Page 34

" S hall I read to you?"

The Duchess made the offer to two bright-eyed young girls. Clara and Eleanor were mercifully oblivious to her distraction and nodded eagerly.

"Yes, please," the younger one sounded. "That would be lovely. We do like it whenever you read to it."

"Yes, it is most interesting," Eleanor nodded. "Somehow, the stories do not sound as interesting when the Governess does it."

Alethea could not help but smile. She was really spoiled rotten by the love that she received from these two – and it was something that she often reminded herself to not take for granted either.

The girl's could have just as easily been not accepting of her, but they had embraced her with open arms.

"Well, then. Huddle up around me."

She began reading to them from the story, which they listened intently. They did not know that they were helping her distract herself from her own thoughts, which was more a gift to her than anything else than they could have done for her in that moment.

Alethea Carter could scarcely make sense of her own thoughts.

Indeed, no amount of time spent in the nursery with Eleanor and Clara had succeeded in banishing the memory of Oliver's kiss.

It returned to her in quiet moments, especially when she allowed herself to remember the warmth of his hand upon her cheek.

It was absurd.

She had known the Duke of Redhaven for a mere matter of weeks.

That was hardly enough time to form any reasonable attachment.

But that was exactly what had occurred. Each time Eleanor's hand touched hers or Clara's bright eyes lifted to her face, she was reminded of the quiet conviction that had stolen over her heart.

How simple it felt to imagine a life among them, a life in which Oliver's children might one day call her Mama.

She pressed her lips together, banishing the thought as swiftly as it appeared and continued on with the story. But it appeared that the brief pause in her narration had not gone without being noticed.

"Is something troubling you?" Eleanor was the one to ask.

"What?" Alethea blinked, startled.

"You look…different," Eleanor continued, shyly. She lifted a hand, as though to touch Alethea's cheek, then thought better of it. "Sort of as if you are thinking very hard about something."

"Oh," the book lowered slightly in her lap as warmth flooded her face. Had she really been so transparent? Usually, she was quite good at concealing her own feelings.

"You are blushing," Eleanor observed with the frankness only children possessed. "You do that when you are pleased, but also when you are embarrassed."

"I do not," Alethea protested weakly, though she could feel the heat rising to the tips of her ears.

"You do," Clara joined in. "Have we done something wrong?"

"Oh, no," Alethea hurried to assure them. "Of course not. You are perfect angels."

"Then why are you thinking so hard?" Eleanor persisted, her brow furrowed with worry. "Did Oliver do something to upset you?"

Alethea's blush deepened. She realized that she did not give the girls enough credit for their perceptiveness.

"Your brother has done nothing of the sort," she assured, though mid-sentence she realized that even her own sentence lacked conviction.

"Are you certain?" Eleanor raised an eyebrow, "if not him, then what else could have you so forlorn?"

"Forlorn," Alethea repeated the words with a smile on her face now. Is that what she had been coming across as? Biting down on her lip, she decided that forlorn was not the word to describe her condition in the least. Confused, perhaps. But not anything that could be misconstrued for unhappiness.

"No," she said quickly, forcing a smile she hoped looked reassuring. "Nothing is wrong at all. I promise. You must believe me, for you know that I am a terrible liar."

Eleanor's eyes searched her face for a moment longer, as if weighing whether to believe her. Then finally, she settled back against Alethea's side with a little sigh of relief.

"All right," she murmured, content to accept the answer. "If you are certain, then we shall believe you."

Alethea drew in a careful breath, smoothing a hand over Eleanor's hair.

"I am quite certain, dearest," she said softly. "Now, shall we see if the prince finds his princess?"

At once, the girls nodded, their curiosity shifting back to the story. Alethea lifted the book again, her voice steady as she began to read aloud. It only took perhaps half an hour of reading and then both sisters had succumbed to slumber.

