Page 179 of Immortal Rose

Hugh stepped into the room as Felicity hurried out. She turned back at the door, giving me a little wink before gently shutting it behind her.

I held in a shallow breath as Hugh came toward me, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. His white gloves were tucked into a pocket, and he fiddled with them as he struggled to find the words he wished to say.

Taking one of the pale roses Felicity hadn’t used, I stood from the vanity stool and approached him slowly, the way one might a cornered, frightened animal. Breaking off the better portion of the stem, I slid the rose through the buttonhole of his frock coat.

“There,” I said. “It’s a celebration of Venia, after all.”

The Immortal Rose herself.

He caught my hand before I could pull it away, his gaze lingering on the wedding ring over my gloved finger. His throat worked, and I felt his struggle—that equal need to hide and be seen that always warred in him.

“You look so beautiful,” he told me earnestly.

“I couldn’t very well disappoint beside the noted society darling, the Earl of Foxcourt,” I teased gently. “Thank you for the honor of wearing your mother’s jewelry.”

“Thank you for bringing her back to me,” he said softly. His thumb stroked the back of my hand, smoothing the white satin and setting the skin beneath it ablaze. “There’s a bracelet and a brooch as well, but I haven’t found them yet. Glenmoor broke up and sold the parure after her death, before Uncle Giles could intervene.”

There was something to those words that felt like the beginning of a tale, not the end of one. I sat slowly beside him, my fingers curling around his in encouragement.

“My parents were . . . they were a love match,” he began, still staring intently at my hand.

“I didn’t know that,” I said, genuinely surprised. Love matches were exceedingly rare in a class that married for bloodlines. Even men and women attracted to partners of the same sex sometimes married the opposite sex simply to produce children and continue titles before it regressed to a marriage in name only.

“My father had married his first wife out of obligation and duty. Their match had been arranged before either of them could walk. After she died, he was determined to find a home for his heart.”

Hugh’s thumb continued its soothing patterns.

“My mother had been raised by my great-uncle, and he’d had plans for her. He sent her to the Continent for schooling, as she couldn’t attend university here. She was beautiful, bold, and brilliant, and had never intended to marry.”

I nodded. That sort of woman would only be stifled by matrimony.

“She had been an asset to my uncle, no matter which foreign court he sent her to,” Hugh continued, with clear pride. “By the time she returned to Albion, she was older than I am now. Well past what society had deemed a marriageable age—to everyone but my father.”

Hugh swallowed. My heart fluttered anxiously as I waited for him to continue.

“My uncle didn’t understand why she would choose to marry a duke in dire financial straits and live in a moldering estate in the north,” he said with a faint laugh. “She married against his wishes, but she had her own money she’d inherited from her parents, and she brought that small fortune with her. Together, they invested it in several industries, including textiles, rather than try to force the land to be productive.”

A chill stole through me despite the press of his hip against mine.

“A year into their marriage, I came along. And eight years after that, my father was injured on a hunting trip and never recovered. The new Duke of Glenmoor returned from school at once to survey his new kingdom and realized quite quickly that his inheritance was not as simple as he had led himself to believe.”

“Reddy told me that your mother’s dowry wasn’t entailed to the estate,” I said gently. “That Glenmoor was enraged when he discovered she would keep it.”

“Yes,” Hugh said, releasing a long breath. “On the third night after Glenmoor returned home, something happened—to this day, I do not know what it was.”

And it tormented him. I could hear it plainly in his voice.

“That night, my mother woke me in a panic and began packing a case for me. We left on foot, just the two of us, and never returned.” His eyes screwed shut, as if he were imagining it all over again. “She was fearful. Paranoid. But she knew how to survive. With her pin money, she rented a house farther north. We were never meant to be found.” His gaze went distant, as if pulled back through time to that place. “It was winter, then. And the far north was cold . . . so much colder than either of us knew.”

My hand closed over his.

“For a while,” Hugh continued, “she was quite brave about it, singing me to sleep each night, telling me stories about her travels, where we would live on the Continent come spring. At the time, I thought she was being prideful not asking for help from her uncle, and the shame of it will never leave me, because now I know she was afraid—of Glenmoor looking for her there, but also of Uncle Giles turning his back on her.”

“You were all of, what, eight?” I reminded him. “How could you have known?”

“I should have,” he said, shaking his head. “She wasn’t herself. Have you . . . no, I know you do. You know exactly what it’s like, watching someone extinguish themselves for you out of the sheer desperation of their love.”

Yes. Yes, I did.