His inborn stillness cracked. The heels of his hands dug into his thighs. None of this was going as planned. He was raised to give the utmost respect to women. He wanted to persuade her against her angry demand, but wisdom whispered otherwise.
Retreat was in order. He’d regroup and reassess how to fully win her heart.
Wearily, he pushed up off the fragile chair and returned it to its rightful place at the escritoire. The soles of his shoes scraped the floor from leaden footsteps. He made his way to the door and tarried there, bitter disappointment washing over him. He wouldn’t be the one to dry her tears tonight. But he was determined. They would have more nights together. Of that he was certain.
Before he closed the door, he faced the stubborn woman who would someday be his duchess. He was quite certain no other dukes had to work this hard to gain their duchesses. He’d take this as further proof of the widow’s worth: her refusal came from a wish to protect him, albeit misguided. Her valiant effort made her all the more endearing.
She wiped another tear, managing to be fierce and soft while sniffling in her chair. “Why do you linger in my doorway, Your Grace?”
“Because I must own that my poor choice of humor caused you pain. I will carry that with me for the rest of my life. I hope someday you will forgive me.”
“It’s done.” Chin to chest, she plucked a loose thread on the chair’s upholstered arm.
A million stars winked encouragement at him through the dormer window. Those heavenly bodies had witnessed centuries of lovers in turmoil. No doubt they’d preside over many more.
“There is something else…if you’ll allow…”
“This is your home,” she said peevishly. “I can hardly toss you out.”
A giant hand could be squeezing his heart. His fingertips whitened from their staying grip on the door. He’d failed her this night, a lesson to harbor for the future.
He took a labored breath and gentled his voice. “I think you’ve forgotten that there is more to Pandora’s tale. All translations end on a similar note. After the badness fled, there was one thing left.”
Her spine was off the back rest. She dabbed her nose with a kerchief and slipped one foot, then the other into her shoes. “I can’t recall what it is, but I’ve no doubt you’ll supply me with the answer.” Hands resting primly on her knees, she met his gaze and waited.
“Hope.”
CHAPTER 8
HE SUNK onto his bed and fell back onto a sea of the finest cotton money could buy. Mrs. Staveley and a battalion of chamber maids had prepared his bed for warmer weather: a fluffy summer counterpane, lighter draperies to shut around his bed, and the downiest pillows.
Restorative sleep was what he needed. He tore off the piratical patch and flung it to the floor. His eyes grained. He rubbed them, the good one and the cloudy blind one too. On occasion, when he caught his uncovered visage in a mirror, he’d fancy himself a villain in a gothic novel. The medieval-looking scar, an ugly jagged line, was just as frightening as his whitish eye.
Mrs. Chatham’s ardor had never changed. Lust between them had sizzled hotly before the accident when he was a whole second son, and it crackled like wildfire even though he was a damaged man.
The widow had deep, unseen wounds of her own. She’d masked them well. Wasn’t it time for her to let them go? Dare he suggest such a thing?
He wanted a life with Mrs. Chatham. To build and love, to heal and grow.
He smiled at the plum canopy overhead. Only a gardener would know how to fill the holes in his heart…humor for a more opportune time.
Stretching on his bed, the tips of his fingers grazed something stiff and crinkly on his pillow. He picked it up and held a neat square to the light. Foolscap. Folded in quarters. The slanted penmanship familiar to him.
“Mrs. Chatham. Leaving missives on my pillow, are you?”
Legs dangling over the bed, he opened the letter and read it with her knowing, sensual voice flooding his ears.
HE CHUCKLED TO HIMSELF. “Why Mrs. Chatham, you’re just as bland as Doctor Mimsby.”
He put his attention back on the staid missive. There was a break in the text and two ink blobs before the widow continued.
