Читать книгу Forever Mine - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 6

I miss him. I dream of him. Every day and every night.

-From the diary of Lady Augustine Jane Ascott

May 25, 1802

London, England

The Wentworth garden

Lady Augustine Jane Ascott quietly seated herself on a stone bench hidden beneath a large oak in the beautifully tended and flowered garden, away from the fuss of the afternoon picnic festivities and the eyes of countless men and women she didn’t care to know.

Smoothing her azure and ivory gown against her thighs, she dug into her reticule slung around her gloved wrist and slid out all that remained of her brother, Lord Nathaniel James Atwood. It was a painted miniature of him with a small brass plate bearing his name that had been commissioned barely a few months before his disappearance. She had confiscated it from a servant after her father had ordered everything of Nathaniel’s, right down to his small boots, to be stripped from the house in an effort for the family to move on. But in the end, it had only created a greater divide. Her parents no longer talked. And neither did she. She should have never left Nathaniel alone that night.

Augustine stared at that mischievous pale face framed by waving coal-black hair. He had probably grown at least a few inches in the past two years. In three more years, he’d be fifteen and shaving. If he was alive, that is.

She pressed her lips together and fought the tears stinging her eyes. In all but six days, she would be secretly pawning off the last of her jewelry and returning to New York City from whence her brother disappeared to find him. Though she was about to abandon her mother and all that was left of her good name, her life was meaningless without Nathaniel. There was no sense pretending otherwise. Tracing a finger across those bright, glass-blue eyes she missed so much, she smiled brokenly.

“Might I join you, Lady Ascott?” a low male voice casually inquired, rounding the bench.

Augustine jumped, almost dropping the gilded portrait onto her lap, and shoved the small frame deep into her reticule. She yanked and tugged the cord back into place to ensure it didn’t fall out and glanced up, blinking rapidly. Bringing her gloved hands together, she primly tried to erase all emotion and focus on whoever had appeared before her. “Pardon?”

A tall, dark-haired gentleman with handsome brown eyes that softened upon meeting her gaze stepped toward her and lingered. “I saw you sitting alone, away from everyone and out of sight. Are the festivities not to your liking?”

Augustine’s eyes widened, realizing it was none other than the host himself, the ever dashing duke of Wentworth. Her breath hitched. If there was any man capable of capturing what little remained of her dreams, this man personified it and more.

His muscled frame towered inquiringly before her, that solid stance strong but not fierce or domineering.

He really was too debonair to be real.

Dressed in a fine morning coat and cravat, with simple tan trousers and black riding boots, and bearing no tonic in his hair or any rings on his fingers, he appeared refreshingly casual compared to the rest of the pompous male crowd with their canes and their jewels and prim, white knee stockings and slippers. It was so odd that this man should keep his appearance so simple. After all, he was the duke of Wentworth. A man who had single-handedly inherited an entire dukedom worth an astounding seventy-five thousand a year. All at the age of seven.

According to gossip, he had been raised by overly protective aunts until he’d come of age and had emerged not only duke, but the greatest and most honorable of titled gents in London. Something she herself had yet to meet.

Though he had been married in his younger years to his childhood sweetheart, his wife had died due to illness, never once bearing him a child during their six years of marriage. Rumor had it she was barren. Rumor also had it he was so deeply in love with her that after her death, he had abandoned socializing with women altogether. Which was as sad a story as any, even though it was also achingly sweet and romantic. Something she never thought a man capable of being given the behavior of her own father.

Of course…rumors were just that. Rumors. They couldn’t always be trusted. And neither could men.

“Lady Ascott?” he prodded.

Her stomach dropped, noting the way he stared in unnamed concern. “The festivities are lovely, thank you,” she managed.

The duke set a gloved hand against his waistcoat and inclined his head. “I am pleased to hear it.” He lowered his hand and smiled. “Might I join you for a small while? I have been meaning to talk to you.”

She set her chin, not wanting to encourage conversation. In her opinion, she had already allowed for too much interaction with him throughout the Season given that they had danced together at every single event and he always spoke with her mother for at least an hour in tote at such events. She often wondered if the man felt sorry for her. Everyone did given her family’s tragedy. But it wasn’t she or her family that needed pity but Nathaniel himself who had been lost to an unspeakable fate.

