“What? You did not think I would sit over there?” He nodded at the opposite seat, then gave her a teasing look. “Not when my wife is here.”
Phoebe laughed as she snuggled closer.
Graham lowered his face to the crown of her head. He inhaled her scent before dropping a kiss on her silken hair. “I love you, duchess of mine.”
“And I love you.” She kissed his cravat, where it rested over his heart. Tipping her head back, she met his love filled gaze. “Never let me go, Graham.”
He smoothed a curl back from her forehead. “Not unless you let go first.”
Phoebe snuggled closer. “You need not fear that, for I never will.”
Graham smiled, his face lighting up. “Then you shall stay forever in my arms.”
Epilogue
The door to the library burst open with such force that it seemed to quiver on its hinges. Jeremy strode into the room, his face marred by a scowl that could curdle milk. His blond hair, a testament to his lineage, was tousled and there was a fire in his green-grey eyes that bespoke of trouble.
“Father, Mother!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking with the fervor of his adolescence. “I—I had to... There was no choice. They were speaking ill of you both, and all because of me!”
Phoebe glanced up from her needlework, the delicate embroidery slipping from her fingers as her gaze locked onto Jeremy’s flushed face. The threads, once weaving a floral scene, now lay in disarray, much like the emotions knitting across her brow. Graham set aside his book, the tale of chivalry within its pages a stark contrast to the dishonor that had evidently been done to his family’s name.
“Jeremy, whatever is the matter?” Phoebe’s voice was steady, yet there was an undercurrent of concern that only those who truly knew her would detect.
“By the river,” Jeremy began, pacing before them with the restless energy of a caged animal. “Some lads—they started saying things. About you, Mother, about my sisters, because I am a bastard. They said...” He trailed off, clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
“Sit down, son.” It was more of a gentle command than a suggestion from Graham, his own expression hardening as he absorbed the severity of the situation.
Jeremy collapsed into a leather armchair, his gaze averted and cheeks flushed.
Graham moved to sit across from him. “First, you are my son. It matters not what side of the sheets you were born on. Now tell us exactly what happened,” Graham said.
Jeremy met his father’s gaze, the adrenaline that had carried him here starting to wane, leaving an uncomfortable chill in its stead. He recounted the incident in bursts of indignant words and sharp gestures, each detail painting a vivid picture of his defense against the other boy’s slanderous tongues.
“Insufferable curs,” he spat out, the last word tinged with disgust. “I could not let them get away with saying such things.”
Phoebe met Graham’s gaze over the top of Jeremy’s head, her hazel eyes reflecting a mixture of apprehension and pride. Without a word, they communicated their shared worry, the silent language of parents united in the desire to protect and guide.
“Jeremy,” Phoebe said softly, reaching out but stopping just short of touching his arm, respecting the space his anger demanded. “You did what you felt was right. That speaks volumes about your character.”
“Indeed,” Graham added, his tone carrying the weight of his station, yet softened with fatherly concern. “But remember, we must also consider how we defend our honor.”
Phoebe offered a warm smile, “we are grateful for your courage. But you must accept that there will always be someone passing judgment on our family. You cannot fight them all. Nor can you allow their ignorance to upset you.”
As the tension in the air dissipated, replaced by the familiar comfort of family, Jeremy nodded slowly, his chest still heaving with the remnants of fury but his mind receptive to the guidance offered by his parents.
Jeremy’s hand, still clenched in a tight fist of lingering anger, was slowly enveloped by Phoebe’s smaller, more delicate fingers. Her touch was as light as the summer breeze that often graced their gardens, but it carried the strength of iron-willed conviction.
“Jeremy,” she said, her voice low and melodious, laced with the harmony of understanding, “your father and I hold no bounds to our pride in you for defending your family’s honor.” Her gaze never wavered from his stormy eyes, seeking to anchor him amidst his inner turmoil. “Yet, we must find a path lined with wisdom rather than wrath,” she continued, offering a reassuring squeeze to his hand to punctuate her words.
Graham leaned forward in his chair, bridging the gap between his authoritative role and his paternal affection. He cleared his throat, a precursor to imparting a lesson Jeremy knew would be both fair and firm.
“Son,” he said, his voice resonant, echoing off the high ceilings adorned with ancestral portraits, “to engage in fisticuffs may bring an immediate sense of justice, but it is fleeting.” Graham’s hand found its place atop Jeremy’s other hand, sandwiching it between his and Phoebe’s, creating a trifecta of familial connection.
Jeremy nodded as he considered his father’s words.
“True strength lies in restraint, in turning a poised cheek to provocations, and employing one’s intellect over instinct,” Graham advised, his own experiences as a young man of hot blood simmering beneath his counsel. “Use your words, my boy,” Graham urged softly. “They can build bridges where fists would only erect walls.”
In the depths of Jeremy’s chest, a battle waged—the visceral desire to lash out against injustice versus the dawning comprehension of his parents’ wisdom. Their shared looks of concern and love seeped into him.
