The Lonely Duke Waited Months for His Bride — Then She Arrived With His Missing Son
Chapter 18
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The room had changed in small, visible ways: a gentleman who had watched the exchange in silence finally lowered his eyes when Honoria looked toward him. Benedict wished Marian could see people questioning the cruel suggestion they had believed. He knew some would still whisper; it mattered that they could no longer pretend he had encouraged them. No apology could undo the humiliation, but the correction would travel.That evening, Benedict sat with Oliver before the nursery fire. The boy asked whether Marian would return."I do not know," Benedict answered."But you love her."Benedict looked up, startled by the directness of children. "Yes. Very much.""Then why do you not tell her?""I wrote that I love her. I have not had the courage to say it to her face. And even when I do, she must be free to answer no."Oliver thought about this while turning his wooden horse between his palms. "You let me choose when to stop leading my pony.""I did.""Perhaps she needs to choose, too."Benedict put an arm around his son. "I think she does."Honoria told Marian the following day what had been said. Marian listened without interruption: he had defended her without asking anything in return. For Marian, that mattered more than the county's public approval. She remained hurt, but Benedict had acted without any promise she would return. For the first time, she could imagine being loved by him without becoming a possession he needed to defend.As she packed, she asked herself: Could two frightened people learn to speak honestly enough to begin again?On Sunday, the 21st of September, Benedict asked Lady Honoria whether Marian would consent to see him. He did not arrive unannounced or demand a private audience. Honoria carried the request upstairs and returned only when Marian had said yes.They met in the garden-facing drawing room, its door opened to Honoria's adjoining room. Outside, the roses were beginning to lose their petals. Benedict looked tired; his ankle still ached. Marian nearly asked after his ankle and the lender, then stopped: this conversation was about them."I am sorry," Benedict said. "Not for failing to keep you from scandal, but for treating your life as a problem I could solve without you.""You have said that in your letter.""I know. I wished to say it where you could see me and decide whether you believe it."She waited. He glanced toward the garden, searching for a beginning."After Celia died, I thought duty might be safer than loving anyone again. When I began to love you, I called it gratitude." He stopped, his fingers tightening on the back of a chair. "Oliver needed you. Harrowmere needed you. Those were the words I could manage.""And what is the truth?""I loved you before you ever came through my gates. I did not recognize it then. I loved the woman who asked whether I read poetry, who dared to tell me I hid behind work, who made me laugh over an argument about a foolish character in a novel."