“No time to explain.” The older man’s gaze finally shifted to behind Alastair, where Daisy sat huddled. “He is gravely ill.”
There was silence for a moment, and when she looked at him, Alastair was pale. “Alastair, you must go.” Daisy handed back the jacket, hoping that she had covered herself decently enough.
Alastairlovedhis father.
Her dearest friend, her one true love, turned back, looking torn. “I need to escort you home.”
“No.” She raised a hand, holding his gaze and speaking firmly. “I’ll be fine. You mustn’t waste time. Go.”
Still, he hesitated. He’d wanted to speak to her father tomorrow.
A sharp pang squeezed her chest. She didn’t want to believe it was a premonition, and yet deep down, she knew. Nothing would be the same.
She knew.
He would go to London and take his place in Society—with or without his father. Proper ladies who had been raised to be perfect duchesses would be presented to him. They would be beautiful and refined, and she would be relegated to no more than a pleasant memory.
Lord Calvin folded his arms across his chest. “Time is of the essence, Wadsworth.” He addressed Alastair by his courtesy title. How long before he was truly the duke?
Which only further reminded Daisy of all the reasons talk of forever had been a mistake. What had she been thinking?
She’d been thinking that she loved him—that’s what.
She’d made a conscious decision to take whatever joy she could have before it ended.
Alastair turned back, more torn than she’d ever seen him. “I’ll return,” he promised, his eyes searching hers. There was a silent conversation between them, unspoken words only the two of them could comprehend.
I won’t leave if you don’t want me to.
Go to your father. I love you.
I am so sorry we were interrupted. I love you. I’ll return soon. Wait for me.
“Go.” Daisy reached out and squeezed his arm. One last time…
His love for her would fade. They were lucky that they’d been interrupted—that he had not spent inside of her. “Be safe.”
Following a very long moment, a moment in which LordCalvin’s impatience thickened the air, Alastair finally nodded and allowed his uncle to draw him away.
Long after the sounds of hooves disappeared, Daisy sat alone on the blanket they’d shared, remembering.
And then weeping.
Because deep inside, she knew.
It was the end.
THREE MONTHS LATER
Daisy placed a gentle hand on her father’s shoulder, giving him a small squeeze before shaking him lightly.
“Papa,” she murmured. “Mr. Kemp is here to speak with you.”
Randolph Montgomery stirred, his brow creasing, although he did not rouse from his slumber. He was a sturdy man, thick through the shoulders from years of tilling the land, though time and hardship had begun to carve themselves into the lines of his face. His once-dark hair had faded to an iron gray, and the sun had left its mark on his skin, deepening the creases around his eyes and mouth.
He had fallen asleep in his favorite chair, as he often did after a long day in the fields—exhausted but sated following the hearty meal she had prepared for him.
He carried the weight of their struggles on his back, never complaining, never faltering, even when the land failed them.