Alethea lingered for a moment, watching the two young girls sleep. She tucked them into bed, the sweetness of the scene pricked at her heart in a way she could not name. She brushed a kiss against each soft cheek, whispering goodnight, and closed the nursery door behind her.

Now once again, she was without any distractions.

For the first time that day, the house seemed truly quiet. She gathered her skirts and made her way toward the corridor that led to her chambers. Already she could feel the fatigue gathering in her bones, promising her a few hours of uneasy sleep.

She hoped that the duke would not appear in her dream again that night, as he often did.

She was only halfway to her corridor when there was a noise that caught her attention.

Startled, Alethea hurried to the doorway.

Oliver stood there, one hand brushing back damp hair.

Moonlight slanted through the open doorway and caught on a thin red line on his cheek.

"Oliver!" Alethea said softly, crossing the room in two quick steps. She reached out a hand to touch the scratch, worry prickling in her throat. "Your Grace… are you hurt?"

Oliver took her hand in his, tilting her wrist so she could not continue her inspection.

"It's nothing, really. A scratch from a bramble."

"How did you come by it?" she said, taken aback by how casually he seemed to be treating the matter.

"I told you, it was nothing worth remarking upon," Oliver said as a way of explanation, shrugging his shoulders loosely. He did not let go of the grip on her hand.

"You must think me terribly foolish if you expect me to stand here and pretend I do not see it," she said, pointing to the gash on his face.

"It is nothing you have to worry about," he continued with the same maddening nonchalance.

"It is rather too late for that," she said, lifting her chin. "I am already worrying. So the least you could do is let me have a look."

Oliver exhaled, the line of his shoulders easing as he brought her hand to rest lightly against his chest. "You are…very determined. Do you really care this much whether I am hurt or not?"

"Of course I do," Alethea answered, immediately. "How is that a surprise to you? Anyone would be worried if you appeared on the threshold with a gash across your face."

Oliver's mouth curved into something that was not quite a smile.

"I assure you, it is not so grave as you imagine."

"That is not what I asked," she persisted.

"I have come home in far worse condition more times than I can count," he admitted. "No one has ever thought it worth so much fuss."

Alethea stared at him, appalled. "Then everyone you know must be very accustomed to such things," she said.

"And you, I take it, are not accustomed?"

He was smirking now, which boggled her mind.

"No," she said, lifting her chin again. "I am not. Nor do I wish to be, if it comes at the grave expense of seeing you injured. Have you sent for the physician?"

"I do not need a physician to tell me I am fine," he replied.

Alethea frowned, her gaze fixed upon the cut. It was not so terrible a wound, but the thought of him coming to harm turned her stomach in ways she had not expected.

"I would prefer the physician's opinion," she said quietly.

He studied her for a moment, as if considering how to reply. And then, with the same disarming certainty she recalled from that night at the ball, he reached up and cupped her cheek in his broad palm. The contact stole the air from her lungs.

His skin was warm, his thumb brushing the delicate hollow beneath her eye. Alethea's lashes fluttered, and she was certain he must feel the uneven pulse at her throat.

"My darling," he said, so gently she might have dreamt it, "you must not look so frightened."

The endearment unmoored her completely. She had never been anyone's darling. For an instant she thought she might weep from the sweetness of it.

"But you are bleeding," she whispered.

"Only a little." His smile grew, though it was tinged with fatigue. "If you fret so over a scratch, what will you do when I am old and grey?"

The words were teasing, but they settled into her heart with a hope she could not quite acknowledge. She tried to summon a reply, but all she could do was stare at him, feeling her composure unravel.

In earnest, she did not know how to react. His hand was so gentle upon her cheek, yet she felt as though she had been pinned in place. She could not have looked away from him if she tried. Oliver's thumb traced a tender line along the edge of her jaw.

This man makes me unable to breathe.

"Alethea," he murmured. "Thank you for worrying. But truly, I am fine."

He kissed her then, softly, as if to reassure her and himself. This kiss was nothing like the first one from the ball. It was slow and gentle. She let herself melt into the kiss, and when he pulled back she barely noticed. Oliver's dark eyes met hers with a tenderness that made her pulse race.

