The Lonely Duke Waited Months for His Bride — Then She Arrived With His Missing Son
Chapter 9
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"I see a man who is frequently too serious," Marian said, "who distrusts compliments, who loves his son fiercely, and who once tried to convince me a drawing could not be enjoyed unless it was excellent.""That is a damning portrait.""I have not finished. He listens more carefully than he knows, and his smiles are rarer than they ought to be."Benedict stopped. "I find I look forward to your visits with a degree of—""Benedict," Honoria called. "You promised me the names of those roses."He sighed.Marian looked at him with unmistakable mischief. "A degree of botanical enthusiasm?" she suggested."An alarming degree," he answered.At the steps, Marian discovered a leaf caught in Benedict's sleeve. She removed it before either could remember to be formal. Her fingertips brushed the cloth above his wrist, and his gaze dropped to her hand. Suddenly, she noticed how close they stood."I ought not to make a habit of rescuing your appearance, Your Grace," she said."I should be obliged if you did not stop."Neither smiled immediately. When they did, the moment had altered. Marian turned toward Honoria, cheeks warm. Benedict remained beside the roses, smiling. He only wanted her to stay.Across the courtyard, Dacre watched them and understood what his calculations had missed: the Duke's interest in Miss Whitlock was becoming personal, and personal attachments could be made to carry public consequences.The drawing arrived on the last Sunday of August. Oliver had given Benedict a taller figure than nature required, Marian a green dress, and himself an enormous smile. Behind them stood Harrowmere, which looked remarkably like a castle made of biscuits."Do you like it?" he asked Marian."Very much. I shall treasure it."He twisted the wooden horse in his hand. "May I ask something?""Anything you wish.""If you marry Papa, must I call you Mama?"Marian put the picture carefully aside. Lady Honoria sat in the next room with an open book. Benedict had stopped at the threshold, unseen by his son."No, Oliver. You must call me what feels right to you.""But other boys have mamas.""And you have one, too. Celia is your mother always. Nothing that happens afterward can take her from you.""Would you be sad if I never called you Mama?""I would be sad only if you thought you must stop loving your mother in order to be kind to me."Oliver looked relieved, then troubled again. "Sometimes I cannot remember her face unless I look at the painting.""Then look at the painting. Ask your father to tell you stories. Keep the things you remember. And when you forget a detail, that does not mean you have loved her less."The boy's lower lip trembled. Marian opened her arms without insisting, and Oliver moved into them. He held her tightly, as if he had carried a question too large for his small body, and had at last been permitted to set it down. Benedict remained in the doorway until he could trust his voice.That evening, he asked Marian to accompany him and Honoria into the portrait gallery. Celia's likeness hung near the western window. She had been painted in blue, one hand resting on a book, her expression serious and hopeful.