“I know you’re not sulking in rain-drenched Dorset, stewing in the memory of the bloody riots. I know you’ve taken on your batty sister and her feral nieces. I know you’ve managed to find this woman to help you and are making her your duchess. In short, you’re actually living your life.”
“She’s being made a duchess out of necessity.”
“As duchesses are wont to do,” he said sardonically. “I don’t buy it, mate. Sorry. Funny how necessities andthings you actually wantsometimes align so beautifully.”
“Everything I do is out of necessity.”
“Don’t misunderstand, Lachlan. You face challenging roads ahead, but I can think of ten different ways to travel them that don’t involve an expensive Season for Timothea’s girls or marrying their governess.”
“She is a stylist.”
“She’s about to be aduchess, and I don’t care what you say about ‘necessity.’ I know you, and I know your regard for the dukedom. Unlike me, the title is not something you take lightly. I think youwantthis woman, and I think you want her because she makes you happy.”
Ian thought about this. Was he happy? He felt... contentment. Engagement—which was nice, after years of solitude. He felt excitement, even. He thought of Miss Trelayne on the balcony, hearing the bird. Miss Trelayne in the dressmaker’s shop, showing off her caterpillar bracelet. He thought of the portrait gallery.
Oh God, the gallery.
Certainly he would rather bewith herthanwithout her.
Certainly he’d spent the last week wishing he was with her more.
He couldn’t speak to his happiness. He didn’t know enough about it.
“All I know,” Ian finally said, “is that I expect very little.”
“Oh yes, your guttersnipe existence as a bloody duke.”
“I’m not complaining. My father’s gin-fueled stagger to the grave left me an estate in ruins. My mother’s misery left me with a sister with terrible judgment, keen to carry on the tradition. My own cock-up with the riot left a man dead and my reputation in tatters. It comes as no surprise, then, that I’m marrying amember of my staff...who I embarrassed in a public setting . . . despite the fact that I barely know her. And yet, here we are, moments frombeing bound together for life. It’s hardly a happy occasion but it’s also . . . no surprise.”
“I’ll say it again,” sighed Northumberland, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t believe you.”
Ian swore and turned away. After a long moment, he conceded, “Perhaps what I feel is... islargerthan happiness or unhappiness? Perhaps what I feel is...?”
“Desire?” guessed his friend. “It’s as good a starting gate as any.”
“Possibility,” Ian corrected. “I was going to say I feel ‘possibility.’ Potential.”
“I knew it,” bragged North. “And I rest my case. Oh, and you’re welcome, by the way. Best to face these sentiments squarely. Why deceive yourself?”
Ian ignored him, thinking of the unnamed...what-ifthat seemed to pulse in his gut like a light on the distant horizon.
Even more trickery was this: He wanted the light to be real. Or he thought he wanted it to be real. All he really knew was, real or imagined, marriage to Miss Trelayne felt like holding out an open hand to... to a long, lost—
Well, she wasn’t a friend. Nor was she a lover—not really.Not yet, his brain provided unhelpfully.
No, Miss Trelayne was a long-lost chance at something like kinship. After a family that mostly ignored him, Miss Trelayne seemed like someone who paid attention, and applied herself to his benefit, and cared. If notfor him, then at leaston behalf of him.
Ian, lost cause that he was, would take it.
And he would kiss her again if she would have him. But he dared not make things worse by manhandling; not if she preferred to put everything that happened in the gallery far behind them.
He would assume nothing, and expect nothing, and bloody bleeding hell—he would cease running headlong into situations that redirected the course of everyone’s lives.
He learned his lesson time and time again. Now he would bide his time and wait and see.
“Well, at least she has red hair,” sighed North, clapping him on the back. “A trait for which you’ve admitted your great fondness. Well-known fact: hair color is a perfectly reasonable basis for any marriage.”
“Sod off. I’m beginning to wonder why I invited you.”
