Page 85 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
A woman with a sterling reputation, one far different from hers. “Someone of whom your mother will approve.”
Nodding, he looked out toward the stream. “I should at least give her that, as I’ve not been a good son,” he said quietly.
Although he was still gazing out, she wasn’t certain he saw Harry any longer. Instead he saw regret, perhaps the reason behind it. They were no longer among the clouds, so regrets were once more prevalent and weighing heavily on shoulders.
She was not surprised by his proclamation. He’d alluded to his mother being disappointed in him. “I suspect you are a better son than you realize.”
He slid his gaze to her. She could easily fall into those dark depths and lose her way. Perhaps she had already. “Where do you find your optimism?” he asked.
“How do you not find yours?”
He laughed darkly. “Because I know my transgressions.”
“They can be forgiven.”
“But not forgotten.”
“I believe we chose how we remember them, how we perceive them. Take my father, for example. I could choose to remember his treatment of Harry beneath the light of ignorance. I could be more tolerant of his actions. Instead I view him through the lens of cruelty. I shall never forgive him. With my dying breath, I shall curse him. I know that makes a part of my soul black and ugly but there are other parts of it that are bit brighter thanks to Harry. Your mother will have no choice except to look at you through the lens of love. She will forgive you because she can do little else.”
“She is hosting a dinner tonight. She wished me to attend.”
Rose would love to go, to see the splendor, to dine with the duke’s family, but she was well aware that he could not share her with those above reproach. “You should go. Harry and I can entertain ourselves.”
He shook his head. “I can’t go.”
“She’s your mother.”
“She killed my father.”
He’d never said the words aloud. Echoing around him, they sounded harsh, cruel, and untrue.
They’d propelled him to his feet, sent him striding over the field, crushing petals beneath his boots. He didn’t know why he’d told her. Why he’d blurted it out.
Her family was far from perfect, yet when he saw her with her brother, witnessed the love and devotion they shared—
He had three brothers and two sisters—half siblings—and he doubted he’d be able to pick them all out in a crowd of six. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen them. He stayed away because he didn’t want to be a bad influence, not that his reasons were entirely noble.
“Avendale, slow down,” Rose called behind him.
He couldn’t. He needed to outrace his thoughts. They were traveling back in time and he didn’t want to go there, never wanted to go there.
“Avendale.” She grabbed his arm. “Hold up.”
He wanted to shake her off, even as he wanted to wrap himself around her. He was aware of a tug as she tripped, began to fall—
Spinning around, he caught her, steadied her, looked into eyes that had seen cruelty worse than he could have imagined, and yet she’d been forged into a remarkable woman who didn’t belabor the unfairness in life but simply sought to balance it.
“You told me your father died in a fire,” she said softly.
“That’s what they led me to believe.” Releasing his hold on her, he dragged his fingers through his hair. “I did not bring you here for this.”
Taking his hand as though they were children, she led him to a tree, slid down its trunk, and sat on the ground, seeming not to care that her skirt would become stained. She looked up at him, the invitation there. He should announce that it was time for them to depart. Instead he sank down, raised a knee, and draped his wrist over it.
“Tell me,” she urged.
He plucked a flower, pulled off a petal. “Tell her.” Plucked another. “Tell her not.” Another. “Tell her.”
She snatched the flower from between his fingers and tossed it aside. “You know my secrets,” she said.
