Page 17 of The Duke’s Absolutely Fantastic Fling (The Notorious Briarwoods #15)

T he Season was nearly over as Teague and Josephine sat atop her bed playing chess.

How she loved him being in her bedchamber! Somehow, with his impressive masculinity that should have overwhelmed but somehow did not, russet dark hair, and rippling body, he still managed to fit in the delicate space.

It seemed that the pastel colors of periwinkle blue and cream, touched with kisses of gilding, didn’t bother him in the slightest. He seemed quite at home.

And then she thought of his palace, well, castle in Scotland, and she was not surprised.

It was not the austere sort of fortress that so many might’ve thought of when imagining a medieval building in the Highlands.

It was almost fantastical, as if whoever had designed the insides of it had decided that they were going to make war with the weather outside and create a dream to live in.

Her own room was a taste of that.

She had, over the years, ensured that she was surrounded by only pretty things, as had her mother and father and most of the other Briarwood clan.

Her gowns were charming soft pastels. Her room was covered in paintings of beautiful things, and now she was in the company of a very beautiful man.

He was quite good at chess, but so was she.

She had had to hone her skills with cousins who had been playing since long before she was born, and no one really took mercy in the Briarwood family.

No one was merciless, but nor would they let one win simply because one was little or young. No, one had to cut their teeth and be fierce, and she was.

So when she moved her queen and took his bishop, she made no apology but rather waggled her brows at him and smiled mischievously.

“I see what you’re trying to do,” he said as he eyed the board, bracing his hands on his rather fetching knees.

“Oh, and what is that?” she asked.

“You’re going after my own queen, of course,” he said.

“Certainly!” she declared. “A girl always wants to take the queen.”

“Oh, I thought she wanted the king,” he replied, his lips curving in a slow, tempting smile.

She tsked, raising her hand and shaking her finger at him. “Definitely not! At least not if one is wise. Kings are not to be trusted,” she whispered, conspiratorially. “Look at history. So many queens are put aside by their kings. I would rather rule myself, as would the queens on the board.”

“But the queen cannot be the last one standing in this game,” he said ruefully. “The king has to be.”

“Rules,” she sighed. “Silly, dratted rules.”

He nodded, his russet hair shining in the candlelight. “Och, well, I don’t disagree with you there.”

And he made his next move, his castle taking one of her knights.

“Drat,” she said before straightening and taking the loss as a mere step forward in her campaign. “Well done.”

“Thank you,” he said with a slight incline of his head.

They played like this often, sitting in each other’s company, with few clothes on, relaxed as they could not be for society, making banter, yet careful never to go too deep into her past, nor his, in truth.

But suddenly she found herself tempted to venture beyond what had always been their line of discourse. She had to know. What was it that had caused the occasional melancholy shadow within him that she seemed to see and so many others missed? After all, he did know about hers.

“And your father and mother?” she said. Using the chess board as a means of query, she prompted, “The king never betrayed his queen?”

“A subtle pivot to my past?” he arched a brow. “They liked to play chess, you know.”

“Did they?” she breathed.

“Yes,” he said easily, studying the board as if the questions didn’t bother him in the slightest. “The truth is, my mother and father loved each other, but my father was quite sad because of the politics of Scotland, and my mother did the best that she could, but the weather was very difficult for her.”

“I see,” she whispered, nodding. “That explains it.”

“What?” he said, his eyes widening as he looked up at her.

“The sorrow that I see in your eyes sometimes. Do you wish to speak of it?”

He cocked his head to the side. “We can if you’d like to, and yes, I do feel sorrowful sometimes. I think it is perhaps part of the Scottish nature. We must appear merry on the outside and dour inwardly.”

She laughed softly. “Oh my. All Scots?”

“Possibly,” he teased. “I hear the Irish are a bit like that too. I wouldn’t be surprised. We are both victims of oppression.”

“I can’t possibly see you as a victim,” she said.

“Can’t you?” he drawled before he winked.

“No,” she replied honestly. And the truth was that it was hard to see him as a victim.

He was so large, so powerful, and had so much money.

But then again, the Scots had had so much stolen from them when they lost their independence.

In the end, the Stuart line, which was supposed to give Scotland more power, had destroyed them. Or at least set them back a great deal.

