Page 37 of Forever Her Bachelor

Blinking several times, he searched the darkness for her, losing her to the memories of the past. She stood in the adjoining sitting room that he had transformed into a small office of sorts that housed his books and belongings. St. Clara had reluctantly moved into the duke’s rooms a year after his father’s death five years earlier and was vastly aware that there was no part of his home that belonged to him except the small corner in which she stood.

His heart rate increased at the sight of her by the old leather case that sat on the floor and had been shoved in the corner forgotten. St. Clara never had the heart to remove the old rocks permanently, feeling as if they were part of him. It was silly. He was a man grown, a duke; he had no time for such childhood frivolity.

The air was so heavy with the weight of her discovery that he could scarcely breathe. Frozen in place, he watched her kneel in a very unladylike manner. It had always been the one thing he admired most about her. As a girl, Pippa never worried over trivial feminine things. She was always willing to get both her hands and her dresses dirty.

His voice had abandoned him, leaving him gawking as long elegant fingers reached out to stroke the aged, withered leather. St. Clara wanted to protest, to tell her to leave the damn thing alone. He didn’t want to face the heartache of seeing his childhood obsession up close.

The soft swish of the leather straps loosening was the only sound in the dark room. The vision of Pippa lit by the delicate glow of the fading moonlight from the window mesmerized him. It was two hours or more from sunrise; they both would need some sleep before their long journey to Scotland.

She lifted the top of the case, and it creaked open, the sound reverberating around the quiet room. He held his breath as inch by inch it revealed the contents. At the sight of the old, withered sketchbook that held intricate sketches of each rock, his heart wrenched in his chest. It was a task he and his mother would do together. Walking around their ancestral property, they would collect for hours: she would draw each rock down to the intricate marks.

A feeling of longing assaulted him. He hadn’t missed his mother since he was a boy. The first year his mother was banished from his life was torture, and he tried to fill in the empty pages of the book, but he was a poor artist compared to his mother. Collecting rocks was a passion he and his mother shared together, so it became difficult to do without her.

Picking up the old sketchbook, Pippa stroked the worn cover reverently, her face taking on a wistful look. Like him, she remembered the past, but he hoped Pippa wasn’t feeling thesame regret that was swirling in his chest. He could barely breathe from the bitter taste of sadness in his mouth. They’d lost years of happiness with each other, and St. Clara had no idea why.

His eyes were riveted as she flipped through the pages with her index finger. Each turn was like a knife to his soul. There were so many memories associated with his adolescent hobby. Both good and bad memories of his mother, father, and Pippa. He couldn’t run away from them no matter how much debauchery he partook in. No matter how much he drank or gambled, he was always haunted by them.

“I-I can’t believe you kept everything all these years.” Her voice stuttered in a whisper as her hand rested timidly on a particular page.

A hint of a smile curved at the corner of her lips, those enchanting hazel eyes watering with emotion.

St. Clara’s legs led him over to her, and he knelt beside her, his arm wrapping around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her temple, wanting to comfort her and erase whatever pain the sketchbook might have caused.

Looking down, he chuckled at the sight of his own neat penmanship, happiness filling him again.

Kitten, The Chemist

&

Chauncey, The Assistant

They would often conduct experiments together, mostly from her father’s books. St. Clara would be her assistant in all things, happy to do her bidding. She would assist him in collecting and categorizing his rocks. They signed every page “Kitten, the Chemist and Chauncey, the Assistant.”

St. Clara had not opened the case in nearly a decade, and now, every emotion, every memory assaulted him at once.

“Don’t tell me the great Pippa Price cries now,” he teased, looking down at her.

Over the years, he had always noted her size, noticing how she stayed the same height she had been when they were children. He had wanted to tease her about it, but she would have nothing to do with him.

She looked up at him, and a brilliant smile—one he hadn’t seen in years—captured her face, lighting her from within. She took his breath away. “Today seems to be the exception.” She blinked repeatedly, a lone tear cascading down her cheek.

Reaching out, St. Clara brushed his thumb against her reddened cheek—the sight of the bruise reawakening his wrath at Summerset. When St. Clara saw him next, they would have words.

“We were so innocent.” She caressed their names with the tips of her fingers.

St. Clara sat down, leaning on the edge of the case. She had reinvigorated him, allowed him to be a child again after years of trying to be a man by the age of twelve. According to his father, a man did not collect rocks or toy in sketchbooks, and a man surely did not follow a wit-minded girl around like a pathetic little puppy.

Handing him the sketchbook, Pippa pulled back the velvet covering, revealing three layers of rocks in neat rows. They were once his most-prized possessions.

Rocks of all kinds, mostly sedimentary, but he had a few metamorphic and one igneous that he had found.

Three layers of rocks from across the Empire and even the Continent. Although he tried not to collect rocks on his grand tour, it was instilled in him. Even now, years after he’d collectedhis last rock, his fingers still twitched if he caught sight of a smooth stone.

St. Clara flipped through the sketchbook, noticing the difference in the drawings from his mother’s practiced hand, to his own sloppy ones, to the neat symmetrical lines of Pippa’s.

“I was a poor artist compared to you and my mother.” The words came out slowly as he observed an intricate drawing of a brown rock with indentions.

Sitting down, she positioned herself so she could peer into the open case. “I thought you improved over the years.” She leaned forward, looking at the page he was examining. “Besides, your mother was an excellent artist. It would be difficult for anyone to be as good as her.”