“Then I would have destroyed your chance at happiness for the sake of my own pride.”
“It’s not too late,” Rosalie said urgently. “You could call off the duel. You could give Thomas a chance to prove himself worthy.”
“And what of the insult to our family’s honor?”
“What insult? A man proposing marriage to the woman he loves? A woman accepting because she loves him back? Where’s the insult in that?”
Hugo turned back to face his daughter, seeing in her face hope and desperation that broke his heart.
“Rosalie, if I were to reconsider my position on Lord Pemberton, what assurance would you give me that you understand the seriousness of marriage?”
Hope flared in her eyes. “I’d give you my word that Thomas and I will have a proper courtship with your supervision and approval. That we won’t marry until you’re satisfied that we’re truly suited.”
But as Hugo looked at his daughter’s hopeful face, thought of Pemberton preparing to die for love, and remembered Sybil’s tears when she’d begged him to trust his daughter’s judgment, he realized that pride was cold comfort compared to family.
“Rosalie, I need you to send word to Lord Pemberton immediately. Tell him the duel is canceled.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. And then I need you to help me figure out how to win back your stepmother’s forgiveness.”
If it’s not already too late.
As Rosalie threw her arms around him, as he felt her tears of relief against his shoulder, Hugo allowed himself to hope that perhaps it might not be too late after all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Keats townhouse stood before Hugo like a fortress, its familiar facade now unwelcoming. He’d ridden hard through London’s morning streets, his horse lathered with sweat, his own appearance disheveled in ways that would have horrified his valet.
The butler who answered his knock was thin, austere, and disapproving.
“Your Grace.” The butler’s tone was coolly correct. “Her Grace is not receiving callers today.”
“Tell her it’s her husband. Tell her I won’t leave until she speaks with me.”
“Her Grace was quite specific about not wishing to be disturbed?—”
“Then I’ll wait.” Hugo stepped past him into the foyer. “All day if necessary.”
The man’s disapproval was palpable, but he was too well-trained to argue with a duke. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall inform Her Grace of your… persistence.”
Hugo found himself alone in the morning room of the Keats family, where his wife grew up.
Footsteps on the stairs made him turn, hope flaring. But it was Lady Keats who entered, not her daughter.
“Your Grace.” Her curtsy was perfectly correct but notably cool. “How unexpected.”
“Lady Keats. I’ve come to speak with my wife.”
“Have you? How curious, since you seemed content to let her leave without a word three days ago.”
The accusation stung. He’d let his pride keep him from following her immediately.
“I made a mistake. Several mistakes. I’m here to make amends.”
Lady Keats studied his face with that penetrating gaze her daughter had inherited. “And what sort of amends might those be?”
“The sort that requires me to speak with Sybil directly.”
