Page 9 of The Duke’s Absolutely Fantastic Fling (The Notorious Briarwoods #15)

J osephine paced her beautiful bedchamber decorated in soft periwinkle and cream hues. Her hands trembled whilst her stomach churned. To her dismay, saliva filled her mouth. She was going to be sick. Her mind raced with a thousand different conflicting and ever more upsetting thoughts.

The single candle she had lit when she could not calm her mind to sleep flickered. Its amber hue danced about the room, leaving the walls half in darkness, half kissed in the flame’s light.

The lace curtains, which had been made in Ireland and depicted a beautiful young girl with her dogs, waved like ghosts as a breeze from the open window wafted in.

Ghosts. She had many of them. But she had been certain that they had left her long ago.

It seemed not.

Something had awoken them.

She turned on the spot, paced to her bed, and tried to sit down, but her legs started to shake under her linen night rail. She balled her hands into fists, her knuckles straining as she closed her eyes and winced.

She let out a low, shaking breath, but tears filled her eyes as she did so.

Something was wrong.

What was happening to her? She didn’t understand it. She couldn’t make sense of it at all. In all her life, she could not recall feeling like this, except perhaps when she was small and was first taken in by the Briarwoods.

And she had not felt thus since.

She had no right to feel like this! She was happy. She was a Briarwood. Everything was hers. She had perfect parents. She had loving siblings and more cousins than most could ever hope to have. She had a grandmother who cared deeply about her.

Everything about her life was perfect. She lived in the most beautiful house.

She got to go to the Isle of Wight every year.

The Westleigh castle in the country was a dream come true to anyone who might get to spend time there.

She had the most beautiful clothes. She had more food than she could ever consume and in such delicious variety.

She had friends.

And yet this night? This night she felt as if she had been tossed into an abyss and left alone to rot there.

She jolted to her feet and began to pace again. She brought her hands to her mouth, stifling a cry of frustration as more tears filled her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they would not go.

She could not bear this feeling. It was so terribly overwhelming.

A gentle knock thudded upon her door.

She froze. Had she woken someone up in the massive house? She tried so desperately hard not to be loud with her distress.

“Josephine,” a soft voice called.

She closed her eyes, horrified. It was her grandmother, the dowager duchess. She could try to pretend that she was not awake, but her grandmother would never believe it. Her grandmother was far too clever for all of that, and to avoid such a meeting would be foolish beyond measure.

And yet she did not wish to show her grandmother such a distressed face. Her grandmother had worked all her life to make sure that her family was happy and well, and Josephine did not want to let her down.

Yet a part of her hungered so deeply for anyone to pull her out of this chasm that she crossed to the door. Much to her frustration, she could not make her hand stop trembling. Even so, she clasped the handle and turned it.

The dowager duchess stood there in the hallway lit by silver moonlight. Her eyes widened. “Oh my dear,” she said, “you are not at all well.”

Josephine took in her grandmother’s beautiful silver hair, which had been let down about her shoulders in waves of silver and white. She stood in a simple gown, as if she had not yet undressed, of soft purple silk. And she reached out her hands, which had become more gnarled over time.

Though hating to worry her grandmother, Josephine took them with indescribable gratitude.

“I am not,” she confessed, her throat so tight she could barely speak. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Her grandmother gave her a quick nod and then gently pulled her into the hallway. “Come with me,” she said.

“I do not think I should go out,” Josephine protested. “I am not well.”

“You must,” her grandmother said firmly. “You cannot stay in that room. If you do, you will only grow worse.”

“But, Grandmama,” she insisted, “I don’t wish to wake anyone up.”

“You won’t, my dear. I am the only one up prowling the halls.

” Her grandmother gave her a rueful look.

“You see, older ladies don’t sleep so very well.

And I often take to walking the hallways now, gazing at the portraits, remembering stories of the past, people long gone.

Your company would be much sought after, and you’ll give me a purpose. So do not fret about it.”

Josephine sucked in a breath, but it was a painful breath. It was tight and shallow. And her heart? Oh dear God, her heart. It hammered hard, faster than any horse hooves at race day.

“Take your robe,” her grandmother instructed with kind care as if Josephine was small again.

Nodding, she turned and took up the soft blue silk robe that was embroidered with butterflies in flight and slipped it over her shoulders.

Her grandmother nodded encouragingly, then guided her out into the hall. “That’s it, my dear. Just come with me.”

They padded along the elaborately woven rug, down the many stairs, towards the back of the grand house, out through the servants’ entrance and into the gardens.

“Now,” her grandmother said, turning to her, “look at me.”

Josephine did. But it was no easy thing. It was hard to stand still. It was hard not to cry.

And her grandmother said, “Take in a slow breath, my darling. You are not in danger, but you are breathing as if you are.”

Josephine tried to do as her grandmother said, but it was almost impossible.

“It’s all right,” her grandmother soothed. “What you are experiencing is, I think, perfectly normal.”

“What?” she gasped. “This can’t be normal. Please tell me it’s not normal. I never want it to happen again.”

“I cannot promise that it will not happen again,” her grandmother said gently, sympathy touching her already kind features. “It is a part of life, my darling, to face the demons of the dark and to come out triumphant on the other side. And I will not leave you until you have done so.”

Josephine gave a nod because she knew her grandmother spoke truthfully. Her grandmother would not abandon her to face the torturous foe of her own rioting mind.

And so she tried to do as her grandmother said. Her grandmother held her hands tightly, squeezing. She slowed her breath.

“Now follow with me again.” And her grandmother led her to the roses. “Drink in their scent. My dear, drink in their scent.”

She leaned in and tried, and then her grandmother bent down and plucked lavender from a bush and lifted it toward Josephine’s face. “Smell,” she said firmly, unwilling to be gainsaid in this.

