“I should go,” he managed. “I’ll send word and a carriage when everything’s arranged. The townhouse. Mr. Foley’s transfer to Cloverdale House. All of it.”
“Henry?”
He paused at the door. Looked back.
“Thank you for giving me a choice. For not forcing this. For—” Her voice broke. “For everything.”
He smiled. Sad and hopeful and so full of love it made her chest ache.
Then he was gone.
Henry stoodon her front step in the pre-dawn darkness, heart hammering, hands shaking.
She’d said yes. Not to marriage yet, but to London and courtship. To giving them time. That was enough. It had to be enough, even though he wanted her with the ferocity of a wild animal.
But the alternative—forcing her into another marriage she didn’t choose—was unthinkable, so he’d court her properly and publicly. He’d show her his world and let her siblings see his home. Give her every opportunity to decide this was a terrible idea.
And if at the end she chose him anyway? Then he’d know it was forever. They’d both know.
He walked toward his waiting carriage, already composing the letters he’d need to write to make arrangements: prepare the townhouse, coordinate with Dr. Fernando, secure the special license—just in case.
Hopefully.
The sky was lightening, dawn breaking over the shabby street. Margaret was in her kitchen, probably crying, definitely doubting, but she’d said yes to London, and Henry had never been more determined to prove himself worthy of anything in his life.
Henry climbed into his carriage and gave the driver directions back to his estate. As the horses pulled away, he looked back one last time at her window. A candle flickered in her kitchen. She was still there, still awake, still thinking about him.
He smiled despite the ache in his chest.
A few weeks. He could wait. He would wait.
For her.
CHAPTER 8
He couldn't possibly wait. Three weeks of proper courtship was going to kill him. Henry stared across the breakfast table at Margaret, who was laughing at something Tessie said, and his chest tightened with wanting.
Three weeks had passed since she’d agreed to come to London—three weeks of doing everything properly.
Drives in Hyde Park. Carefully chaperoned calls in his drawing room. Theatre visits where her laughter stayed with him long after the curtain fell. And every day, restraint—polite, maddening restraint—while he fell deeper in love and she still held a careful distance, testing whether this could be real.
In London, they’d found a rhythm. During morning visits, they sat in his library and argued about books. In afternoon drives, her hand rested on his arm, and they pointed out absurdities that made each other laugh. Come to think of it, he’d laughed more with her in three weeks than in the past three years. Every day, they shared evening dinners where her siblings chattered and he watched her smile, falling deeper in love with every passing day.
But they were never alone. Not really. Tessie, Matthew, and Anna were always there, wide-eyed chaperones who tooktheir duties seriously when the staff didn’t follow his ducal instructions too well.
And Margaret still held back, no doubt cautious, waiting to be certain this was real.
So, he’d invited her to Rosewood Hall, his London residence. Not the townhouse, but the one with a ballroom he was convinced he could never fill without her as his duchess. He’d orchestrated a weekend house party with his aunts in residence, and a few select guests for propriety’s sake. All to give her the perfect opportunity to see his new world and imagine herself in it. To decide, finally, if she could bear to be his duchess.
They'd arrived yesterday, and his aunts had immediately declared war.
"Your Grace," Aunt Agnes said, her voice cutting through his thoughts. "Lady Pemberton asked after you yesterday. Such a charming woman. Her daughter plays the pianoforte beautifully."
Henry didn't look at his aunt, keeping his gaze on Margaret, who'd gone very still. "I'm sure she does."
“We’ve arranged a musicale for this evening. All the young ladies will be performing. I do hope you’ll attend.”
“Of course.” Because refusing would only make things worse.
