“Yes,” Alistair lied, pricked anew with guilt for having dwelt upon his unexpected feelings for Violet rather than paying Marjorie his respects. It wasn’t that he cherished the time with his first wife any less, he reminded himself sternly. It’s just that, lately, that life seemed less vivid than it had before. Not less important, just less... present.
Roper’s mouth twisted, as if he was carefully considering his next words. “May I speak frankly, master?”
“Of course.” Surprise and self-recrimination washed over Alistair at the realization that after decades of service, Roper still felt he needed permission. Roper had always been far more than a mere manservant. He was Alistair’s sole confidant, Alistair’s sole friend. The man was almost family... to Alistair, at least. Was he truly so single-minded and unapproachable that after all these years, Roper still could not feel comfortable in his presence?
“Your wife was a lovely person, both inside and out,” his loyal manservant began carefully.
“Er... thank you.”
“But,” Roper continued, “she is no longer among us.”
Alistair gestured at the well-tended grave beside him. “I know.”
Roper met his eyes. “Do you?”
Alistair frowned. “You requested to speak frankly. I bid you to also speak plainly.”
“Very well. Miss Smythe—”
Alistair closed his eyes. Was he so transparent?
“Master, if you do not wish for me to speak... ”
“Not if you intend to suggest I forswear tending the garden in favor of cultivating a romance instead. I cannot. Yes, I loved my wife. She meant the world to me, and was verily my one true love. But more importantly, I have no time for wooing and no right to court anyone. I have Lily.”
Roper’s voice betrayed a hint of a sad smile. “That’s the first time I have heard you speak of your wife in the past tense, master. I, too, cared much for her, but I am pleased to see you setting her free into the past, where she belongs.”
Alistair’s eyes flew open. Roper was right. Shehad beenthe light of his life. HehadlovedMarjorie, past tense. He’d buried his wife long, long ago, and had chosen to live in the past simply because that was the last time he’d experienced happiness. Except that wasn’t true anymore, either, was it? His entire household wore smiling faces these days, his once-dour daughter was nothing short of jovial, and as for himself... Well. His neck heated. If he was not yet in love, it was only a matter of time.
Time he did not have.
He took a deep breath. He could no longer deny his feelings when it came to Violet. He was mad for her. Utterly, absolutely, irrevocably smitten, and no matter how hard he tried to control his passion, he could not curtail his regard. For him, however, love would have to wait.
“Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” he muttered, hoping to curtail the conversation there before his manservant actually took him up on his previous invitation to speak plainly.
Roper’s eyes were serious. “Either a man believes in the existence of true love, or he doesn’t. And if you do, and if you have, then there’s no reason you can’t find love again.”
Alistair shook his head. “I am not looking for love. I’m looking for a cure.”
“Doesn’t matter overmuch,” Roper said with a shrug. “Love has a way of looking for you.”
“I was blessed with that miracle long ago,” Alistair reminded him firmly. “I am fine with my lot. I live for my daughter. Hers is the only future I care about.”
Roper walked past him to stand before Marjorie’s grave. After a moment, he turned and said softly, “Loving someone else wouldn’t mean you loved her any less. It would just make you an exceptionally fortunate man. You and Miss Lillian both.”
“Fortunate?” Alistair repeated, nearly choking on the word. “I lost my wife. I nearly lost my daughter. Since that day, neither one of us has seen the sun. I spend every minute of every hour searching for a cure and have done nothing but fail, again and again. I have lived in misery these past nine years. Despite my best efforts, Lily still has no life. Mayneverhave a life.”
Roper’s expression hardened, rather than softened. “That much, I believe, is most certainly up to you.”
Alistair shot him a sour look. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“I shall illustrate.” Roper stepped forward gestured at the engraved stone before them. “Who is in this grave?”
Crossly, Alistair scowled at his manservant. “My wife.”
Roper moved to the left, before the stone that readLillian Waldegrave. “And who is buried here?”
“No one, as you well know.”
