“I feared for your safety. Truly, I did. I am glad you are well. And I am glad you found the book.”
“I suppose you want me to give it to you,” she said, resigned.
But to her surprise, he shook his head.
“It is your inheritance. I acted as though it were mine—because by law it is—but it is not truly mine. It belongs to you. You ought to decide what happens to it. But I hope that once you have thought it through, you will see that I do care for you.”
He paused.
“Charity, I love you.”
She looked up and gasped. He had said it. He loved her.
She wanted to say it back. But the moment did not feel right. She was not certain what she felt. Everything about him confused her now—even more than before.
“I understand,” he said as he stood. “I shall not press you. What happens now is yours to decide. You may forgive me. Give us a chance to be happy. Or, if you wish it, you may go. You shall remain my duchess, and I will ensure you are looked after. Or, if you prefer, we may seek to annul this marriage. I will take all the blame. I will admit all wrongs, so that you might be free. And perhaps, without the burden of the book, you may find someone with purer intentions.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She wanted to say she did not want an annulment. But she didn’t know what she wanted. The idea of being away from him, of being Lady Charity once more—something she had told Mrs. Jenkins only the day before she preferred—now felt like a bad dream. A lie.
She could not yet say she loved him, though her heart stirred to.
“You have all the time in the world,” he said. “Keep the book. Decide what you wish to do with it. I shall be here—whenever you are ready to answer.”
Then he left.
She picked up the book, still wrapped in a sheet, and placed it on her lap. It felt heavier now, as if pressing her into the chair. And yet it grounded her.
How far, she thought, recalling Mrs. Jenkins' words. Her housekeeper had said her father would be happy she had married him. Had told her that their fathers had had an understanding.
In a way, though they had been brought together by strange and strained circumstances, might it not be that they were meant to be? Was it divine providence? Or merely manipulation?
She did not know. Not yet.
But she knew what she must do next.
She had to rest. And in the morning, she would take Ambrose out to the meadow. Perhaps, walking alongside her dearest friend, she would find the answers she so desperately sought.
CHAPTER36
Eammon
The following morning, Eammon rose, his stomach tight with unease and his body worn with a dull weariness that no rest could soothe.
She knew the truth now. At last, she knew everything. And all he could do was wait for her verdict. Would she forgive him? Could she?
He had told her he loved her, and she had said nothing in return. Not that he blamed her. Even if she harbored such feelings, this was not the moment to confess them—not after uncovering his secret.
His own words echoed again and again in his mind. She hadn’t truly known him. But that was not her fault. He had not let her see through the mask he wore. He had not trusted her, and he should have.
Now, he feared he had ruined everything.
He rose, rang for his valet, and once dressed, made his way down to breakfast. Perhaps she would be there already, seated at the table, waiting to give him her answer.
But when he entered the dining room, he found the breakfast laid, and only one plate remaining.
“Did Her Grace already take her breakfast?” he asked Mrs. Frames.
“She did, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied. “Nearly two hours ago.”