She supposed she best be careful lest she prove unkind and unthinking. “That must have been very hard for you,” she observed. “Your parents’ unhappiness.”

“They weren’t unhappy,” he countered gently.

“What?” she gasped, blinking, surprised. Hadn’t he just said his father was sad and that his mother struggled with the weather?

“They weren’t unhappy,” he said again, smiling softly as he clearly remembered them. “I think everyone has some degree of melancholy or sorrow, don’t you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “No, the Briarwoods don’t. Well, they do. In a way. But they face it head on and so are not hindered by it.”

“But they’re very unique,” he said. “And I still think that they feel sad. I have spoken both with Calchas and Octavian, and as far as I can tell, they’ve experienced great woe in their lives.”

“Yes,” she agreed, considering this. “But they’re soldiers,” she pointed out. “Of course they have. They’ve seen things that none of us ever will.”

“Except you,” he said gently.

She clamped her mouth shut at that.

“Josephine?”

She shook her head. “Forgive me. This was my mistake,” she rushed. “I never should have—”

“It’s all right,” he said, lifting his hand and gently stroking a lock of her hair back behind her ear.

“What is?” she managed.

“You asking about my past. But I worry,” he whispered.

“You worry?” she prompted.

He hesitated, his face growing serious. “I worry you think that there’s some sort of hidden darkness in me that really isn’t there.”

“But I feel it,” she protested.

“Are you certain?” he queried.

She nodded. “Indeed, I am.”

He drew in a long breath. “Then it is a mystery to me.”

She let her gaze trail over his handsome face. Could she be so mistaken? Had she merely seen a reflection of her own pain in the man she loved? Had she sought for something that was not truly there? But then she blurted, “I think many men have feelings that are mysteries to them.”

He laughed softly. “I will make no argument. And if my sorrow is deeper than I realize, why does it bother you so much? How can it harm us?”

“Because if you’re sorrowful, and I’m…” Her voice died off.

“Sorrowful?” he put in.

“Whatever this is,” she said, gesturing to herself. “My going rigid and terrified for no reason.”

“It can’t be for no reason, can it?” he insisted, taking her hand in his.

She looked away, her eyes starting to burn.

The episodes hurt so much. When they occurred, they were almost unbearable.

And it wasn’t fair. For she had been so carefree, full of fun and ease for years.

To have her life suddenly change and be afflicted with this sort of thing wasn’t right. “Well, I don’t know what it’s for.”

“You have seen much,” he ventured, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand.

“So have you,” she replied, unable to look back at him. It would hurt too much to be so seen in her pain.

“No,” he returned. “I haven’t. Not really. I’ve seen the general sort of poverty that exists in countries like Scotland and England in the lower classes. But you saw something else altogether, didn’t you?”

She bit the inside of her cheek. Did she wish to tell him? Could she bear it? First, she needed for him to understand.

“I fear that you and I will be too dark together,” she rushed, studying the cold fire grate. “Don’t you see? Two shadows can’t make light, can they?”

He considered this. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But the truth is all my life, whatever melancholy I’ve had, I’ve known that I simply had to wait until it passed.”

“Yours passes?” she asked softly, hearing her own family’s wisdom echoed in his words.

“Of course it does. Some days I feel terrible. Some days it’s raining, and the grey looms overhead, and the cold is impossible, and it feels as if the winter will never leave Scotland.

It feels as if the history of my people and my family will crush me, and that I will never live up to the expectations of my ancestors.

But it passes . Doesn’t it pass for you, Josephine? ”

Good heavens, he sounded so wise. He sounded like Grandmama.

“If I’m honest,” she replied, her voice barely audible, for she hated having to admit it, “I have not felt its ill effects in many years. I’ve not had to wait for something to pass since I was a child. So this is something altogether different for me.”

“It was me,” he said, his voice deepening with pain, “that caused it.”

“No, not you,” she insisted again, turning back to him, wishing to take his blame away. But then she stopped. Because the attacks had started when he had come to London. They had started when he asked her to wed. “Maybe it was you, but I don’t know why.”

“Is that why you won’t…?” His voice died off as if he was not able to bear putting his fears into words.

She forced a smile, but it was wavering, and her eyes stung with building tears. “This is a very difficult conversation,” she said.

“But necessary, don’t you think?” he replied, still holding her hand as if he could not ever let her go.