After two agonizing years, they finally,
And
Because he was a duke, and she’d never be able to give him what men in his position needed most. An heir.
CHAPTER 7
LOVE WAS PROFOUND AND UNRULY. He’d known versions of it with his family, but the emotion blossoming between him and Mrs. Chatham was a tempest. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, give her a good shaking, and make her tell him the truth about her difficult secret.
He already knew. George had told him.
His brother imparted the substance of a conversation he’d overheard months ago. In it, Mrs. Chatham had tearfully shared a confidence with the dowager. Now she needed to share it with him. That was how trust and respect worked. Love fed on those qualities.
He and Mrs. Chatham needed to entrust their worst pain, their harshest disappointments, and their greatest joys for love to grow. His good, affectionate family had struggled with this truth as well. This past year showed him that.
Today, he and Mrs. Chatham had a taste of honest words in his sitting room. It was their beginning. Now they must continue to feed their wildly chaotic, yet fledgling, emotions, but it couldn’t be forced.
She had to give him the deepest recesses of her heart.
Seeing this truth was no different than glimpsing a corner of a magnificent painting, knowing the beauty that was coming…and having to wait for it. And wait. And wait.
Gentleness helped. Thus, he unfolded his arms and leaned forward. He brushed the back of his knuckles on her knee. She was wary, watching him like a curled-up cat unsure of being petted. Her gaze followed every stroke on her wool-covered knee, her leg, and her half-exposed foot.
Two candelabra lit the room. Flickering candles brightened her sherry-colored eyes. Their rich, liquid hue filled her face.
“Your Grace—”
“Nathan.”
Her eyes flared wider.
“When I’m alone with you, call me Nathan. It’s what my brothers called me as a boy.”
His voice was hoarse from intimacy twining between them. Mrs. Chatham might wish to slow the swirling changes going on between them, but she couldn’t deny their palpable presence.
She nibbled her lower lip as a puzzled dent camped between her eyebrows. Her breathing ebbed and flowed with greater tenacity. She fought something.
“Tell me what it is,” he coaxed.
Her soulful gaze met his. “We’ve opened Pandora’s box, and now we ought to close it.”
Careful strokes to her skirt-covered leg stopped. This was puzzling. And enlightening. He expected a garden metaphor or an outright confession of the heart, not a mythical reference.
“What do you mean?”
“Pandora, the first woman in Greek mythology,” she explained patiently.
“I know who she is. The gods bestowed their choicest gifts on her, and she married...” Perplexed, he searched the air.
“Epimetheus.” She supplied the name, looking at him as if comprehension would come. Seconds ticked on the Dutch clock tucked in the corner before she added, “He was warned not to marry her, but he did anyway, bringing him misery.”
He toyed with her hem. He had a good idea where she was going with the tale, but he had something to add of his own because art and precision were in his blood. “Some say the first translation wasn’t correct. Pandora had a jar, not a box. Another translation has misplaced curiosity at fault, while another—”
“I don’t need a lesson in the details of Greek mythology,” she huffed in frustration.
“My point was only to enhance the—"
“I’m barren!” Color was high in her cheeks. She blinked as glossy wetness filled her eyes.
He scooted forward, his knees bumping her chair. “That doesn’t matter. I want to be with you. Isn’t that enough?”
She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her shawl. “You can’t mean that. You’re the Duke of Richland. The very design of this house party has been to find your duchess.”
He could argue a different point. Oh, she had one facet correct: the guests, the week-long entertainments were meant to find him a wife, but today…tonight shed new light on a dark, dark year. What if the true motive of his heart was to restore Richland? To fill it with love and happiness however such a gift might come?
Was the greater thing progeny? Or love?
He knew how he’d answer, but marriage was an equation with two hearts and minds.
Mrs. Chatham was prickly. “Don’t you understand? I can’t give you children. If you pursue this—this passion between us, you’d be leg shackled to me.”
He grinned. “I could use a good leg shackling. If it’s with you.”
Her jaw dropped. “This is not a light-hearted matter.”
Perhaps he shouldn’t have ventured the leg-shackling quip.
“Mrs. Chath—"
“You must go. Now.” Her trembling voice brooked no disagreement.
