Page 19 of The Duchess’s Absolutely Delightful Dream (The Notorious Briarwoods #14)

“That one?” her husband said. “She’s not going to beg him to stay. She knows her self-worth. She knows that there’s nothing to be done. Not if he wills it so. She is no fool. And her heart is braver than most.”

“I would like to shake him,” Hermia stated, wishing she could stride down the hall, wake her son up, and give him a good talking to as if he was small again.

But she couldn’t. Not ever again. He was a grown man. And he had to live his life. She and her husband and her family had raised Octavian, and that had to be enough. She prayed it was enough.

“I think that every man needs to be shaken,” he pointed out.

“Then you go do it,” she teased.

“I would, if I thought it would make a difference.”

“You should still have a word with him,” she said gently, daring to at last say what she wanted, deep in her heart.

“If it is what you want, of course I will. But he’s a stubborn man.

He always has been. It’s why he’s in the Army and not in some other occupation that would’ve pleased us more.

None of your family was ever going to choose to be a vicar, but he could have done almost anything else.

But he is on his own path, that one. It’s why he demanded a position that wasn’t safe. ”

Safe. None of her family had ever chosen safety.

They’d always chosen the hue and cry and living with passion. And she supposed that was how it still should be. But now they had to fight with all they had. They had to try to help Octavian before it was too late.

Octavian sat at the breakfast table, eating a particularly fine rasher, when his father came in.

Rashers were one of his favorite parts of the day.

And the rashers here were particularly good.

The cook was excellent, and the meat had been cooked perfectly.

And there was a richness of taste that simply did not exist down south.

Perhaps Scottish pigs lived exceedingly happy lives.

“It’s delicious,” Octavian said. “You should try some.”

His father nodded and sat down beside him. He poured out a cup of tea, stared at it, then stared at it some more.

Octavian studied his father for a moment, wondered if something was amiss, and then chose not to ask about it. Which in and of itself was most unusual.

Now, in his family, men often did ask if things were amiss. But too much was happening in his own life right now to venture opening such a conversation… Until he realized what an utter scoundrel he was being.

What if his father needed help?

Slowly, he lowered his fork to the blue-painted porcelain plate and asked, “Are you all right, Father? Is something wrong with Mother?”

“I am perfectly well, and your mother is perfectly well too,” his father began. “But I felt the need to speak to you.”

Octavian grew wary. This was odd. His father did not usually corner him in the breakfast room. They had wonderful conversations. He’d never tried to hide anything from his father. There was no need. But this felt quite pointed.

“Oh dear, I feel as if I’m being ushered into the dock,” he said, “to be questioned on some difficult matter.”

“Well, that’s not completely wrong,” his father admitted, smiling ruefully. He cleared his throat. “What are you going to do about that girl?”

Octavian choked on air and grabbed his half-drunk cup of black tea and drank it to the dregs before managing, “I beg your pardon?”

“The duchess. I’m talking about Elspeth.”

“Father, whatever are you saying?”

“She’s a delight, my boy.”

“Yes, she is.”

“You should marry her,” his father said suddenly.

Octavian’s mouth dried, despite the gulping of tea. “You know that I don’t wish to marry.”

His father’s brow furrowed. “Yes, I know that you don’t wish it. But that doesn’t mean that you won’t do it. She would be the most delightful of wives.”

“Papa,” he said carefully, choosing a childhood endearment for the man who had raised him so well, who had taken him out on the moors, who had taught him to ride a pony, had put his first little sword in his hand and played pirates with him.

And then, of course, there had been the years when Octavian had been growing into a man. There had been the gentle, kind reminders about how to treat everyone, how to stand up for oneself, and how to survive the years at Eton.

His father had been there every time he had gone to war, and he’d been there every time he had come back. And he’d written him at least once a week for years. But now… Now his father was asking to speak in a way he did not wish to.

“Papa, thank you for your kindness and your good thoughts. But no, there will be no delight here. She’s a delightful duchess. There’s no question. But any idea of us marrying is but a dream.”

“Why?” his father demanded. “The two of you would be marvelous together. Everyone sees how lovely you are, how much fun the two of you have.”

Octavian grabbed hold of his napkin, dabbed his mouth, and said, “Everyone is right. We are wonderful together. She is a delight. But Papa, it’s not possible.”

“I just don’t see why, my boy.”

“You don’t need to see why,” he said, hating that he had to disappoint his father. “And don’t worry. Maximus is your heir. And he will have—”

“Don’t!” his father cut in, turning towards him, his eyes wide with pain.

The ferocity of it stunned Octavian.

“Don’t,” his father said again. “I’ve never thought of you boys as just something to carry on my line.

You are my flesh and my blood, and I love you more than I could ever say.

So if you choose not to marry her, my displeasure is not because I don’t think you’ll have children.

It’s because I worry that you are denying yourself.

Denying yourself happiness and denying yourself love like your mother and I know. ”

“But, Papa,” he protested, “some of us wake and see what the world is really like. And I’ve done that.

The Briarwoods? They stay at Heron House.

They go to London. They’re invited to house parties and they make merry.

And they do not see. Or if they do, they choose other things than all-out war.

But Maximus and Calchas? They understand.

They understand the truth of the world, the brutality of it.

And while I am touched by all that you wish for me, I cannot wed.

I cannot let myself grow soft. Nor can I bring that brutal world to the woman I… ”

His voice died. He pushed himself back from the table and strode to the door. “I’m sorry, Papa,” he said. “I’m coated with something that I wouldn’t wish to share with anyone. And I cannot clean it off. Not yet.”

He strode through the door and didn’t look back.

As he strode down the hall, Octavian wondered how something meant to be so restful, this too-brief respite away from the fields of blood, had become such a nightmare.