And Josephine did. The scents helped. She did not know why, but they did.

“Now look up,” her grandmother said. “Do you see the moon there?”

She nodded, her body still tense.

“Count the stars.”

“Count the stars?” she blurted.

“Count the stars,” her grandmother repeated.

“But there are thousands of them.”

“All the better,” she said.

And so she began to count slowly. “One, two, three, four…”

Her grandmother stood beside her, holding her hand, counting too, until at last, at long last, there in the soft breeze of the English night with the stars overhead and the scent of flowers in the air and her grandmother’s wise form standing beside her, she at last felt her body shake its last.

She swallowed, and she felt exhausted. “It’s as if I have run all the way to the Duke of Rossbrea’s estate and back.”

“I’m sure that’s exactly how your body feels, my dear,” her grandmother assured, holding her hand just as she had done when Josephine had first come to Heron House when she was a little girl.

“I’ve had it happen, and so have other members of this family.

What I have just done for you? I have done for them.

Or they have done for each other. I’m sorry that you are experiencing it, but it is not an uncommon part of life, especially for someone like you. ”

“Someone like me?” she echoed.

“Someone who has experienced more than their fair share of challenges.”

Challenges.

If her grandmother meant a war-torn Continental Europe, then her grandmother was not wrong.

“But, Grandmama,” she ventured, “I have not experienced a wave of grief like this since I was small. I have not worried about…”

Her voice died off, for she did not wish to awaken more memories of a land destroyed by Napoleon’s army.

“I know, my darling,” her grandmother said, “but I think that what happened today might be why you’re experiencing this.”

“What do you mean?” Josephine asked, shaking her head.

“You had a proposal, did you not?”

Josephine blinked. “Yes.”

“And it sounds as if your reply was a rather complicated one.”

Josephine nodded again. Of course her grandmother knew. Briarwoods did not keep secrets.

“Why?” her grandmother asked.

She swallowed, her limbs heavy. “Because I know you have always told us to follow our inner voice, Grandmama. And while a part of me insists that he is the one for me, the other part knows I must not marry him.”

“Oh,” her grandmother said without any further praise or judgement.

Josephine was stunned. She waited for her grandmother to argue that she should indeed marry the Duke of Rossbrea, but her grandmother did no such thing.

“That must be very difficult,” her grandmother said at last, “to feel so conflicted.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting off that churning feeling that was trying to rise again. “It is. It’s like being two people at once. In one moment, I want more than anything in the world to be with him. And in the next, I know it’d be an utter disaster.”

Her grandmother nodded and wrapped her arm around Josephine’s waist. “I see,” she said. “Well, I think you have given a very wise reply then, given the circumstances.”

“You do?” she asked, amazed that her grandmother wasn’t chastising her.

“Yes. You don’t need to rush into anything, Josephine,” her grandmother said calmly.

“You have had dramatic events in your life, and so behaving in a careful, conscientious way could be the very best thing. There is no pressure to marry him next week, is there? The two of you weren’t making that kind of merry in Scotland, were you? ”

Josephine choked. “No, Grandmama, we were not. Though I must confess, he was always very tempting.”

“That young lad?” Her grandmother’s silver brows rose and she laughed.

“Of course. His whole family is made of tempting young men. Any lass who has one of them will be very lucky indeed. But if you are certain that he is not the man to marry, even though he is the man for you…” Her grandmother shrugged. “I will not argue.”

“You understand?” she said.

“Of course I do,” her grandmother said easily.

“I think it is perfectly understandable that someone could have a soulmate, or someone they love more than anything in the whole world, and understand that marriage is not necessarily the best answer. So the only thing to do is to wait and see how you feel.”

She twisted her hands, finding herself almost wishing her grandmother would convince her one way or the other. At last, she managed, “I think it is best. I’m certain that he will not enjoy being married to someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” her grandmother said, tilting her head to the side, which caused the moon to shimmer through her wavy silver hair.

She swallowed. “Exactly.”

“Well, my dear.” Her grandmother sighed.

“I will never be able to convince you of anything other than what you have already decided. So I will hold your hand, be an ear to listen, and if ever this happens again, you come find me. Do you understand? No one should have to go through these horrible episodes alone.”

“Thank you, Grandmama. But don’t you think this is a sign?”

“A sign?” her grandmother asked, her brow furrowing.

“I know you believe in them,” Josephine clarified.

“Oh, yes, of course. They are everywhere, my dear, if one but looks for them.”

“Well, then isn’t it obvious?” Josephine rushed. “I’m clearly not supposed to marry Rossbrea. Perhaps he and I shall just have this affair, a chance to be together, and then at the end of the summer, I’ll tell him no. We shall go our separate ways and he can find someone who will not be—”

Her grandmother interjected swiftly, “Not be what?”

Josephine winced. “Nothing,” she said.

Josephine’s grandmother tsked. “That ‘nothing’ seems like a great deal, my dear.” But then she squeezed Josephine in a loving embrace.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to say it now.

Tell me when you’re ready. If you wish to say it to me, you can.

But just know this, you cannot know what is in the Duke of Rossbrea’s head any more than he can know what is in yours.

So be honest with him, and everything will go much better. ”

Honest .

Should she tell him about this night terror?

Maybe she should. He should understand that marrying someone like her would be no easy thing and, well, surely he was similar.

Surely two people with such shadows inside could only make more darkness, despite the joy they felt when in each other’s company.

Surely, he needed someone who was full of sunlight with no memories of…

Josephine shoved the thought aside and merely allowed herself to be held in her grandmother’s arms.

This was all she needed. All she ever wanted.

Her family.