Though her heart annoyingly always beat faster in the duke’s presence, for he was handsome, intelligent and genuine for a man, she had no time to entertain the idea of men. Despite her mother’s plans to settle her into a new way of life outside her father’s black presence by seeing her wed by the end of her first Season, she was counting days, not suitors.

The duke leaned toward her and offered in a low flat tone, “I’m trying not to be offended by what appears to be an unusually cool reception. Should I leave?”

Her cheeks warmed, realizing that he was pointing out just how rude she was being. “Forgive me for being rude. I am not myself today.”

“Ah.” His tone warmed considerably. “I sensed something wasn’t quite right. Having an unpleasant day?”

She lowered her gaze and muttered, “More like an unpleasant life.” She paused, regretting that she had said that aloud.

He shifted toward her, searching her face in concern. “Might I sit beside you on the bench? Or would that be imposing too much given that we are alone?”

She sighed, sensing he wasn’t about to go away. Scooting her bum aside, whilst ensuring her gown didn’t drag against the ground, Augustine gestured toward the space she had made on the bench. “Please. Sit.”

“Thank you.” With a swift turn of his body, he settled his large frame beside her and shifted toward her, the subtle, clean fragrance of shaving cream and soap making her all too aware of his presence. “I have been known to give good advice.”

She shifted away. “I have no interest in advice.”

“Then how do you expect to overcome whatever ails you?”

“Nothing ails me.”

He smirked. “Is that your way of saying everything ails you?”

She eyed him. “Is there something you wanted, Your Grace? Aside from trying to play Samaritan to a woman sixteen years younger than yourself?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Am I to be honest in this?”

“Honesty is always appreciated considering how little of it exists in the world.”

A gruff laugh escaped him. “A bit cynical, are we? You may want to stay away from that. Cynicism eats away at one’s heart over time, and you, my dear, are far too young to have so much of it. Even I don’t have that much at five and thirty.”

“I see. And is that your advice to an ignorant and tragically naive lady trapped in the woes of her first Season?”

He eyed her, his features tightening. “Do you want me to leave, Lady Ascott? Because I can. Despite what you think, I am not here to burden you. I have only been trying to gain your favor. The question is, is your favor really worth gaining given the way you are treating me?”

A part of her crumbled. Since when had she taken on the role of a diffident monster? This wasn’t her. This was but the shell of a person who no longer wanted to suffer.

She swallowed. “Forgive me. Quite a bit is weighing upon my soul. I wish I could…say more, but I can’t. Simply know that at heart, I am not this and that your kindness has been noted and appreciated.”

His brow and the grim set of that masculine mouth softened. Averting his dark gaze, he surveyed the grounds before them, stretching out one booted leg before him and leaning an elbow on his other knee. “Do you need someone to confide in?”.”

Augustine blinked in astonishment, observing that masculine profile that continued to survey the garden, instead of her. Though she desperately wanted and needed someone to confide in, she knew she couldn’t bring herself to trust anyone. Not even him.

He adjusted his morning coat against his chest, but kept his gaze firmly fixed on the garden before them. “Whilst you think on whether I am worthy of confidence, might we touch on the portrait you were just looking at?”

Her throat tightened, realizing he had seen her with her brother’s portrait. She fingered her reticule, drawing it closer against herself. “Please don’t tell anyone about it, Your Grace. Especially my father. I’m not supposed to have it. He would confiscate it if he knew.”

He angled himself toward her, his large knee grazing her thigh. “One of those. I see.” His eyes flicked toward her lips before meeting her gaze. “I hope to God you are not allowing this gentleman to take advantage of you.”

She stilled, her heart pounding at the realization that he actually thought it was a lover. “I beg your pardon, but the portrait is of my brother, Your Grace. I am appalled that you would insinuate otherwise.”

He winced and shifted away from her. “Forgive me. That was incredibly rude.” He winced again. “Incredibly. Had I known, I wouldn’t have…I was only trying to…” He shifted his shaven jaw and rose to his full height, gesturing toward the path leading back toward the festivities. “I should take my leave. I have clearly burdened you long enough. Simply know that should you need someone to confide in, send word at any time as to how I may assist, as I am genuinely worried about you. Good day.”

