The Lonely Duke Waited Months for His Bride — Then She Arrived With His Missing Son
Chapter 3
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The third letter was the one he carried in his pocket on difficult days. Marian described her father's patient instruction in horsemanship, her own youthful habit of trying to carry too much at once, and a basket of apples that had collapsed on a stair because she refused assistance."I have learned, eventually, that accepting a hand does not mean surrendering one's own," she wrote. "Though I admit the lesson is not yet settled. Tell me, Benedict, what would you do with a whole day in which nobody required anything of you?"He tried to answer, then admitted he did not know. She replied that perhaps they could discover the answer one day.By June, the letters arrived eagerly awaited. Their meeting was fixed for the 12th of July. When her letter of postponement reached him on the 13th, he read of her elderly aunt's illness with sympathy. He wrote that he understood completely. He did understand. Yet the weeks that followed made him increasingly uncertain whether a friendship born on paper would survive the inconvenience of real lives.Now, the woman of the letters was real and asleep under his aunt's roof. For the first time, he could imagine a day without obligations, speaking with Marian and discovering what she might say next.Lady Honoria received Marian at breakfast the following morning with the affectionate scrutiny of a woman who had arranged an introduction and discovered that Providence possessed a more theatrical imagination than she did."Your aunt will recover?" she asked."The physician believes so. A companion has come to remain with her. I would not have left otherwise.""And you wrote?""Twice. I suspect the second letter has taken a more dignified route than I managed."It arrived on the 11th, as it happened, carrying news of a journey already completed. Honoria found the circumstance amusing; Marian found it mildly mortifying.Benedict, when he came to call with Oliver, assured her that no apology was required. "I knew why you had postponed," he said. "I did not know whether the journey still pleased you.""It frightened me," Marian admitted. "That is different."Oliver was absorbed in a biscuit and a drawing book at the other end of the room. Honoria sat beside him, apparently interested in an illustration of a gray horse. Benedict and Marian occupied chairs near the window, well within view."I owe you a clearer account of what I hope for," he said. "Our letters were written under the possibility of marriage, but you are not bound by them. You are Lady Honoria's guest. You may decide after our acquaintance that Harrowmere is not the place for you.""Even after yesterday?""Especially after yesterday. Saving my son must never be treated as a promise to marry his father."Something in Marian's shoulders eased. During years of employment, she had encountered too many people who regarded a kindness bestowed as permission to demand her gratitude forever."And may you also decide against me?" she asked."Of course.""Then we shall be equally brave or equally foolish."He smiled. "There is some comfort in equality."