Her soft query was like a barb in his heart. “She died after childbirth, and our son joined her just before his first birthday.”
At the last, his voice trembled. The violent tide of grief, which was never far when he thought of the golden-haired baby who had breathed his last in a fevered stupor, rose. He had fought, that sweet lad. And God knew Adrian had fought for him, too. But in the end, the illness had been too much, too strong.
“Oh, my love.” Tilly’s arms went around his neck, and she pressed her cheek to his. The wet brim of her hat grazed his temple, but he clutched her back, his arms wrapping around her waist in turn. “How you must have suffered. It must pain you to speak of them, to think of them.”
It did, but it also felt somehow good to reveal a small part of himself to her. All the truth he dared for today. The weight in his chest seemed lighter.
He held her tightly, absorbing her love, her softness, her warmth even through the damp of their sodden garments. “It does. I…I thought to never love again. Thought that part of me had died and was buried with them both. But you have changed everything for me, Tilly. You have made me complete once more.”
This was truth, the only he dared offer her for now.
She kissed his neck, his ear. “It is the same for me. I have been lost, adrift, until I found you. I never believed I would find love until you came into my darkness and filled me with light.”
Christ.
He did not deserve her.
But then, he could not have her, could he? Not truly. Not while she was married to Longleigh and not with the weight of his own deceptions hanging over them.
Thunder cracked, followed almost instantly by another bright flash of lightning.
“I do not want to lose you,” he told her. “One month with you is not sufficient. No amount of time can be. I want… Damn it, Tilly. I want forever although I know it is not yours to give.”
Her lips were on his cheek, kissing the wetness from his skin, and to his shame, he realized it was not just rain there, but tears as well. His, hers, blending, mingling. “Oh, my darling. I want that too.”
He was going to fight for her. To fight forthem. Whatever he had to do, he was going to bloody well do it. He took her lips, kissing her slowly as the storm raged on around them.
Chapter 8
The time to strike is soon. Let us bring all haste.
~letter from the Duke of Longleigh to The Honorable Mr. George Shaw
More time.
He did not know why the thought had not occurred to him before. But as they made their way back to Coddington Hall, soaked to the skin from their storm adventure, pedaling the similarly drenched tandem cycle down the massive drive, the answer to their immediate problems—if not their lifelong problems—appeared to him.
It was not a panacea, to be sure, but time could help Adrian to prepare for the tremendous task ahead, one he had never imagined he would face when he had arrived at Coddington Hall nearly a month before. But much had changed. So very much. And now, he knew he needed to formulate a better strategy for extracting Tilly from this untenable situation. To find the means of being able to care for her and protect her as she deserved, if not as she was accustomed.
He closed his eyes at night to fall into a fitful sleep interrupted by nightmares of losing Tilly. Time was the only answer awaiting him. Time was the one commodity he had believed was in the shortest supply for them. Like a priceless jewel which, having been stolen, could never be replaced. However, as he sailed along the wet gravel, splashing through puddles with Tilly at the helm, the rainbow arching over them like a benediction, he finally seized upon the solution for the imminent return of the Duke of Longleigh.
“More time,” he announced with a profusion of triumph to Tilly’s back.
Her wet curls had spilled down her back, burnished in the renewed light of the waning sun. And it was true that he had run his fingers through them as they kissed within the temple. But it was also true that he did not give a damn if her servants took one look at her and knew.
Let them.
She sent a glance over her shoulder that made her bobble the steering bar as they pedaled along, sending them into another massive puddle. Rain water splashed up, soaking his stockings and shoes, splattering the lower halves of his tweed knickerbockers.
“Do pay attention to the steering, my love,” he called pointedly.
“I am,” she tossed back, this time keeping her gaze trained upon the horizon and the massive edifice awaiting them. “But tell me what you said!”
Coddington Hall appeared like nothing so much as an immense, stone-hewn monster as it towered over the reflective surface of the manmade lake below it. It seemed, in that moment, a rebuke. Almost as if all the generations of the dukes who had lived within those ostentatious walls were reaching through the centuries to hurl their disapproval in his direction.
Fuck the lot of them.
And fuck the man who had ruined his mother and left her ostracized from her family, a bastard baby in her belly. Who had subsequently seen that her family had her committed to a lunatic asylum when she had dared to approach him for funds years later, when their bellies had been starving and she had been tossed from the house of the man who had been her protector.
