Page 52 of When her Duke Returns
“Well, I do. I told you that you would not make Mary happy,” he affirmed then grinned. “I would like to recant that statement.”
“I beg your pardon?” Alexander asked though he could hardly believe what he was hearing after protestations beyond counting.
“I see that glint in your eye, old friend. Do not think I’m giving you my blessing to ruin her life. But with everything that has transpired, I believe it to be true. She dreams of you. I think, in some strange way, she always has.”
Alexander felt the chill of hope run through him. “She couldn’t stand the sight of me when we were younger.”
“I’m not talking about the unmarred, young Duke of Redgrave. I meanyou, Alexander Rowe, exactly as you are now.”
Alexander had to swallow down a sigh. “It doesn’t matter now. She’s refused me countless times, and I’m set to wed another.”
“She was afraid back then. She’s not the same person anymore, and now, she’s trapped.”
“Trapped? By Antony, you mean?”
“By the love she harbors for her family. What she does not realize, what I fear she will never realize, is that she cannot trade her life for ours.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Good,” Harry said then thumped his fists against the sides of his chair. “You don’t need to understand. You must only ask yourself—what now?”
A soft wind hushed against the glass panes of the windows, and it gave Alexander pause. “If she will not listen to me nor to reason, what more can I do but let her go?”
With a sigh, Harry rifled for something in his jacket pocket. It glinted in the light as he drew it out. He set it upon the side table between them. It was a small crest of silver upon which sat in coppered hue the Redgrave coat of arms.
“Where did you get this?” Alexander urged.
“Mary. Where else? She gave it to me ahead of tonight’s dinner in case things went awry between you, or she faltered in her courage and could not bring herself to give it back.”
Alexander picked the crest up. It was cold and smooth against his calloused hands. “Hell and damnation! I have not seen this inyears.” He felt his heart swell to twice its size, and it sobered him immediately. “I gifted this to her before I left for war. I thought she would have discarded it by now. Lord, I remember it like it was yesterday…”
Harry grabbed the Duke’s face in both his hands. “The dream is alive, Alexander,” he began and looked out of the window, “waiting for you in the gardens. You need only reach out and take it.”
ChapterTwenty-One
The soft breeze of the night felt like velvet against Mary’s skin; the grass at her feet was like silken carpet. The moon was high in the sky, watching over her in full bloom.
Mary could not consider sleep. She had retreated to her given room shortly after her feud with Antony, excusing herself to their hosts by feigning sudden illness. No one had come up to see her—not her mother, nor Harry, nor those best left unnamed—and it only piqued the ache in her chest. The revelation of that night, of the fight that lay within her and her desire for liberation, had shone light upon a part of her she had not known existed. And yet, much like the best of her, it was to be sealed away, lest her brother’s life fall to ruin.
With a sigh, she came to rest along the lip of the pool. The stone felt gentle against the bare skin of her face, and its coolness made all the more shameful the burning at her neck where her betrothed’s fingers had dug deep into her skin. Even when a set of footsteps sounded against the dead of the garden, she could not bring herself to stir. She could only angle her head softly against the stone to look at the approaching figure.
“You’ll catch a chill,” was all the voice said first. It sounded like the sun against the still of the night.
“Good,” she answered then closed her eyes again. The angel stepped closer, close enough for him to eclipse the dark, and at last, she could see him.
“Alexander…” she hummed, much like the end verse of a lullaby.
He came to a crouch, his overcoat long discarded. “It’s the middle of the night, Mary,” he murmured and stroked her hair gently. “What are you doing?”
“Praying,” she answered and felt herself slip closer to earth. “Is this death or a dream?”
“Neither I’m sorry to say,” he replied with a soft, breathy laugh then pulled her up by her arms.
She felt soft and limp in his hold, drifting somewhere between sleep and dreamless waking. “What are you doing in the garden?”
“Stopping you from doing something quite silly,” he answered. “Mary,” he whispered when she said nothing else. “What is going on?”
“I have to marry Antony,” she replied, for it was the only thought within reach. “And you must wed Cecelia… And it is all sowrong…”
