It was one of amusement.
And for the first time, he saw that there was something charming about her.
He’d stepped out into the garden and the children had fallen away. Catherine had turned and turned, laughing, confused by the sudden silence, her arms outstretched, stumbling forwards until her fingers brushed his arm. Then she’d stopped instantly, and her fingers had crawled upwards, to his shoulders, his neck, his cheeks, his ears, and he’d held his breath as theymoved over his face, brushing his lips, nose, his eyes as softly as butterflies’ kisses.
She pulled her hands away and tore off the handkerchief.
She had smiled such a breathtakingly beautiful smile, brightening from the deepest depths of her being until it reached the surface, her lips arching up in a gentle curve.
“You are here,” she had breathed.
For the first time in his life, he’d been at a complete loss. That’s when those vines had begun to take root, and grow, ever so slowly, firmly, stealthily.
Of course, he’d been a complete dolt, incapable of admitting to himself that he was slowly falling in love with his wife.
Until it was too late.
It wasn’t until after the funeral, when he’d found the diary, that he’d understood how deeply she had loved him.
He walked over to the dressing table, pulled open the bottom drawer, and took out a leather-bound diary.
The writing in it was round and childish.
She’d also written her version of that day in her diary. It had been the happiest day since she’d married him, she’d written.
Each day’s entry was a love letter. First from a child, then from a young lady, finally from a wife. It was an outpouring of honest feelings that he had never again encountered from anyone. It had shaken him to the core, the realisation that he had discovered her love for him far too late. It was also about sadness and loneliness, borne with fortitude. That had cut him to the core.
He had carried the diary with him for years; it had given him some comfort at times when he’d felt particularly lonely. Later, he’d kept it on his bedside table. When he went to Vienna, he couldn’t bear to leave it behind, so he’d taken it with him.
He knew the right thing to do was to give it to her.
It was hers, after all. It would help her remember.
His fingers flipped through the pages, wondering what he should do. After a while, he stood up and put the diary back in its place in the bureau.
Not just yet.
ChapterTwenty-Nine
“I believe,”the Duke said the next morning at breakfast, carefully setting down his coffee cup, “that it is my turn to cook today.”
Five astonished faces turned towards him.
The Duke raised an eyebrow. “Why do I detect a distinct expression of incredulity on your faces?”
“Well, I, uh…you know, it’s just that…” Theo hemmed and hawed before finally saying, “It’s because none of us believe you can cook, Your Grace.”
“You may be right about that, but I don’t see why that should stop me from trying.”
The look on their faces changed from incredulity to scepticism.
“I thought the agreement was that we would all contribute equally to the welfare of the family, no discrimination?”
“Yes, that’s what we said,” Les piped up.
“Well then.” He nodded. “The kitchen is mine today.”
“Fabulous,” Hector said with a grin. “I’ll be your kitchen helper.”