He had been worried about her? Augustine drew in a shaky breath and let it out, suddenly not wanting him to leave. She’d been alone in her head and in her heart for far too long and a part of her wanted it to end.

As he quietly rounded her to move past, she leaned forward and grabbed hold of his large, gloved hand, yanking him to a halt with the tug of his arm. “Stay. You are the first to have ever inquired about my thoughts or to have noticed that I had any. ?Tis incredibly kind of you to have sought me out like this given all the guests you have and given how insolently I’ve behaved.”

His dark brows rose as he slowly turned back toward her and the bench. His hand tightened around hers, fully encasing it in its heat. “I have sensed for some time that you are wary and need someone that you can trust. You can trust me.”

Heat spread across not only her face but her soul. There was an intensity in his tone and in his touch that whispered to her that this man was everything known as genuine.

And yet a part of her panicked. She hadn’t entrusted herself to anyone in so long. Not since…Nathaniel.

Releasing her hand with the slow turn of his wrist, the duke leaned down toward her, his dark hair falling onto his forehead. “I know you and your family have endured quite a bit these past two years and it is my hope you will allow me to assist in any manner I can. Anything you say will be held in strict confidence. That I vow.”

She swallowed, struggling to face what she had been ruthlessly planning since being forced to return to London from New York without Nathaniel. It was going to be a long, treacherous journey of scouring uncobbled streets of a foreign city hostile to the British. She knew she was going to have to take on the role of a commoner and find work to pay for whatever expenses her voyage would bring, beyond the hundred pounds she had managed to tuck away from the sight of her parents.

Sweeping her hand up again, the duke pressed it tightly against his own and clasped it with his other hand. She bit her lip, staring at her hand which was encased in his in so intimate a manner. She knew it wasn’t proper for them to be touching like this, and most certainly given that they were alone, but it felt so…blessedly right. More important, it felt real.

His fingers dug into her palm. “My devotion is real. I want you to know that.”

She jerked her chin upward and gawked up at him, her lips parting. Tightening her hold on his hand, she blurted, “You about read my mind.”

A small smile touched his lips. “One of my many talents.” His large fingers grazed their way upward toward her wrist before releasing her hand. His dark brows came together. “Might I ask why you do not seem to find me trustworthy? I thought we had long veered past all things superficial. I have come to think of us as good friends. Or rather…I was hoping a bit more than just friends.”

More? She swallowed and nervously brought her hands together, fingering the wrist he had just touched. “Well, I…although I do find you to be very pleasant, I…” Why couldn’t she focus on saying anything coherent?

Lowering himself to the bench again, he searched her face and said huskily, “Pleasant. I suppose there are worse things I could be.” He hesitated and then tossed out, “Do I interest you? At all? As a man? Or am I overreaching here?”

Blooming heat pulsed against her entire face, sensing this was veering onto a very different path. One she wasn’t prepared for, let alone capable of entertaining. “I am not…looking.”

“You are taking part in the Season, Lady Ascott. Therefore I would say, yes, you are looking.” He cleared his throat. “Your mother called on me last week.”

Dread seized her. “She did?”

“Yes. She, uh…pleaded that I make an offer on you. Apparently she noticed that I have more than a mild interest in you–-which I will admit I do—and insisted that I offer as she intends to have you married by June for reasons she was unable to disclose. Needless to say, her visit has been weighing on me since. She seemed panicked. Very panicked, actually.”

She cringed. Her mother had become pathetically desperate. Though she understood the woman only sought to protect her by removing her out of the care of her father, marriage was not the solution. Finding Nathaniel was.

He leaned in closer and lingered. “Is there something going on within your family that I don’t know about?”

She dragged in a breath, noting how breathtakingly close he was. She always thought him dashing, but never noticed how utterly spectacular he was until that moment. She tried to focus, spacing her words and her thoughts out as best she could. “I will admit that taking part in the Season is but a ploy. If I am to be honest in this, I am merely biding my time without my mother knowing it and ask that you forgive her. She means well.”

“Biding your time?” He lifted a brow. “Until what?”

She had already said too much. Although she desperately wanted to share the burden of her secret plans to flee London, the thought of exposing herself kept her from choking out the words. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “How do I know I can even trust you?”

