“At that time, your existence was an open family secret. Theodore, I’m sure, abhorred me for not legitimizing my son while he possessed none of his own. The irony—that you are more like him, honorable, than like me, dishonorable... And yet Iamyour progenitor. You are my son and Celeste’s. And I do love you like a son. I always have.”
His uncle?—
Not his uncle...
Whatever Carlisle was, he watched silently as Alexander stared at him.
“This can’t be true.”
“It is, Alexander.”
“No. It makes no sense. You would have come forward, rather than allowing the memory of my father—Theodore—to rot while he was dead. You would not have done this to him.”
“I did. And I am sorry to you both.”
He meant it—every word. Alexander stepped back, a hand on the sundial.
“My whole life, you have fed me a lie.”
“Yes, and it shames me. But I have never been far from you. In all but name, I have been a father to you?—”
“You have not. You have misled me,misusedme.”
“The duchy would have become yours one day.”
“But in the meantime, I...” Alexander closed his eyes. “My legitimacy is a lie. I am not the son of the real Duke of Langley. If this were exposed, it would mean my ruin.”
“No,” Carlisle rushed forward, clutching the letter. “This changes nothing. No one will know. You are as you were before.”
Alexander laughed miserably. “I will never be the same, and neither will you.” He balled his fist, shaking his head. “Leave for The Levant.”
“Alexander, please?—”
“I cannot bear to look at you. Leave.”
The wind stirred gently through the trees in the proceeding silence. Carlisle inclined his head in something between grief and surrender.
Alexander did not watch him go, his gaze fixed on the ground, fury and sorrow knotted so tightly within him he could barely breathe.
It was then he heard the hurried beat of steps. He turned angrily, expecting to see Carlisle. But Margaret was descending the manor steps, a pained look on her face. She ran to him over the terrace, down the steps, her presence coming like the dawn.
Beneath the shade of the tree, she threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly from behind, not speaking, not asking.
Alexander turned to face her, the weight of the world still heavy on his shoulders. But the sight of her—her eyes wide with concern, her hands reaching for him—anchored him. A gloved hand came to rest on his chest, and he covered it with his own.
“My love... I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He could not smile, not yet.
In her presence, something ancient and raw within him settled. There would be more to face—truths he could not yet acknowledge. But the woman before him had crossed more storms than one to stand at his side, and she had never wavered.
Alexander closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against hers.
Whatever Carlisle had been—the father, the uncle, the deceiver—it was Margaret who would shape the rest of his life.
And with her, there would always be hope.
EPILOGUE
