Millie nodded. “Perhaps that is what she sought to find. She mentioned returning to Pembroke in search of something from her childhood. She insisted on being alone, and so I offered to refrain from accompanying her. Yet, if that is indeed where she is…”
Eammon mused, Hartford was but a brisk ride from Hayward; yet it would take another day to reach Pembroke, even with a swift carriage exchanging horses only at posting houses.
“I must go there.”
“No, you must not, truly,” Millie cautioned. “For one, it would not please her to know you are pursuing her there. And for another, she shall return this evening. She dispatched a letter via express this morning stating she is on her way back. So, I suppose you could remain here and await her return. That is, if you promise not to agitate her further.”
“Of course not. It was never my intention,” he said, but then reflected on the matter. No, his intention had not been to vex her. Yet, at times, his actions had indeed pushed her away. Millie observed him with her head tilted thoughtfully.
“From what she conveyed to me, you did your utmost to vex her.”
“I felt it was what I needed to do,” he replied, “but I see now that I was mistaken. I should have spoken to her. I shall, as soon as I am able.”
“Very well,” Millie said, “I shall summon a servant to show you to your chamber. I suspect that even if you and she reconcile tonight, you shall not return to Hayward.”
“I should think not,” he replied, “and I am grateful.”
* * *
He heard the carriage that contained his wife before he beheld it. He had opened the window to hear it arrive. He leapt from the bed on which he had been resting and pulled out his watch fob. It was six in the evening—still early. She had made good time. He hastened to the window and saw Lady Millie rushing from the house. Charity tumbled from the carriage into her cousin’s arms, and the two embraced. Charity carried something with her, which she then took from the carriage, an item wrapped in linen. He had an inkling of what it might be.
Then, Millie took Charity’s arm and spoke. He could not see Lady Millie’s face as she turned from him, but he could see Charity’s. She had appeared haggard as she exited, but now anger flooded her expression as she glanced up at the window, glaring at him.
Charity turned as though she wished to retreat back into the carriage, yet Millie restrained her.
“Charity, please wait!” he called from the window. He hurried down, reaching the grand entry hall just as the front door opened, revealing Millie and Charity.
“I shall leave you two,” Millie said, turning before Charity could reach her.
Charity held aloft the wrapped item. “This is what you desire, is it not? The secret—the reason you married me.”
“The book?”
“Yes, the Book of Confidences. It is the reason Markham was so determined to make me his bride; it is why his cousin pursued me at your aunt and uncle's ball; it is why Markham tortured me with horrid rumors about my character. And the reason you deceived me into this marriage—so that you could safeguard your sordid secrets, Eammon Keene.”
His heart dropped like a heavy stone. She knew. She knew everything. He stumbled back a step, then steadied himself, drawing to his full height. He would not falter now. He would stand firm and confront this head-on.
“Charity, please,” he began, walking into the parlor, not beckoning her to join him, though he hoped his tone alone would suffice.
She followed him, though when he turned to face her, he was uncertain if it was his tone or the passionate fire fueling her every step that compelled her.
She clutched the book, still wrapped in linen, against her chest like a shield. “You are not a duke. You are an impostor, and you wed me to conceal that ignoble truth.”
“I did not!” he protested, yet it was true. He had married her to protect his secret. While that had been the incentive for their union, it was no longer the reason he desired to be with her.
“Charity, you must comprehend. I did not choose this destiny. I was but a child when my parents made this decision.”
“I understand perfectly well,” she countered. “I do not blame you for being raised as someone you are not. However, you did not conjure this fallacious story of an Irish mother, nor the falsehood of you being the duke’s true, secret son. In reality, who are you?” she asked, her tone sharp.
He pressed his lips together, moving to secure the window. Habit dictated that he safeguard their conversation; each time he confronted his past, he ensured no ears could overhear. What might have transpired had someone discovered the truth long ago? What might his life have been?
Yet there was no point ruminating on past regrets. He had to tell her the truth.
“My true parents were John and Maebh Keane. They were Alexander’s dearest friends, the first to offer him kindness on his arrival in Ireland with naught. Their friendship endured throughout their lifetimes. When Alexander ascended to his title as a marquess, he sought to mend bonds with his sisters, returning to England to restore the family legacy. Eventually, he became a duke—the first Duke of Leith.”
“Is that where the tale ends?” she pressed, incredulity evident.
“It is but the beginning,” he confessed. “To provide me with a respectable life, he knew I must marry—a mystery I never fully grasped. My father resisted matrimony, aware that one day, he must marry for the duke’s lineage to endure. Yet, at that time, he had no inclination to wed. When I arrived, he found himself unable to relate to me. Thus, he married?—”
