“I do. You didn’t have to?—”
“I did.” He squeezed her hand. “Because I care about you. More than I should. More than is wise. But I can’t seem to help it.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then: “I care about you too.”
His heart nearly stopped. “Then that’s enough. For now. That’s enough.”
They sat together. Holding hands. Standing watch. And Henry knew with absolute certainty: this was what he’d become duke for. Not the title or the money or the power. For this moment. This woman. This chance to be more than he’d ever imagined. For her.
CHAPTER 7
Two days later…
Margaret woke to the sound of someone moving downstairs.
She lay still, listening. Darkness pressed against her window. Too early for dawn.
Her heart kicked when she recalled everything that had happened in a week. She threw off the covers and reached for her wrapper, tied it hastily as she hurried down the stairs, bare feet silent on worn floorboards.
Candlelight warmed the kitchen, turning the worn table and plain crockery into something almost gentle. And there—standing at her stove, still in his shirtsleeves, waistcoat unbuttoned, hair thoroughly mussed—was Henry.
Making tea.
Margaret stopped in the doorway. Unable to move. Unable to speak. A duke. In her humble kitchen. Making tea, as if this were normal, as if he belonged here.
The scandal… oh why bother? It was out now…
He turned, and his eyes found hers. Something warm flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or gladness. “Margaret. I didn’t mean to wake you. They came to tell me that all’s been arranged to take Mr. Foley to London. Dr. Fernando has a bed at Cloverdale House, the rehabilitation center.” His voice was rough. Tired. Beautiful.
“Is Mr. Foley—” The fear clawed up her throat.
“He’s fine. Sleeping peacefully. Matthew’s with him.” Henry gestured to the kettle. Steam curling from the spout. “I thought you might want tea when you came down. I always do.”
Her throat tightened. He’d noticed. Of course, he had. He’d been here every night for the past two days, sitting vigil outside Mr. Foley’s door, trading shifts with her and Matthew so they could sleep. During the day, he’d helped her siblings carry the old man downstairs. Cut firewood. Made broth. He never complained or acted like any of it was beneath him.
And every morning, she found him here. In her kitchen. Making tea. Setting out bread and butter for breakfast. As if this cramped cottage with its threadbare curtains and patched chairs was exactly where a duke belonged at dawn.
“You didn’t have to stay.” Her voice came out softer than she meant it to.
“I know.” He poured hot water into the pot with careful precision. “But I wanted to.”
She stepped into the kitchen, the flagstones cold against her bare feet. She should have put on slippers and pinned up her hair. Should have made herself presentable instead of appearing in her nightclothes with her hair loose around her shoulders.
Too late now.
Henry’s gaze dropped. Caught on her bare feet. Traveled slowly up to her face. His jaw clenched.
Heat flooded her cheeks and pooled again lower.
“Please sit.” His voice had gone rougher. “You’ll catch cold.”
She sat at the small table and pulled her wrapper tighter as if fabric could protect her from the ravenous way he was looking at her. This was beyond scandal and propriety, yet it felt so right that she couldn’t care less.
He brought two cups and gently set one in front of her. Then he took the chair across from her. Not beside her or at a proper distance, but directly across, close enough that their knees almost touched under the table.
The candlelight flickered across his face, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and making him look less like a duke and more like Henry. Just her Henry. The man who’d sat beside her in the dark and held her hand while she tried not to fall apart.
