of working hard to never be alone in a room with the Duke of Richland. The practice was obliterated in one afternoon.

After interminable seconds, Malmsey dipped a curtsey. “Yes, ma’am.” And left.

They kept eye contact, listening to the maid’s footsteps fade. Daylight brushed the left side of him. The shine of his auburn hair. The stoic line of his jaw. He was back to his old habits, wearing his favorite boots and a brown broadcloth coat well-past the first stare of fashion. She liked him this way.

His lips twitched. “I didn’t come to gawk at you, yet I count it the best part of my morning that I am.”

“Oh, Your Grace.” The void around her was fading. All because of his presence and a few choice words.

He didn’t have a flare for conversation like his brother, Lord George, but his forthrightness was a fine quality. It made what he said better because it was a gift, raw and lovely beyond measure.

“You elevate me, Mrs. Chatham.” He canted his head, searching the window, a faint scowl crossing his features. “Somehow, you make the air I breathe better, the food I eat more satisfying, the…” His scowl deepened, and he was clearly searching for what he’d say next. His great, wide shoulders shrugged with futility. “Love should be me elevating you, seeing to your needs. Not stating what you do for me.”

He’d said love. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Whatever the duke wanted to say was a struggle, but there was nothing she could do. To struggle was to find enlightenment.

“What about my needs perplexes you?” she asked with gossamer lightness.

His brows thundered. A roil of emotion showed on his face. “I want you, Mrs. Chatham—” he raked her from head to hem “—and I want to attend to your needs. All of them.”

The dragon duke was back.

She feared turning to ashes under his liquid-silver gaze. There was no mistaking the mix of affection and ardor gleaming from their depths. She had hoped for one more kiss when they really needed sexual congress—a lifetime of it.

And that still wouldn’t be enough.

“Your Grace…I…” She possessed a steady voice, but it fled her. She was turning into a puddle in the chair.

He withdrew something from his coat pocket. “Allow me this,” he said, unfolding what appeared to be a letter.

She couldn’t be sure because clear thinking fled her too. She couldn’t make a coherent sentence. Her tongue refused to work. Her legs wouldn’t move and her breasts were suddenly sensitive. Achy. Full. Desperate for his touch.

The duke’s grin was endearing and boyish a split-second before his resonant voice filled the room.

Richland Hall, Saturday morning

May 24, 1788

My Dear Mrs. Chatham,

Thank you for your letter. It was the zenith of my day. Reading your words, I heard your voice. I felt your presence with me in my bed.

He paused to give her a smoldering look that curled her toes.

Please know my longing for your goes beyond the flesh. I don’t want to be your lecherous neighbor. I want to be your husband.

A glorious spangle jolted her. The chair squeaked from her rapid shifting because it was all she could do to let him finish. His gaze drifted up from the page.

“I want to be with you no matter what.” His firm tone spoke volumes.

“And my barren womb?” Her voice was whisper-thin.

He set the missive on the desk and dropped to one knee before her. He folded his warm, wonderful hands around hers.

“My letter addressed that. It says, in effect, that I don’t care because I want to you, body and soul, in my bed and in my home. That I accept you as you are.” He tapped his eye patch. “As I believe you accept me as I am.”

The gulf around her shattered. The duke had broken it into a thousand pieces, freeing her with his fervent, honest words. She was speechless.

His smile creased nicely. “Would you like to hear the rest of the letter?”