“Maybe it takes a war to show the depths we’ll go to protect what we love.”
His words seemed to be more wisdom than bluster, but Felton didn’t know what to do or how to answer Cecilia’s question: What was it that she wanted most of all? He sighed and rubbed at pockmarks on his wrist. “Tell me how to regain the love of a woman who doesn’t believe in me, and it’s my fault?”
Skin all aglow, the Duchess of Repington waddled inside. For a brief moment, Felton saw Cecilia in Her Grace’s stance; the poise, the music in her motion. If he and Cecilia had stayed together, would their family also be increasing?
Her Grace whispered something to the duke that brought a grin to his face. His palm absently brushed her stomach.
His eyes grew wide. “A kick. A strong one. Fantastic.”
If Felton weren’t brooding on the sofa, those two would delight in their privacy and probably sing to each other.
It was nauseatingly joyful.
Why, Jove? Why?
How did the duke, a cantankerous, obstinate fellow get so lucky and marry the more compliant, logical sister of the Thomas brood? And did Felton’s good works—to help the households of his comrades in arms, and his service to his country—mean anything?
Felton had to look away from them. The likenesses of the sisters about the nose, wide and pert at the peak, made him remember navigating kisses when his broad bridge nuzzled Cecilia’s jaw.
He centered his gaze on the ironic scene of Port Royal, Jamaica—colorful and bustling with shadows of people. He’d told her of the lore on their wedding trip. Cecilia’s vision of the city the day before an earthquake and a tidal wave destroyed it like Sodom and Gomorrah.
Yet, this mirrored December. One minute everything was perfect, the next broken to bits.
“Don’t suppose Your Graces would consider another offer to buy the painting?”
Sadness settled into the duchess’s eyes. “You love it that much? Every time you come to Sandlin, I find you staring at it. Does it remind you of something or someone, Lord Gantry? It’s that way to me.”
The duke lowered his head but exposed nothing. Felton wouldn’t cause this pregnant woman any strain fretting about a sister who didn’t want to be found.
“Lord Gantry,” she repeated, “who?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Reminds me of a moment with my wife.”
She smoothed the front of the bright orange madras of her tunic. With a nod to the duke, the duchess said, “It’s a gift for you, for being such a good friend to my husband.”
A good friend to everyone but Cecilia.
How did one recover from that? “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Take it with our blessings.”
A little overcome, Felton wiped at his mouth. “Thank you. Thank you, ma’am.”
Almost running, he stepped to the painting and gently lifted it from the wall. If he embraced the thing, the duchess would know something was afoot. “Thank you again, Your Graces.”
The duchess put her hand on his arm. “Are you ready to go on with your life? A woman gone this long doesn’t sound like she’ll be coming back.”
That had to be wrong.
Everything in him said it was wrong. Two days ago, Cecilia melted into his chest. Her resolve to stay away weakened for a moment. He only needed another minute of her time to convince her their love had a chance. Months and months of Hades had to be exchanged for hope. “What’s your advice on winning, Your Grace?”
“Tactics will help.” The duke eyed him with an authoritarian gaze, straightforward, not blinking or smiling. “Such as, agree to anything even if you disagree.”
With his arm starting to rise in salute, Felton stood up straight. “Yes, Commander, you think it—”
“Two, do what it takes to maintain contact. Keep the target always in view.”
“What are you talking about, Your Grace?” The duchess folded her arms.
