Page 9 of The Trouble With Titles
“I apologize. It is not directed at you. Being dutiful is a habit that is hard to relinquish, I confess.”
“How about we enjoy our dinner with no talk of duty, then? Just two cousins sharing repast?”
Simon forced a grin. Considering his plans for later, there was no joy to be found this evening, but he would make an effort to provide Molly with convivial companionship. Which he didfor the coming hours until he noted the sun was setting and it was time to do his duty yet again.
Leaving his step-cousin in the music room, he headed out to the garden to wait for Madeline. His stomach was tight with tension, and he dreaded what he was to do.
I do not wish to deliver bad news.
But it was more than that. Tonight, he buried his last links to his past. To the man he had been and the dreams he had held. He had put it off as long as he could, but John’s health made it imperative that he take care of his obligations. It was time to close the door.
He waited as evening cast shadows upon the ground, kept company by Greek gods and their feminine counterparts, savoring the sense of freedom that the garden had always represented. An oasis from the solemnity of real life. A place he could still hold on to the fantasy of a future shared with his Psyche.
It was more painful than he had thought it would be.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath slippers had alerted him to her arrival, his heart leaping when he caught sight of her. She was ethereal in the ghostly moonlight.
“Simon!”
“Madeline,” he greeted. “You look lovely this evening.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment, but she did not seem pleased at the compliment. He sensed she was melancholy as they took their seats on the bench.
Simon sat on the far edge, as was his custom lest he be overcome by the impulse to bolt from his rigid life where his responsibilities would rise to suffocate him if he considered all he had lost.
“How have you been?”
Madeline had fidgeted as if uncomfortable, not speaking for several moments as the silence stretched on. When sheresponded, there was an undercurrent of disappointment. “I have been well.”
Simon nodded, not paying much attention as he summoned the will to say his piece.
“I shall not be visiting our garden beyond this evening.”
She did not replyfor some time, and Simon was afraid he would have to repeat the awful declaration to cap his terrible day.
“I … see.”
It was all she said, and Simon’s discomfort grew in the pursuant pause until he was compelled to explain himself further. “I have negotiated a marriage contract with Lord Boyle to marry his daughter.”
“He is a viscount.”
Her remark did not require a response. They both knew it was the primary motive for such a match.
“Which daughter?”
“Olivia … the eldest.”
“Do you admire her?”
Simon rolled his shoulders. The question was … discomposing.
“I barely know her, but it will strengthen the Blackwood title. Elevate our connections and increase our influence when I wed the child of a respected viscount. Strengthen our bloodlines, which was my father’s wish. It is?—”
“Your duty.” Madeline completed the sentence for him. “You have not visited our garden in some time. Did you come to tell me this?”
Simon bowed his head to study his boots, his legs stretched out in a languid position which did not reflect his state of mindin the least. “I wanted you to hear it from me, not read it in the news sheets.”
Madeline rose to her feet, making to leave. “I thank you. Felicitations, Simon. I wish you great happiness in your future endeavors.”
