Page 18 of The Duchess’s Absolutely Delightful Dream (The Notorious Briarwoods #14)

L ady Hermia Newfield, once Lady Hermia Briarwood, now the Countess of Drexel, cuddled into her husband’s arms in the magnificent room in the even more magnificent castle.

Despite the beauty of the days, the Scottish summer nights were cold. There was no question about it. The air slipped in through the windows, stealing in off the loch, sweeping through the room and up and over her form.

Thick blankets swathed herself and her darling husband, and a hot brick wrapped in flannel had been tucked at their feet. The bitter cold of the north was inescapable when the sun set and the stars shone.

She did not mind it.

As a matter of fact, she liked it quite well, for it gave her a deeper excuse to nestle into the loving embrace of her husband’s arms.

Years and years and years ago, she never could have imagined that a man like him would be her husband.

She had spent her Seasons on the shelf as a young lady.

There had been no interest in her as a marriage prospect.

She had not particularly minded. In fact, in many ways, she’d preferred it.

She found the antics of her own family impossible sometimes, love them as she did.

But she had ended up causing the most scandal!

And it had been worth it.

Dear God in heaven, it had been worth it, because it had united her with her husband. Their passion for each other had changed everything. And now that passion kept them warm on cold nights, whether they be in Scotland or England or the Isle of Wight.

Yet her heart this night? Her heart was full of trepidation, for she was a mother. Her oldest son, Maximus, had married. He had found the most remarkable of women to claim for his wife.

She had long hoped he would find the right lady, but it had never occurred to her that she would come in the surprising form of a pickpocket! Even stranger, she’d been a young lady who had needed to be convinced that she was worthy of being a member of the family.

The young lady had been more than worthy.

She was of excellent character, a phenomenal choice, a lady to be reckoned with.

But that had only taken one weight off of Hermia’s shoulders.

Though she and her husband had feared for their eldest son, Maximus had come back to himself. But she still worried about Octavian.

Sometimes she wished beyond all things that she and her husband had not allowed their sons to go to war.

“It was a mistake,” she said softly.

“There are no mistakes,” her husband said, his voice rumbling softly against her ear as he held her tight, pulling the covers up about them.

She loved that he took such good care of her. Even after all these years. She appreciated that he tried to comfort her, to ease her feelings at the decisions they had made.

They gazed into the crackling fire just across the room, savoring each other’s company. For in times of doubt and fear, the only thing one could truly do was to savor the pleasure of the moment, lest the fear of the future come and seize all joy from one.

“We should not have let them go fight,” she insisted, balling her hand into a fist on her husband’s muscled, capable chest. “Maximus did not need to go. He is destined to become the earl. Octavian? His spirit was so gentle as a boy! He was always the best in all the plays, and he cried when he found animals hurt, or when Cook tried to set out traps for mice.”

She could feel her husband smiling sadly as he stroked her back, listening.

She knew she was rambling and was grateful that he listened to her trying to sort out her own thoughts and feelings. “We are not soldiers, my darling. We’re a family of artists and theater-makers. We come from a courtesan, for God’s sake!”

It was true. The first great lady of the Briarwood family had been a courtesan who had captured the interest of the king, borne him a son, and won a dukedom for that son.

They had not won their dukedom on a battlefield.

No. They had won that dukedom in a seduction in a bed that had caused pleasure all around.

“He is a soldier,” her husband said gently. “Despite his gentle spirit, or perhaps because of it. He could never bear injustice. You know it. You’re merely grasping at straws now, trying to find some sort of sense in all of this. And I understand. You wish to keep him safe.”

“I worry,” she breathed, trying to keep tears from stinging her eyes.

“Of course you do,” her husband replied without condescension. “You’re his mother.”

“Don’t you worry?” she countered.

“I worry less, but I do worry,” he said honestly. “Sometimes it keeps me up at night.”

“It does?” she asked, astonished.

She’d never noticed him up pacing the floor. But she didn’t wish to question it, because her husband loved their son so very dearly. “Don’t you think you could write to a friend?” she rushed, ignoring how mad she sounded. “Maybe you could…”

And then her voice died off and she closed her eyes, making herself stop before she said something she couldn’t take back.