"I ought not have done that," he said quietly.

"No," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "But I am glad you did."

He did not seem to have a response ready for her but he seemed more at ease now, as though his defenses had been lowered.

"I should see to that cut," she managed, fighting to collect herself. "You must come into the kitchen."

He did not protest. Instead, he allowed her to take his hand and lead him down the corridor.

She lit a candle and filled a basin with water while he sat at the table. Kneeling in front of him, Alethea poured cool water over a clean cloth. Despite her fluttering nerves, she tried to focus on the task: gently dabbing the cloth to remove dirt from the scratch on his cheek.

"You needn't fuss."

"I am not fussing," she said primly, though her cheeks grew hot. "I am tending to my…" She faltered. Husband? Beloved? What was he to her, truly? "…to your injury," she finished.

He only inclined his head, as though he were too tired to contest it.

She dipped the cloth in the basin and wrung it out, determined that her hands should not shake.

But when she stepped closer, when she lifted her hand to press the damp linen to his cheek, she felt her composure shatter. His eyes were so close.

"Forgive me," she whispered as she touched the cloth to his skin.

"There is nothing to forgive."

Her heart fluttered. She dabbed carefully at the cut, watching as the last traces of dried blood disappeared. But she could not stop her thoughts from tumbling out.

"I do not know how to act around you," she confessed, "You…discompose me entirely."

His mouth curved, though his gaze did not waver.

"I rather think you discompose me as well."

The admission made her throat tighten. She set the cloth aside, bracing her hand lightly on his shoulder so she would not sway.

Her heart squeezed at that. Standing in the warm glow of the kitchen lamp, Alethea felt a sudden courage gather in her chest. She opened her mouth, and the words she had kept locked away finally tumbled out.

"Oliver… I?—"

He did not interrupt her.

She swallowed and took a deep breath. "I love you," she said, the soft words breaking free at last. Her palms went clammy on his wrist as she felt the honesty in them.

"I have loved you for some time… I thought if I kept busy, if I pretended not to care, it would pass. But it has only grown stronger."

He did not look away.

"And now," she continued, "I am afraid you have ruined me for any other affection."

Oliver's brow lifted. He still held her hand against his cheek, and he looked at her as if he had just realized something of his own.

"I…" he began, then took another breath and admitted, "I love you too, Alethea."

The simplicity of his words set her heart soaring. Relief and joy washed over her so strongly that she had to release his hand to steady herself. Overwhelmed, she let out a laugh that was half sob.

"Oh… oh, I don't know what to say. All I've wanted was to say that."

"Say whatever comes to you," he murmured.

She sat back on her heels, gazing into his eyes.

"I've been so frightened to say these things," she admitted. "But… but since you say it too… perhaps we can be honest about all of it."

"You can always be honest with me," Oliver uncrossed his arm and reached out, trailing his thumb lightly along her hand.

He watched her with such fondness that her heart nearly broke.

"I do not know how to be the sort of wife you deserve," she admitted, "But I promise I will try."

"You are already more than I could ever deserve," his brow furrowed.

She shook her head quickly.

"No, no, I am stubborn and frightened and not at all accomplished in the ways I ought to be. But if you will be patient, I believe we might…we might be happy."

His thumb stroked the side of her hand, as if to reassure her he was real.

"We can take it slow," she said, her words tumbling over one another. "I know I am not the easiest person to be around, but we can work things out. I will make sure I am not a burden to you. I will try every day to be better."

"Alethea…"

"And I can wait to have children," she went on breathlessly, scarcely hearing him. "Truly, I can. There is no need to rush. I am content to raise Clara and Eleanor with you first, before…before we have our own family."

She looked at him shyly, almost afraid to see the depth of feeling reflected back. His expression shifted as he listened. At first his brow furrowed slightly in surprise, but then his smile faded completely.

"No."