“You don’t.” He nudged her arm with his own. “You simply have to consider if taking a chance on me is better than taking no chance at all.”

She nervously brought her hands together. “Why do you even want to help? What will you get out of it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe a wife.”

She glanced toward him in astonishment, noting his rugged features were, in fact, serious.

His full mouth quirked. “Was that a bit too forward for the cynic?”

Her. His wife. Her chest felt as if it would burst, torn between her duty to her brother and the possible duty to a man whom she had grown to admire and adore from a distance.

Setting aside that she had no intention on marrying given the mess her family was in, New York was waiting. Nathaniel was waiting. “I cannot offer you or any man matrimony.”

He was quiet.

She gestured toward him, trying to push aside the awkwardness that hovered between them. “I have yet to fully understand your interest. After all, you are the duke of Wentworth.”

He stared her down. “I don’t rather like the sound of that. What do you mean?”

She looked away, sensing she had only stupidly made things worse. She had been a touch obsessed following all the gossip pertaining to his life. It was certainly far better than following her own mess of a life. “I will admit that I follow gossip a bit more than I should. London whispers of the sworn oath you made to mourn for your beloved wife for the rest of your days. I will say this apparent interest you have in making me your wife conflicts with everything I have heard about you. And while I am honored to no end, I don’t know what to believe.”

His features tightened. “Given you wish to know, Lady Ascott, I ceased wearing my mourning garments all but last year, shortly before meeting you. It was time. It had been seven years.” His brows came together. “I always felt as if I would be betraying her. So although the whispers were once true, I am, in fact, trying to rise above them. Trying.”

Seven years. Seven years was a very long time to mourn for one’s wife. She doubted her father would mourn at all if her mother were to die.

Her heart squeezed, sensing the truth in his words. This was real. He was real. “You loved her that much.”

He half nodded, but wouldn’t meet her gaze. “We grew up together. She lived with her uncle on the estate next to mine in Essex. We were the same age, actually, and there wasn’t a time I don’t remember her not being part of my life. She was eight and twenty when she succumbed to illness. It wasn’t her time and I most certainly wasn’t ready to see her go. She wanted children. We both did. Sadly we… It never happened.”

Augustine touched his knee gently, wishing she could comfort him and make him forget the pain. The pain of loss was one she could relate to all too well.

He glanced toward her hand, which rested on his knee.

She drew it away, knowing it wasn’t by any means appropriate. “I know how great a burden it is to lose someone you love. ’Tis unfathomable. You cannot touch them, you cannot hold them, and you cannot comfort them or yourself. It is as if they never existed, yet cruel as life is, everything around you reminds you that they did. I still miss my brother every day. He was my only friend in a house full of strangers. I could trust him to anything. And I haven’t been able to say that about anyone else since.” She blinked back tears, trying not to make a mess of her face.

The duke leaned in close, his large shoulder grazing hers, and murmured ever so softly, “You can say that about me.”

“Can I?” she whispered back.

He held her gaze. “I relate to the sadness you cling to. Believe me. I have noticed it at every turn. It lingers in your voice and in your eyes and haunts me. Everything about you haunts me. Whenever I see you or talk to you, I feel this need to…” His voice trailed off.

She swallowed. Perhaps it was best left unsaid.

He paused and tilted his head, edging his mouth closer to hers, the heat of his skin pulsing toward hers. “Might I…?”

She leaned toward that masculine mouth, achingly drawn into wanting to know what it would be like to kiss him. But as he edged in closer, and his hand drifted toward her waist, to pull her closer, she realized a kiss would only invite him to think that she was his. She jerked back, her heart jumping to her throat. “I cannot.”

He paused, leaned away and cleared his throat. He glanced at her. “You think me too old. Is that it?”

Bless his heart. He just didn’t know what he was up against. She leaned toward him and confided, “Your age has no bearing on my feelings. If my life were anything but what it is, Your Grace, I would marry you. Gladly. For you are all things handsome and kind, but you deserve a far happier soul than the one I have to give. I will admit that I barely belong to myself since the disappearance of my brother. A part of me, the one that used to play and dance at a mere word, will never return. What you see is exactly what you will get. I am what you call occasional happiness wrapped in perpetual sorrow.”