That inspiration was in the present—now.
To be a good person.
To be a worthy person.
To be a son worthy of his father.
To be a man worthy of Tilly.
He shifted toward the edge of the sofa, imbued with a swift, sudden energy.
To be a man worthy of Tilly.
That was what he wanted.
It only took the turning of one second into the next for wanting to solidify into resolve.
He would spend the rest of his days being a man worthy of Tilly.
Those hopes in his heart.
The ones that were bruised and sore and bereft.
They lifted their voice with a demand.
That he fight for them.
That he fight for a future with Tilly.
“I see but one path forward for you, son,” said Papa.
“Aye?”
“Earn her.”
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
Though it mattered not how his father reacted to his next words, Rhys had to speak them. “Tilly isn’t a lady in the aristocratic sense of the word.”
In their world, this was a matter of supreme importance to many.
Papa nodded. “But she’s the key to your future happiness and stability.”
“She is.”
“Then you have my blessing, son.”
And though Rhys hadn’t been seeking his father’s permission or blessing, a deep-seated part of himself had craved it.
“In my four-and-sixty years,” continued Papa, “I’ve come to understand a parent can only be as content as their least content child.”
Rhys shot to his feet, spurred by sudden urgency. Three days of riding stood between him and London—and Tilly. He had much to do. “I must return to London immediately.”
“I thought you might.”
“I won’t be back for Christmas.”