She could not ask her beloved husband to save their beloved son in such a way. If he ever found out, Octavian would never forgive them.

Octavian was a brave, honorable man who had risked his life over and over again for his own men. He would never forgive his parents if they intervened and got him out of the war.

“I wish to God that dreaded man Napoleon would stop,” she bit out.

“He’s been at it for far too long. First there had to be that terrible revolution, where so many people were killed.

And then this? Will the blood never stop?

Will the battle never cease?” she demanded.

“Will monsters like that always rule the day?”

Her husband tightened his arms about her and sucked in a rough breath.

“I don’t know, my love,” he whispered. “History tells us that monsters will always rise, that peace will be followed by war. And then there will be peace, and then war will rise again. That it is inescapable,” he said, his voice taut with bitter resignation.

“I wish it wasn’t true. I wish it could be some sort of fantastical story in which all humans knew peace. But you know that’s not how it is.”

She nodded, blinking back tears, wishing she could curse the lot of men, who insisted on making war and ruining the lives of so many. “But how do I save my son? How do I face this?”

“You face it,” he said, “as you face everything, Hermia. Head on, without hiding, my glorious wife.”

She bit her lip, then nodded, her heart swelling with love for the man who was always there for her and bolstered her whenever fear stalked her way.

A better thought slipped into her mind. “He’s in love with that girl.”

“Yes,” her husband said. “He is.”

“He won’t admit it.”

“No. He won’t,” he agreed.

She tsked. “And he’s not going to ask her to be his.”

“No. He’s not going to,” her husband said on a sigh.

They both stared at the fire for a long moment.

“Why?” she demanded. “You’re a man. Explain it to me!”

He laughed softly, but there was little humor in it. And when she glanced up at his face, she could see the pain and sorrow of a father who could not rescue his son.

“Men are foolish creatures,” he ventured, clearly searching for the words to make sense of their son’s behavior. “You already know that.”

“Yes,” she said, but she refused to give up. “But there has to be a way.”

He winced. “No, unfortunately, I do not think there is. There’s nothing that we can do. It seems like all attempts at intervention have been made. And he is determined to walk his path, as most people are, my darling. He’s got it into his head that he has to finish out this war. And so he must.”

She held her breath, words hovering at her lips. Words she’d never dared to say aloud. Not even after all these years.

“What if he dies?” she said softly. And then she clamped her mouth shut, horrified she’d spoken the words aloud. But then she felt a measure of relief at finally speaking them.

Her husband didn’t reply. And her heart sank. She had shared too much of her fear. And she needed to be strong for him too.

“I know,” she said quickly, sitting up slightly so she could gaze down at the man she loved.

“I know what a silly question that is. We all die. We all perish. We all slip from this earth. And I have had to live with the possibility that I would receive a note telling me that he had died on some battlefield or in some fray. I have faced it for so long. It has been too many years, but I will not shirk it now,” she whispered softly.

“I promise you. I will hold firm and I will hold strong.”

Her husband pulled her back into his arms and rolled her onto her back. He tilted her face towards his and pressed his forehead to hers. “Of course you will, my love. It’s why I admire you so greatly. You are a rock. You always have been.”

“Sometimes it gets most frustrating being a rock,” she admitted.

“Yes.” He kissed her forehead and then her cheeks. “And in those times when it’s frustrating, you must lean upon me.”

Then he kissed her lips softly, taking her mouth gently. She lifted her hand to his face, needing to feel at one with him, to feel loved and secure in something, even if she couldn’t feel secure in the safety of her son.

He paused the kiss, as if he felt there was something else. Something more that needed to be said.

“I feel sorry for her,” she said suddenly.

“You feel sorry for the young duchess?” he clarified, stroking a lock of hair back from her face.

She nodded. “She is a widowed duchess with power and land and all the things which everyone is supposed to want. But I’ve seen the way she looks at Octavian, and I’ve seen the way that he looks at her. I can’t imagine what she will think when he leaves.”

“No one can imagine what she will think. But one thing I can tell you.”

“Yes?” she said softly.