The Lonely Duke Waited Months for His Bride — Then She Arrived With His Missing Son
Chapter 6
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"What do you miss most?" Benedict asked."Being known before I have explained myself. My father knew when I was pretending not to be hurt."He looked at the book without reading it. "Celia knew when I was hiding behind work.""Did she object?""Frequently. She once removed every account book from my study and hid them beneath the nursery cushions."Marian laughed. "You sound as though you deserved it.""Entirely. I spent two hours looking for them and was forced to play with Oliver instead."They fell silent, not unhappily. Beyond the window, the gardens were green in the late summer light."Tell me," she said, "have you discovered what you would do with a day free of duty?""I once enjoyed drawing, landscapes chiefly. They were poor things.""May I see them?""They are not fit to be seen.""Nor was my first pony fit to be ridden. Yet, we improved together.""Then you must be prepared for considerable disappointment.""I have endured worse."He promised, reluctantly, to search for an old sketchbook. Marian imagined him outdoors with charcoal on his fingers and sunlight on his face. The picture startled her by its intimacy.Benedict handed her the poetry book. "I hoped you might keep this."The binding was fine leather, its edges gilt. Marian felt the old warning rise. Gifts were rarely free. Once, an employer had given her a shawl at Christmas and expected extra hours of unpaid work in return, as though the shawl had purchased her evenings."I could not accept something so valuable.""It is a book, Miss Whitlock, not a carriage.""That does not alter the matter."He withdrew his hand. "As you wish."The words were perfectly courteous. Their coolness made her regret the speed of her refusal. She had treated a gentle offer as though it concealed a bargain, and Benedict had heard the accusation she had not intended to make.Honoria returned with a tale of an expedition to Italy, and the moment disappeared beneath other conversation. Yet, Marian watched Benedict across the luncheon table, noticing how he asked after everyone else's comfort and seemed almost embarrassed when anyone asked after his.When she left, she paused on the steps. "The poem was even finer than I remembered.""I am glad.""And I am sorry if I seemed ungracious.""You were honest. I can hardly reproach you for that."But he did not smile.Marian rode back to the dower house carrying no book, and felt the absence more keenly than she expected. She wished she could tell him that the obstacle was not the gift, but the fear that someone else's kindness might one day be presented as a debt.Benedict remained on the steps after her carriage had gone. He had not meant the book as a claim; he had wanted merely to place something beautiful in her hands and see her pleased. It surprised him that her refusal should hurt; it surprised him still more that he was already searching for a better way to understand it.