Page 82

Stopped to admire flowers before eventually arriving, somewhat breathlessly, at their intended destination.

Without consciously deciding to do so, he leaned forwards. His hand found her ankle beneath the loose folds of her nightdress; the warmth of her skin seeped gently into his palm. It was not comfort he offered, merely something solid to anchor herself to while she searched for the courage to finish speaking. Arthur felt her go still beneath his hand.

"Let me spare you the question," he said quietly.

"I shall not take a mistress."

The words were calm. Certain. Entirely free from hesitation.

"Nor shall I seek the company of a professional while we are husband and wife."

She released a breath so softly he might have missed it had the room not been otherwise silent, her whole body seeming to relax as though some invisible burden had finally been lifted.

"But...why?"

Arthur did not answer immediately.

Instead, his gaze wandered to the canopy above them, following the carved beams disappearing into shadow as he considered the answer to her question, which ought to have been remarkably easy.

Because honour demanded it. Because he had given her his word.

Because despite what society expected of men in his position, he had never found much appeal in purchasing affection.

Those reasons had once satisfied him.

Tonight, however, those reasons no longer felt sufficient.

Outside, somewhere beyond the open windows, an owl called into the night before the estate settled once more into perfect stillness. Arthur drew a slow breath, his thumb absent-mindedly tracing the smallest arc circle on her ankle before becoming still again.

"My father..." he began at last.

The words sat awkwardly upon his tongue.

He had promised her answers, and the Duke of Buckingham did not break his vows lightly. Yet of all the conversations he had imagined himself having with his new wife, confessing the failings of his family had not been among them.

He kept his eyes fixed upon the darkness above the bed.

"My father kept mistresses. A great many of them."

"It was perfectly ordinary, of course. Men of his rank rarely confined themselves to one woman, and society expected my mother to tolerate it with grace." He let out a humourless laugh.

"She never did."

He could still remember it.

His mother standing at the drawing-room window long after supper had gone cold, insisting his father would surely return before midnight. The servants pretending not to notice when midnight became one o'clock... then two. The excuses. The whispered conversations that stopped the moment a child entered the room.

"I watched it break her," he said quietly.

"Each time he left, she would convince herself it meant nothing. Each time he returned smelling of another woman's perfume, she would forgive him before he had even offered an apology."

His jaw tightened.

"Eventually one of those women bore him a son."

His lip curled ever so slightly.

"My half-brother." The title tasted unpleasant.